Harry Potter and the Lady Thief (Harry Potter AU) (Complete)

Chapter 36: Fast Track

London, Diagon Alley, September 11th, 1998

“Out of the way, we need a Healer!”

Bathilda Meringworth wasn’t quick enough, and the older Hit-Wizard pushed her to the side in his rush to get into the Leaky Cauldron. Another Hit-Wizard was leaning on the man, her grey robes stained red - blood, Bathilda realised as she stumbled and barely caught herself before she fell. The entire sleeve of the witch’s robes was ripped to pieces. And the arm underneath...

She gritted her teeth and drew a shaky breath. This wasn’t how she had envisioned her first week as an Auror going. She was supposed to learn how to catch criminals and make Britain safer for everyone, not… not… not this!

Next to her, Elton was retching - he had lost his breakfast already, she realised, and the bitter stench almost made her vomit, too, but she managed to cast a Bubble-Head Charm in time. Just like Cedric had taught her. She shook her head. She had to focus! Others depended on her!

“Get a grip, Elton!” she whispered as she vanished the vomit.

Elton coughed. “Merlin’s beard!” he mumbled, wiping his mouth and leaving traces of vomit on his sleeve. “Did you see that witch?”

“Yes,” Bathilda replied, bending over to help him up.

“Meringworth! Smith! Get moving!” Dawlish’s yell startled her and she almost lost her balance when Elton grabbed her hand.

“Yes, sir!” she yelled back automatically. After a moment, she added. “Where to?”

“To the front!” he yelled, pointing at the opening in the brick wall of the Cauldron. “We’re pushing the mob back to get at the wounded, and they need backup there, not here!”

Bathilda swallowed dryly. Go into the Alley. Where people got their arms cut up. Or worse. She didn’t want to go. She wanted to go home. To her parents. Where she was safe. She blinked, noticing that her eyes were wet. And that she was trembling. She swallowed again. She couldn’t do this.

Elton was moving, though. And he was still holding her hand. Dragging her with him. She didn’t know if he even noticed. And then they were past the brick wall and in the Alley proper. Where smoke covered the sky and half the street and the wounded were screaming for help.

“Come on! We need to push them back as far as Gringotts!” Dawlish yelled. “Keep together! Don’t split up! Stunners only!”

And Bathilda was obeying. Moving with Elton and Nott. Into the smoke and fire, or so it felt. Past bodies on the ground, some moving, some not. Stunned, she told herself. They’re stunned. Until she saw a body missing most of its head and so severely burned that she couldn’t tell if it had been a witch or a wizard.

And she retched and vomited until she was spewing bile. When she got up, on still wobbly legs, she realised that Elton was retching too and Nott was shaking. And that they were alone.

They must have gotten lost in the smoke, she realised. Accidentally went down the wrong side alley when moving around that fire. She looked around. She didn’t know where exactly they were, but they couldn’t be too far from the main street. But they had to move!

“Elton! Theo! We need to move!”

Elton blinked, startled, but he was nodding. Theo, though, was still staring at the body. Bathilda reached over and shook him, and he jerked, panting.

“We need to move back to the Alley!” she said through clenched teeth. “Now!”

“Yes… yes.”

“But where?” Elton asked.

“Back to where we came from,” she snapped. Didn’t he know the way? He didn’t, she realised when he looked at her with a desperate expression. “Follow me!” she ordered. “And keep your wands ready!”

Bathilda hoped that she had remembered the way correctly. All those side alleys looked alike, with the cursed smoke turning them even darker than they normally were. And some of those crazed rioters - why would they even attack the Aurors, anyway? - could be hiding in each nook and behind every corner.

She clenched her teeth and took point, as the instructor had called it - she couldn’t trust either of the boys, anyway. Leading with her wand, as she had been trained, she turned the corner. Empty. On to the next. She took a deep breath, then turned that corner. Empty too. But for a few bodies. And ahead of her was the main alley. She almost cried with relief. They had made it!

Or… she glanced over her shoulder. Yes, Theo and Elton were behind her.

Her relief was short-lived, though - they were still in the middle of the Alley. And she couldn’t see the rest of their group. Only a few unknown Aurors and Hit-Wizards. And Healers. They must have gone on to Gringotts, she realised. “Follow me!” she yelled. They had to find the others.

They caught up with Dawlish and the others just as they reached Gringotts. It looked like a battlefield, Bathilda thought, shocked. Bodies were strewn everywhere. Red-robed, gray-robed and civilians. About a dozen Aurors and Hit-Wizards were standing, most of them wounded.

And Potter and Weasley. They didn’t look shocked. Or wounded.

Bathilda shivered.

They looked ready for more. Even eager.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, September 11th, 1998

Mr Fletcher had taught Hermione Granger to maintain her cover. To play a role and mask her emotions. Working as Sirius’s secretary had taught her to keep her composure and hide her thoughts behind a mask of polite manners, even in the face of bigots trying to provoke her. And keeping her training and true skill in Defence a secret from Harry had taught her to act. She had spent years mastering her skills.

But now, listening to the reports from Diagon Alley, watching the wounded - the walking wounded, those who were not sent straight to St Mungo’s - stagger into the Atrium to be treated by the Healers on duty, she had to struggle not to blow her cover and rush to the Alley herself. Harry and Ron were out there, facing a mob!

They were risking their lives, and all she was doing was standing next to Sirius and taking notes. This was worse than in the Battle of the Ministry!

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Sirius said in a low voice.

“What?” She barely kept from snarling at the dog. What did he know?

Sirius didn’t react to her almost-outburst. He pointed at the Healers. “They don’t seem to be having any trouble - no dark curses, then.”

“Those would have been sent directly to St Mungo’s,” she retorted.

“Yes. But we didn’t hear anything about dark wizards either - and trust me, such news would spread quickly among my esteemed colleagues,” he added with a sneer. He shook his head. “No, I think most of the wounded will be quickly healed. It’s not as if the average wizard is very skilled at fighting, after all.”

“The sheer number of wounded would seem to refute that statement,” she pointed out.

He nodded. “It seems standards for Aurors and Hit-Wizards have slipped more than I thought. A bunch of scared wizards who haven’t duelled since Hogwarts shouldn’t have posed a problem for our Aurors.”

“Unless a few dark wizards took the opportunity to hurt the Ministry,” Hermione said.

Sirius nodded again. “That is a possibility, but I think things would be worse in that case.”

“Worse?” She stared pointedly at the over half a dozen wounded still waiting for treatment.

“Worse. The last war was worse. Much worse.”

“And yet they sent the new Aurors in - Harry and Ron!” Hermione said, trying not to grind her teeth - that would damage them.

“Judging by how this lot is faring, Harry and Ron were needed.” He chuckled, but it sounded more than a little forced, so Hermione didn’t push him, even though his words seemed to contradict his earlier claims.

“I still worry about them,” she said quietly.

“So do I,” he answered. Then his eyes widened. “There’s Nott.”

What did that git have to… he was in Harry’s group, Hermione realised - Harry and Ron had complained about him often. Which meant that the bedraggled-looking Aurors there would be the other rookies. But she couldn’t see Harry or Ron. “Why aren’t they with them?”

“I don’t know,” Sirius answered, not bothering to appear confident any more. “Let’s go ask them.”

People parted in front of them, despite the situation - due to Sirius’s expression and his reputation, Hermione thought. She didn’t mind as she followed him.

But before they reached the group, movement at the fireplaces caught her attention. Dawlish had arrived. Hermione clenched her teeth. That was the man who had ordered her friends into this mess. She should… there was Harry! And Ron!

She rushed towards them, dodging around some idiot Hit-Wizard who tried to stop her and ignoring whatever Dawlish was saying. Harry’s eye widened when he recognised her and then she was hugging him. And trying not to cry with relief.

*****​

Harry Potter had barely stepped out of the fireplace when he saw Hermione charging him. He managed to brace himself so she didn’t bowl him over when she jumped into his arms, but it was a near thing.

It felt good to hold her and have her hug him, though. Especially after the riot. He closed his eyes and sighed.

Hermione, as expected, was talking fast. “What happened? Why weren’t you with the others? I feared the worst!” Then she hugged him a little tighter, and he winced and tensed when her arm pressed down on his bruised shoulder.

She must have noticed since she pulled back. “Are you hurt?” She stared at his robes.

He was tempted to answer with ‘It’s not my blood’, but that wouldn’t be received well. “I’m fine,” he said instead.

Which wasn’t received well, either, as he should have known. Hermione glared at him. “You always say that, no matter how hurt you are!” She turned to Ron.

“I’m OK,” Ron quickly told her before she could ask. “Harry’s the one who got slammed to the ground when the rioters charged us.”

Harry glared at his friend, but Hermione was already fussing over him, her wand out.

Sirius came to the rescue. “He looks fine to me,” he said. “A little banged up, though.”

Hermione huffed but nodded.

“Why do you believe Ron and not me?” Harry asked.

“Because he never claimed to be fine when he had broken bones;” Hermione answered.

“That was in our second year,” Harry blurted out, then winced - that incident had, ultimately, led to Hermione getting expelled. He hadn’t wanted to remind her of that.

She sniffed. “And you haven’t changed since.” She turned to Ron. “He hasn’t, has he?”

Ron looked from her to Harry and back, then shook his head. “We need to report to Dawlish.”

Harry nodded. “Yes. We’ll talk later about this.” Much later, he added to himself. He hugged her again, smiled at Sirius and went over to where Dawlish was waiting.

Nott was sneering at him as they approached. Apparently, he had recovered from his shock at seeing a real fight - he had been staring blankly with his mouth hanging open most of the time he and the other rookies had spent in front of Gringotts.

Harry ignored him and saluted Dawlish. “Aurors Potter and Weasley reporting back,” he snapped. “We were relieved by the Hit-Wizards.”

To his surprise, Dawlish didn’t comment on the scene with Hermione but simply nodded at them. “Good.”

Nott, though, scoffed. “Finally managed to tear yourself away from your girlfriend, Potter? Can’t wait until we’ve finished our shift?”

Harry was about to tell the git where he could stick his attitude, but Dawlish cut in before he could say anything. “Shut up, Nott!” he snapped. “If your girlfriend worked in the Ministry, you wouldn’t have walked past her either.”

After such a rebuke for the git, Harry didn’t bother to correct Dawlish’s assumption that Hermione was his girlfriend. But he grinned at Nott as soon as Dawlish turned away.

“Nott has a girlfriend?” Ron whispered to Harry as they joined the rest of the group in a semi-circle around Dawlish. “Must be a conjured one.”

Harry had no trouble refraining from laughing out loud. It wasn’t that funny - he didn’t have a girlfriend either, after all.

“Alright,” Dawlish started. “Overall, you did decent enough - for rookies.” He looked at Bathilda. “Meringworth, you managed to get lost with your group in Diagon Alley. That’s not impressive.” The witch’s lips started to tremble, as if she wanted to refute that accusation but didn’t dare to speak. Dawlish went on: “However, you led your group back out again, and then to where we were supposed to be. You kept your nerve, too. Well done there.” He nodded at Bathilda with a smile.

The witch didn’t return it - she seemed to barely be able to hold back tears, or so Harry thought.

Dawlish was already talking to the others, though. “The rest of you, well… you didn’t break. You followed orders. But you could have done better. You’ll have to work on that.” He glanced at Harry and Ron and snorted. “Don’t give me that glare, Potter. I’m not talking about you two.” He shook his head. “Looks like Mad-Eye was right about you. Stood your ground like veterans. Someone’s going to have fun figuring out what to do with you. Fortunately, it won’t be me.” He grinned. “Scrimgeour will be handling your debrief.”

*****​

Scrimgeour, unsurprisingly, didn’t have the time to debrief two rookie Aurors while Diagon Alley was still in danger of burning down and the wounded and stunned filled St Mungo’s wards and the Ministry’s holding cells, respectively. Which was why Harry Potter had been ordered to help guard the holding cells together with Ron ‘until further orders’.

“Do you think they’ve forgotten about us?” Ron asked. “You’d think they’d send some relief so we can go to lunch, at least.”

“I don’t think so,” Harry said.

“When I was little, Dad used to tell me stories about employees getting assigned to some obscure task,” Ron said, leaning against the wall next to Harry, “and working for years without anyone checking up on them.” He chuckled. “After I started Hogwarts, I thought he was just taking the mickey. But now?” He shook his head. “In all the chaos up top…”

“I think if anyone’s forgotten about us, they’ll remember quickly when Scrimgeour starts asking where we are,” Harry said. Though he couldn’t help wondering if someone might have chosen to ‘forget’ them at their posts.

Ron nodded. “Makes sense, I guess.”

“You guess?” Harry frowned at him.

“After today I’m not sure everything has to make sense. Why would you attack Gringotts when you’re angry at the Ministry? Hell, why would you attack the Ministry if you’re scared of Voldemort? That would just help him.” Ron scoffed and shook his head. “And why would you charge a line of Aurors and Hit-Wizards if you can’t even cast a Shield Charm?” He looked at Harry. “Do you think someone caused this riot? I mean, not like Skeeter, but with Compulsion Charms or the Imperius Curse.”

Harry frowned. “It’s possible, I guess. On the other hand, you know what Moody said about crowds and mobs.”

“‘If a crowd turns into a mob, people lose all reason and are as likely to attack as flee if you show any weakness’,” Ron quoted the old Auror. “They certainly did, today. But I bet that a lot of them in there will claim they had been put under a spell,” he added with a nod towards the holding cells.

Harry snorted. “That’s a sucker’s bet.” One wizard who had woken up while two Hit-Wizards were levitating him into a cell had claimed exactly that. Loudly and repeatedly. The man was probably still screaming that he was innocent, Harry thought, but the cells were spelled to block sound.

Ron grinned, then pulled out his enchanted mirror again. “Luna should now be on her lunch break as well,” he said. “I need to let her know that we’re OK.”

Harry nodded. “I’ll do a round,” he said, nodding towards the hallway lined with cell doors. He didn’t need to, but it would give Ron some privacy.

When he returned a few minutes later, Ron was still talking to Luna. Harry cleared his throat, loudly - he had no intention of catching any intimate talk.

“Alright, Harry’s back. I’ll call you in the evening,” Ron said. “Sorry. I’m really sorry. Yes. Love you too.” He stowed the mirror and gave Harry a nod.

Harry nodded back and took up his old spot at the wall. “No sign of lunch or our relief?” he asked after a moment.

“No. Guess Moody’s been proven right about one more thing,” Ron answered, pulling out a sandwich from his enchanted pocket. “Carrying food really is a good idea.” A quick duplication charm later, he stowed the original again.

Harry sighed but followed Ron’s example. If someone had purposely ‘forgotten’ about them, then leaving their post to get some food would be a bad idea, even if only one of them left to fetch a meal. That was the kind of mistake upon which Umbridge and her ilk would gleefully jump.

And Harry wasn’t about to let that happen.

*****​

Hours of boring guard duty later, they were finally called to Scrimgeour’s office.

“Ah, Potter and Weasley. Take a seat!” The Head Auror greeted them as soon as the door opened. He didn’t look particularly stressed, Harry Potter noted. Probably a few Cosmetic Charms - his robes looked freshly cleaned, too.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry answered, sitting down.

“I heard they had you guarding the cells,” Scrimgeour said as he shuffled some parchment on his desk.

“Yes, sir. The holding cells,” Ron confirmed.

“Probably meant to free up some more experienced Aurors, I guess.” Scrimgeour leaned back in his seat. “Short-sighted, if well-meaning.” He waited a moment, but neither Harry nor Ron said anything. With a faint smile, he went on: “I’ve checked with a few of my Aurors. According to everyone, you handled that sticky situation at Gringotts very well. Even better than most Aurors, if we’re honest.”

Harry nodded.

“Which is a problem - and an opportunity,” the Head Auror said.

“A problem?” Ron asked.

“Yes.” Scrimgeour interlaced his fingers. “You are the most capable new Aurors we’ve had in decades. Not surprisingly, given Moody trained you two for years. But, as you may have noticed, the Corps has certain customs regarding rookies. You might even call them traditions.”

“Graveyard shifts,” Harry said.

Scrimgeour nodded. “That’s just one aspect. Basically, rookie Aurors are expected to learn from the more experienced Aurors. That’s why we pair rookies with veteran Aurors for their first year.” He sighed. “But we won’t be doing that with you.”

Harry was surprised. “Why not, sir?”

The Head Auror grinned. “Well, after talking to Moody, I was left with the impression that you’ve learned more than fighting from him.”

“He did tell us about Auror work as well,” Harry said, “But we studied the Auror handbook extensively on our own time.”

“I didn’t mean that. I meant your attitude.” Scrimgeour lightly shook his head. “The way you move. The way you seem ready to fight at the drop of a hat. But most importantly, the way you react to others.”

Harry blinked. “Sir?”

“You don’t suffer fools lightly, do you?”

Harry frowned. “That would be a bad idea when our life depends on them doing their job well.”

“That is correct. But I fear that your idea of who’s a fool is closer to Moody’s than to any other Auror’s. Much closer.” Scrimgeour leaned forward. “And I don’t think either of you would work well with most veteran Aurors. I don’t doubt that sooner or later, you’d question their orders.” He chuckled. “There’s a reason Moody’s had very few partners in the last decade. He’d be a good partner for either of you, but like the others who might be able to handle the Boy-Who-Lived, he can’t be spared to teach the ropes to rookies. Even though,” he added with a cynical grin, “he obviously managed to train you in his spare time. And before you ask - I can’t assign you to his section.”

“Investigations,” Harry said.

“Exactly. Assigning two rookies to Investigations would see a number of promising Aurors waiting for their transfer to Investigations quit in protest. And the Corps can’t afford that. But what I can do, especially after today’s performance, is to pair you up with each other as a regular Auror team.”

That was unexpected. Harry glanced at Ron, who was frowning, then looked at Scrimgeour. “That will ruffle some feathers as well.”

“It certainly will. But not as many. And not important ones. Consider it an opportunity to prove yourselves.”

A test then. Or even a trap - Harry was aware that, for all their training, they didn’t know everything they needed to be actually working as Aurors. But he had faced Voldemort and won; he wouldn’t let a bunch of jealous idiots defeat him, either. On the other hand, Moody had hinted at something like this, hadn’t he?

So he smiled at Scrimgeour. “Thank you, sir. We won’t disappoint you.”

And they would talk to Moody at the first opportunity.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 11th, 1998

“You’ll be working as normal Aurors? After a week?”

Hermione could sound a little more impressed and happy about this, and less shocked, Harry Potter thought as he cut another piece off his roast beef - Kreacher had done a marvellous job with the meal. It seemed Jeanne threatening to take over the cooking had worked out well. He nodded. “Yes. Apparently, we impressed everyone with our handling of the riot, and so we get to skip the usual training period.”

“It’s more like Scrimgeour thinks the other Aurors won’t be able to handle us,” Ron cut in, “so this was his compromise.” Harry glared at his friend, but Ron blithely ignored him. “It’s an opportunity - or a trap. Probably both, as Percy would say.”

“I see,” Hermione said, pursing her lips.

“He’s setting you up to fail?” Sirius was frowning.

“No, I don’t think so,” Harry quickly said. Having Sirius intervene on their behalf would ruin everything. “It’s just the best option for us, given our special training from Moody.”

“And the safest way for him,” Ron added. “Whether we prove ourselves or not, it won’t be his fault. He can claim any successes, and blame any failures on us.” He shrugged. “Office politics.”

Ron had been talking with his brother and father about the Ministry a lot, Harry knew. He nodded. “Yes. But we can handle it.” Hermione still looked dubious, so he added: “We’ll be talking with Moody and Tonks so that we won’t get blindsided by jealous people. Trust me: we can do this.”

She nodded, although a little reluctantly. She should have more confidence in him. “I’ve heard a rumour that you used excessive force to deal with the rioters.”

“Probably Nott,” Ron muttered.

Harry scoffed. “I did nothing worse than what we do and suffer when training with Moody.” Nothing a Healer or experienced Auror couldn’t fix in a minute or two. “The worst was a Bludgeoning Curse to the chest, but that guy was trying to strangle me with his bare hands.” Or probably would have tried, if Harry hadn’t dealt with him. He noticed that Hermione was gaping at him. “Ron fixed him up.”

She waved that away. “I don’t care about that - he was strangling you? He managed to break your Shield Charm?”

Harry shrugged. “He charged me. Literally jumped at me.” She was still gaping, so he added: “It really wasn’t any worse than training with Moody. Probably less, actually.”

Hermione pressed her lips together. “Does that mean that I should call ahead to St Mungo’s before our next Defence lesson and reserve a bed?”

He frowned at her. As a teacher, he wasn’t nearly as tough as Moody! “It won’t be that bad! And you need the training!”

She huffed but didn’t try to continue their argument. He took another bite of his beef.

“Besides, our orders were clear: We had to use any means to protect Gringotts,” Ron added. “And if those idiots had managed to break through our line, they would have been massacred by the goblins. The buggers were waiting for them.”

Harry nodded. “The goblins looked eager, even though they should know that if they murder wizards like that, it would mean war.”

“That’s probably because they want a war,” Sirius said.

“What?” Jeanne looked aghast. “After the last one? Are they mad?”

Sirius shrugged. “It’s been over two hundred years since the last Goblin Rebellion - that’s a longer time for goblins than for wizards. Memories fade. And goblins are a bloodthirsty bunch. They probably think Britain’s weak, too, after Grindelwald and Voldemort, and with Dumbledore dead.”

Jeanne said something in French that Harry didn’t catch. Judging by Hermione’s reaction, it must have been a nasty curse, though. “Why didn’t they attack us, then?” They had wanted to, he was certain of that. The sight of them, ready and waiting, their weapons out, and their eager smiles...

“They can’t afford to break the peace treaty,” Sirius explained. “Other countries would get involved in that case - no one likes the little buggers, after all. But if the British Ministry can’t protect them from the wizards and the goblins can claim self-defence? With Dumbledore gone, and given Britain’s current situation in the ICW, that might just be enough for the other countries to leave us to deal with this alone.” He shrugged again. “It’s still insane, but the goblins don’t think like we do.”

“And yet the wizards let them guard their gold,” Hermione said. “They granted them a monopoly, even.”

Harry’s godfather chuckled. “That was a bone thrown to the goblins to get them to stop rebelling. And it wasn’t as if the Old Families were using Gringotts to store their gold anyway - they had their warded manors, after all. It was the rest of the wizards who were forced to either use Gringotts or risk a thief breaking into their poorly defended homes.” He took a sip from his glass of French wine. “Things changed a little since then. All Old Families now have vaults in Gringotts, since it makes moving large sums easier - and probably safer, too - when dealing with others. But I don’t think that any Old Family would keep all, or even most, of their valuables in Gringotts.”

“Wards have improved too, though,” Ron pointed out. “The ones on The Burrow are nasty.”

“But Curse-Breaking has advanced as well,” Hermione retorted. “Most families still can’t afford reliable wards. They have to rely on Gringotts.”

“Your wards don’t need to be able to stop a thief - they just need to delay them long enough for the Aurors to arrive,” Harry explained.

“I guess so,” Hermione said. She didn’t sound as if she were convinced, though.

She really should have more confidence in the Auror Corps, Harry thought with a frown. Or at least in Ron and himself.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 11th, 1998

Hermione Granger peered around the corner, then flicked her wand to check for spells in the hallway. There shouldn’t be any - this was Grimmauld Place, after all, and it should be safe. But Harry and Ron had become a little paranoid lately, and she wouldn’t put it past them to cast a few Alarm Charms into the hallway to alert them should anyone pass. Moody would approve of such antics, she thought with a frown.

She couldn’t make out any spells. That didn’t mean that there were no other alerts. Another spell didn’t detect any, though. Once more she was tempted to use her mask - it would be far more convenient to activate the spells with a touch rather than to cast them with her wand each time - but if Harry or Ron stumbled upon her while she was wearing it… She winced as she imagined their reaction to an intruder in Grimmauld Place. And even if they recognised her, it would lead to very awkward questions - at best.

There were means to ensure that they wouldn’t catch her, of course. But first, she needed to cast an alarm charm of her own, to alert her should her friends wander the house. Then she changed.

Hermione didn’t make any sound as she sneaked past the door to Harry’s room - the thick carpet and her soft paws ensured that. She didn’t let her guard down, of course - Harry was a wily one. She hadn’t forgotten how he had thrown her out of the house after ruthlessly interrupting her nap! And now she was forced to sneak around in her own home as if she were a mouse!

She turned the corner and padded past a secret entrance to the servants’ passages. If she used those, she wouldn’t have to bother with checking for spells and traps in her home. But there were spells on the passages to prevent anyone but the house-elves from using them, and Kreacher couldn’t be trusted to adjust them so cats could pass as well. Even if he really should.

She reached the stairs and made her way to the basement’s secret entrance. That one, at least, was properly enchanted to allow her in no matter what form she wore. A few quick swipes of her paw hit the bricks in rapid succession and the wall flowed away, forming a door to let her enter the lair.

“Ah, there’s our kitty. I was worried that Harry had caught you again and thrown you out.”

She glared at the grinning dog - that had only been one time! And Harry had cheated! - and contemplated pouncing on him. His nose could do with a good whack to remind him to treat a cat with the respect she was due.

But that would likely cause him to hold up their planning session in favour of trying to get back at her. And with two paranoid Aurors in the house, they didn’t have the time for such antics.

She changed and scoffed at him. “I was merely cautious. Moody is a very bad influence on Harry and Ron.”

Sirius grinned. “You could always claim that you were trying to sneak into his room to seduce him.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at the trite joke. If she wanted to seduce Harry, she certainly wouldn’t sneak into his room. And if she did sneak into his room at night, she’d be wearing something far more risqué than her house robes. Not that she would do that. It would be far better to let him make the first move - men liked that - and simply lead him on a little, maybe during a Defence lesson that got a little physical. It wouldn’t take that much to ensure that her clothes ripped just the right way… She clenched her teeth as she forced the stupid thoughts away.

She nodded at Jeanne and Mr Fletcher, who had arrived through one of the escape tunnels. “Let’s get this started while Ron and Harry are asleep.” She summoned the map she had prepared earlier and spread it over the table with a flick of her wand, then tapped a building. “Borgin and Burkes. A shop in Knockturn Alley well known for trading in ‘unusual and ancient artefacts’.” Jeanne looked puzzled, so Hermione explained: “Dark artefacts. They have a certain reputation among the Old Families for discreetly dealing with such merchandise.”

Mr Fletcher snorted. “They also work as fences. They’re willing to take the kind of loot other fences won’t touch, but they won’t pay much.”

“Upstanding members of society, in other words,” Sirius said, “fleecing the poor and helping the Old Families circumvent some of those pesky laws about dark magic.”

“And helping Death Eaters frame muggleborns for crimes they didn’t commit,” Hermione added.

“Ah.” Jeanne nodded in understanding. “So this shop will be our next target?”

“Yes,” Hermione said.

“Is that wise?” Jeanne asked. “Right after the riot?”

“The Aurors will be busy in Diagon Alley,” Hermione said, “and the residents of Knockturn Alley will be keeping their heads down to avoid attracting attention.” She looked at her tutor.

“Aye.” He nodded. “Although some of the more daring scum might be thinking along these lines as well, so don’t count on the Alley being deserted and safe.”

She nodded. “I’m not.” And he should know that. “We’ll be casing the joint carefully before deciding how to do this.”

Jeanne cocked her head as she looked at the map. “And what is our goal once we’ve broken into the shop?”

Hermione grinned. “Loot it to the bedrock, of course!”

“Even the dark artefacts?” Sirius asked.

“We can destroy those. Or leave them for the Aurors to find,” Hermione said.

With the exception of any books, of course. Those would find a new home in her growing secret library!

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, September 12th, 1998

“Come in!”

Harry Potter had just been about to knock on the door to Moody’s office when the old Auror’s yell startled him. He exchanged a wry smile with Ron - he should have expected that, even though the walls and doors were protected against the enchantments on his glasses - and opened the door.

Moody was sitting behind his desk, wand aimed at them. Harry stood still while the Auror closed the door with a flick of his wand and then cast several spells on them.

“Alright,” Moody said. “What do you want?”

Harry cleared his throat. “You’ve heard that Ron and I have been partnered.”

Moody nodded. “Rufus is a smart man. Sometimes a little too smart for his own good.”

“We figured that out,” Ron said. “But that still leaves us with half the Department hoping that we make a mistake and get humiliated.”

“Half?” Moody snorted. “You’re an optimist!”

Ron scoffed. “Not enough of an optimist to trust anyone but you and Tonks to help us. And Dad and Percy - but they don’t know enough about how the Aurors work.”

“And Tonks is currently on an assignment,” Harry said. It was unlikely that she had been sent away just so she couldn’t help them, but he wouldn’t dismiss the possibility.

“So you came to me.” Moody nodded. “Smart. All the idiots who think too highly of themselves will be watching for an opportunity to curse you in the back - and the Corps is full of them.” He scoffed. “Useless idiots, the lot of them. After their piss-poor showing yesterday, I should bust all of them back to rookie Auror and train them properly.”

Ron laughed. “That would be a sight to see.”

“Oh, yes.” Harry nodded. “Speaking of the riot: When we were guarding the cells, several suspects claimed to have been compelled to attack us.”

Moody sneered. “Of course they would!” He shook his head. “People are pack animals. Or herd animals, in most cases. The Ministry allegedly covering up the Dark Lord’s return certainly was enough for many to go out on the street to protest - especially the muggleborns. Black’s frequent speeches in the Wizengamot about bigotry in the Ministry didn’t help, of course. And once you have an angry, scared crowd, all you need for a riot is to give them an example or two.”

“So there weren’t any traces of Compulsion Charms or the Imperius Curse?” Harry asked.

“I didn’t say that, did I?” Moody shook his head with a twisted grin. “There were some. Not nearly as many as people claiming they were compelled. But someone definitely helped the riot along.”

“Who would do that?” Ron asked with a frown. “And why?”

“Too many possible suspects,” Moody answered. “Some scum might have done it because they’re twisted. Or because they hate the Aurors, the good citizens or both. Could’ve been Malfoy, trying to show that we need even more Aurors and funding. And maybe get rid of Bones and Scrimgeour by painting them as incompetent at the same time. Could’ve been an Auror wanting to look good in their report.” He grinned at them. “Or perhaps the goblins, trying to find a pretext for a war.”

None of those possibilities struck Harry as particularly likely. But he didn’t have any better ideas either.

“Do you already know what you’ll be doing?” Moody asked.

“No. But we expect to do patrolling,” Harry answered. After all, Aurors were always patrolling, so it would be easy to put them to work.

“Unless they find an unsolvable case for us.” Ron grinned cynically.

“Giving up already?” Moody’s grin would have curdled milk.

“Of course not,” Harry said. “But we have a few questions about filing reports.”

“And other paperwork,” Ron added.

Moody’s face twisted into a grimace. Harry carefully refrained from smiling.

*****​

London, Knockturn Alley, September 12th, 1998

“What was it that Scrimgeour said? ‘We don’t send rookies into Knockturn Alley - that’d be a recipe for disaster.’?” Ron scoffed.

“Well, he also said he wouldn’t treat us like rookies,” Harry Potter pointed out as he tapped his glasses to check the corner ahead of them. And the roofs. And the sewers - Moody had shared a lot of stories about ambushes in Knockturn Alley. “Clear,” he said.

Ron nodded and moved a little ahead, covering the closest shadows with his wand. “I’d believe that if we hadn’t gotten the graveyard shift - on a Saturday!”

“So?” Harry shrugged as he kept an eye on the low roof ahead of them. That would be an ideal spot to catch them in a crossfire if someone attacked them from the side alley ahead. “With all the wounded, they must be short on Aurors. And it’s not as if you are missing out on anything important. Even if today were a Hogsmeade weekend, Luna would’ve been back at Hogwarts long before our shift started.”

His friend snorted. “There’s more to the weekend than going out with your girlfriend, you know. Or should know.” He took a step forward and aimed his wand down the side alley. “Clear.”

Was that a dig at Harry currently being single? “Such as?” Harry asked.

“We could have gone to a pub.” Ron moved up to the next side alley.

“We did go to a pub until our shift started,” Harry pointed out as he glanced behind them, checking if anyone was sneaking up on them. His Human-presence-revealing Spell didn’t show any markers, but its range was limited.

“We didn’t drink much, though,” Ron said.

“Would you have gotten drunk if we didn’t have the graveyard shift?” That would have been an interesting talk with Luna over their mirror, Harry thought.

“Well, no, but it’s the principle of the thing. Besides, if we don’t get upset at these shifts, they’ll think we’re OK with them. And that would be a major annoyance in nine months and one week.” Ron said.

“Are you actually counting the days until Luna finishes her year?” Harry asked.

“No,” Ron said, then held up his hand.

“Trouble?” Harry asked as he came up to Ron’s spot.

“Possibly.” Ron pointed ahead. There were several people standing in front of the entrance to the ‘Drunk Pixie’, a notorious dive popular among thugs and other criminals. “The other pubs we passed didn’t have so many people outside.” None, actually, who weren’t leaving.

“Those were closer to Diagon Alley,” Harry said. “They might feel safer here.” And wasn’t that ironic?

“Optimist,” Ron replied, snorting.

“I don’t spot anyone lying in wait,” Harry said, using his glasses. “But they might just be incompetent.”

“Used to other Aurors.” Ron grinned. “Let’s see what they’ll do?” He cast a Shield Charm.

“Yes.” Harry nodded and followed Ron’s example before he started to walk towards the group. Ron fell in a step behind and to his right. As they got closer, Harry once more used his glasses to check for hidden threats. There were none - but the group, six in total, had spotted them, and they were now fanning out with wands drawn but kept at their sides, pointed down.

And that wasn’t normal behaviour, even for Knockturn Alley. Unless they were looking for a fight.

“No one on our flanks,” he whispered.

“Idiots,” Ron answered. “I’ll take right.”

As they walked closer, Harry studied the six thugs facing them. Four men, two women. Shabby-looking robes in various styles, but sturdy boots and gloves. And they all had enchanted wand holsters. Experienced and moderately successful thugs, then.

But not smart ones, he thought.

As if on cue, the apparent leader of the thugs spoke up. “What do we have here, gents? A pair of rookie Aurors on their first patrol, huh?”

Harry’s eyes widened. They knew this was their first patrol. And they knew that they didn’t have an experienced Auror with them. This was a set-up, not some random trouble.

“They look more like students dressed up in transfigured Auror robes,” the woman next to the leader spoke, “I wonder if they…”

Harry cut her off with a Bludgeoning Curse to the stomach.

*****​

For such a shabby-looking shop, Borgin and Burkes had very strong wards, Hermione Granger thought as she studied the house from the roof across the Alley, hidden in the shadow cast by a particularly large chimney. That had been expected, of course - no shop specialising in dark artefacts would have weak protections. Especially not in Knockturn Alley, where Aurors feared to tread.

Feared to tread so much that they sent rookie Aurors to patrol it at midnight instead of experienced ones, she thought, clenching her teeth at how rotten the Auror Corps had to be to allow this.

She shook her head and focused on the shop again. There was a covered side alley on one side. If she dealt with the wards, she could go through the wall there. Vanish or transfigure the bricks to create a hole. But that would leave traces, even if she fixed it afterwards. And they were likely to have put spells on the walls, just in case their neighbours had designs on them. Still, it might serve well as a distraction - for Borgin, and maybe the DMLE.

Because she would be going in through the windows of the second floor. The first floor’s windows had a convenient ledge at their bottom. A little too convenient, in her opinion, to risk using it. And the roof lacked an attic window.

But she’d have to deal with the wards first. And they were nasty wards. Older than a century and probably containing a number of spells that were now illegal. But she would have to be closer to the building to analyse its wards. And she didn’t like the roofs of the neighbouring houses. And the Alley… She shook her head. Even with most of its regular denizens keeping a low profile while the DMLE was sorting out Diagon Alley, Knockturn Alley wasn’t a safe place for dealing with lethal wards.

She sighed. She would have to use a floating platform. She could enchant an invisible platform easily, but she’d need a lookout while she analysed the wards. Which meant she would need help. From Sirius, since Mr Fletcher didn’t want to slow her down, as he put it, and Jeanne didn’t have enough experience with that kind of work yet.

She hoped her tutor get over his… depression, she thought. Losing his foot didn’t mean that he was useless. If only he’d see that as well!

But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. She tapped her mask and took a closer look at the protruding windows of the shop’s ground floor. Not quite display windows, and reinforced with spells, she was certain. And probably enchanted to show nothing but a cluttered shop no matter what was going on inside - she didn’t think distinguished members of Old Families wanted to be seen frequenting this shop. She’d have to check that up close as well; it would make it easier to avoid detection by passers-by once she was inside.

Not that the passers-by in this area would be likely to alert the DMLE, should they spot a thief. They were more likely to try and exploit the opportunity to loot the shop themselves. Which would be a problem as well, of course.

At least the neighbouring shops didn’t look like they would attract clients at this time of the night, she noted as she looked them over. No pubs or brothels, just more shady shops and cramped flats. She didn’t spot any hags or other creatures nearby, but that didn’t mean anything; they would be the first to hide in the current situation - if someone was willing to attack the goblins, they might be willing to attack a hag as well. Or a vampire, she added, shivering slightly as she recalled her encounter with Tripe.

She sighed again. This heist would require a longer period of time spent casing the joint than she had hoped. At least Harry and Ron had pulled the graveyard shift for the week, so she wouldn’t have to go to great lengths to cover up her own absence during the night.

Hermione was about to climb down in the side alley next to her perch when a flash followed by an explosion drew her attention. She whipped around. More flashes - various spells, she realised - and more explosions, and not too far away.

She blinked, then gasped. Harry and Ron were on patrol in the area!

A moment later, she was jumping to the next roof as she made her way towards the battle.

*****​

Harry Potter’s curse doubled the witch over and threw her back almost a yard. She collapsed, clutching her stomach, as Harry dropped into a crouch and cast another Bludgeoning Curse at the wizard next to her while the thug was still staring at her. The curse caught the man on his shoulder and whirled him around. A Stunner finished him off before he hit the ground.

Ron had dropped the apparent leader with a Stunner to his face and followed up with a Bludgeoning Curse to the man’s wand hand that broke both wand and bones.

The three remaining thugs, though, overcame their shock and a yellow curse splattered against Harry’s shield. He almost returned fire with a Piercing Curse to the head, but lowered his aim and hit the man in the leg instead. The thug fell and started screaming as Blasting Curse flew past Harry and blew up part of the front of the house behind him.

Harry dropped to the ground and rolled to the side, moving his wand to curse the witch who had just tried to kill him, but Ron was quicker and the witch’s screams joined the thug’s as Harry’s friend smashed her legs with a curse.

Harry kept rolling - another spell missed him and covered the ground with some liquid - and came up with his wand aimed at the last thug standing. A second later, Harry’s next Bludgeoning Curse hit the man in the head, knocking him back and out.

“You alright?” Harry heard Ron ask as he looked for more threats.

“Yes. You?”

“Yes. They weren’t fooling around,” Ron said and stunned the thugs who were still conscious.

Harry kept an eye on the Drunk Pixie. The pub was still open, and they had to have heard the battle. He didn’t see anyone coming to check what had happened, though. Anyone frequenting that dive would have good reasons not to get involved no matter who won the fight, of course, but still… it looked very suspicious to Harry.

“Someone cast an Anti-Portkey Jinx,” Ron said, holding up the Portkey that should have transported the thugs back to the Ministry.

Harry muttered a curse under his breath. The thugs could have done that - or it could be the work of someone else. Someone still around. “Get them bound and stuck together,” he told Ron, “I’ll cover us.” That would let them float the six suspects out of the Alley with one spell.

“Alright.” Ron started to cast and Harry kept his wand trained on the pub’s front as he looked around for more enemies.

*****​

The fighting had stopped before Hermione Granger reached the scene of the battle - she couldn’t see any more spells flashing, nor did she hear any further explosions - and so she didn’t keep rushing forward, but stopped two houses away and changed.

A moment later, she was moving again, on four paws. It didn’t take her more than a few seconds to reach the last roof, and, even slowing down to avoid drawing attention, she was at the roof’s edge, peering down at the Alley, before more than twenty seconds had passed - she was familiar with the area, after all.

There was Harry! And Ron! And half a dozen unconscious thugs! She stared. Her friends seemed unhurt. Unlike their enemies, who were unconscious, paralysed, and apparently about to be stuck to one another by Ron.

Clever, she thought, once Ron finished and levitated the entire group. She’d have conjured a plank, though, in his place. She looked around. Harry was covering the pub with his wand while Ron floated the captured thugs away. Smart, she thought, remembering her own visit to the Drunk Pixie.

And then Harry turned in her direction and she recoiled, ducking down. Had he spotted her? She held her breath, pushing herself against the cold roof - her fur must be getting all filthy - so she wouldn’t be visible from below, not at that angle.

Seconds passed. Nothing happened. She started breathing again. After about a minute, she slowly raised her head and peered down at the Alley again.

Her friends were gone. She sighed in relief.

*****​

Movement! On the roof? Harry Potter whirled around, wand rising, then stopped. There was nothing there. His Human-presence-revealing Spell didn’t show any markers either - and the roof was in range. No Invisibility Cloak, then, nor a Disillusionment Charm.

He activated his glasses, then grinned. It was just a cat. The battle must have scared it - it was hiding in the rain gutters.

Shaking his head, he followed Ron out of the Alley. They had half a dozen thugs to process.

And find out who had ordered the scum to ambush them.

*****​

 

Chapter 37: First Steps

London, Ministry of Magic, September 13th, 1998

Raphael Markdotter had been arrested before. Not quite as brutally as last night - Merlin’s arse, they had broken his hand and his wand! After he was already stunned! - but he’d had worse than this. In his line of work, one got used to getting hurt.

He’d been in a holding cell before, and he was pretty sure he’d be in one again after this. So, when two young-looking Aurors took him out of his cell and brought him to an interrogation room, he was rather surprised. As a rule, the Aurors didn’t work on Sundays when they could help it, so if you got arrested on a Saturday, you could cool your heels until Monday morning, at the earliest, before a red robe would bother to deal with you.

This was a surprise, and Raphael didn’t like surprises. Even less after last night’s ‘surprise’.

At least he knew the Auror that was waiting for him in the room. “Auror Dawlish! Working on a Sunday? Who did you annoy to earn that punishment? Bones? The Minister himself?”

Dawlish, as usual, didn’t rise to the bait. “Markdotter. Sit down. How’s your hand?”

Raphael raised his right hand and wriggled his fingers. “Better than my wand. The Healer on duty took her sweet time before dealing with me, though.”

“She was busy with your ‘comrades’,” Dawlish replied. “You were lucky - a number of them needed Skele-Gro.”

“What?” Raphael grimaced. That was… considerably more brutal than he had expected. “Who the hell were those Aurors?” They hadn’t been rookies, not by a long shot. Hell, Raphael didn’t think they were Aurors. The Red Robes were arrogant pricks - Raphael had learned that during his year with the Hit-Wizards, back in the war, when the Ministry hired anyone, even wizards like him who had quit Hogwarts after their O.W.L.s - but they weren’t that quick to curse people.

“So, you didn’t know who you were hired to murder?” Dawlish shook his head.

“Murder?” Raphael felt a cold shiver run down his spine. “We weren’t going to murder them, Dawlish! You know that we don’t don’t do that!” The bloody git should know better - Raphael had been arrested numerous times, but never for anything that serious.

“What were you planning to do, then?”

Raphael narrowed his eyes at the Auror, pondering what to tell him. He didn’t think that any of his gang had escaped. Not from those two wizards. And they hadn’t prepared a cover story beforehand, which meant any attempt at lying wouldn’t hold up for long. He wasn’t naive enough to expect everyone to stay silent, either. So... the truth. He sighed. “Heard there was a pair of rookie Aurors who were promoted to full-fledged Aurors straight away thanks to their parents’ gold. So I was told to take them down a peg. Just rough them up a little. Show them that they’re not as hot as they think. Nothing serious.” Nothing unusual either for him and his friends, though, usually, they didn't hit Aurors. Not even unpopular ones. The pay had been too high to turn this down, though.

“Who ‘told’ you that?” Dawlish narrowed his eyes at him.

Raphael shrugged. “Dunno. Looked like Polyjuice - the way they moved was a little off.” People who spent the kind of sum he had received were unlikely to show their real face when dealing with him.

Dawlish shook his head, but it wasn’t as if he had expected anything else. Both of them knew how the game was played, after all.

“So, who were those two wizards?” Raphael asked again. “They sure as hell weren’t bloody rookies!”

Dawlish chuckled. “You didn’t recognise them?”

He glared at the Auror. “I was busy getting stunned before they were close enough.” He blinked. “Why should I have recognised them, anyway? Apart from Mad-Eye, none of you lot are famous.” And Moody was infamous in Knockturn Alley, rather than famous.

Dawlish grinned. “You didn’t hear? The Boy-Who-Lived and his best friend just joined the Corps.”

Raphael drew a hissing breath. They had attacked Harry Bloody Potter? He hadn’t believed all that he had heard about the boy - mowing down a dozen Death Eaters before defeating the Dark Lord in single combat? Yeah, right. Raphael had fought Death Eaters before, and they would have eaten a Hogwarts student alive. But Potter had wiped the floor with his gang… “Someone set us up!” he spat.

“Maybe,” Dawlish said, inclining his head. “Or someone didn’t know just how good Potter and Weasley are.” His smile turned into a sneer. “I somehow doubt that anyone would use Potter to take you and your friends down a peg.”

The git was right, Raphael thought. No, he and his friends had been used against Potter. He leaned back. “Bloody Hell.”

*****​

“That was quite an eventful first patrol, Aurors Potter and Weasley.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry Potter couldn’t tell what Scrimgeour was thinking; neither the man’s bland tone nor his expression gave any hint about his emotions as he sat behind his desk.

“It wasn’t our fault, though,” Ron said. “Someone set up those thugs to ambush us.”

Harry glanced at Dawlish. The Auror hadn’t shared the results of his interrogation of the thugs’ leader with them before going to Scrimgeour. But now he nodded and spoke up. “That’s correct. The group was hired to ‘rough up’ Potter and Weasley.”

“By whom?” Harry asked, then pressed his lips together as Scrimgeour frowned at him for speaking out of turn.

“He doesn’t know,” Dawlish answered, after a nod from the Head Auror, “since, as usual for such deals, Polyjuice was used to disguise who did the hiring.”

Dawlish didn’t hide his emotions as well as Scrimgeour - or didn’t bother. Slight condescension clearly coloured his tone as he addressed Ron and Harry.

“A picture of the ‘client’ might still be useful,” Harry retorted. “They might have used the same disguise on other occasions.”

“And how do you suppose we acquire such a picture? The thugs you arrested aren’t likely to remember enough for our sketch artist to work, and I doubt very much that they would be willing to help in the first place.” Dawlish sniffed. “Their kind don’t think highly of snitches.”

That made sense, although Harry didn’t like admitting it.

“I assume they wouldn’t be willing to donate a memory, then,” Ron said, frowning.

“A memory? What for?” Dawlish said.

Scrimgeour was quicker on the uptake. “Do you have access to a Pensieve?” He sounded a little too eager, in Harry’s opinion.

Harry considered lying but dismissed it as a bad idea. It would be pointless and would antagonise the Head Auror for no gain. “Possibly,” he said. “My godfather inherited one, but I don’t know if he’s used it yet.”

“Figures the Blacks would have one,” Dawlish muttered.

“I see.” Scrimgeour nodded slowly. “I’ll have to talk to Mr Black, then. Such a device would be of immense utility to the Department.”

It certainly would, Harry thought. But it would also be used by everyone with a little influence in the Ministry for their own purposes.

He didn’t think that would be a good thing. And, as a glance at Ron, who was clenching his teeth, probably annoyed at his slip, showed, neither did his friend.

“But back to the issue at hand,” Scrimgeour said. “This, a planned assault on a patrol, far exceeds what could be considered ‘hazing’, and is considerably worse than what was expected.”

So Scrimgeour had expected the backlash, Harry noted. He had been almost certain of that before, but it was good to have it confirmed. “They underestimated us, though,” he pointed out, “which would suggest that whoever is behind this wasn’t familiar with our test results.” Wasn’t a member of the Corps, in other words - Harry knew, both from Tonks and Moody as well as from personal experience, how quickly gossip spread among the Aurors.

“Perhaps,” Dawlish said. “Or it was a set-up to let you shine.”

“What?” blurted Ron.

“You were very quick on the draw,” Dawlish pointed out. “Almost as if you knew their plans.”

“They knew too much about us, so it was clear that it was an ambush,” Harry said, trying not to sound irritated. “Do you really think that we hired them just so we could arrest them?”

“I don’t,” Scrimgeour cut in, with a glance at Dawlish. “But it wouldn’t be the first time something like that happened.” At Harry’s look, he added: “It was handled discreetly since the Auror in question wasn’t aware of it.”

“Sirius wouldn’t do such a thing either,” Harry said. His godfather worried too much about him to organise an attack like this. But neither Dawlish nor Scrimgeour looked as if they shared his opinion.

“In any case, we cannot dismiss the possibility that someone is trying to hurt you - or worse,” Scrimgeour went on. “Someone who might have contacts inside the Ministry.”

“And perhaps inside the Corps,” Harry added.

“Could be a Death Eater spy who escaped the investigation,” Dawlish said.

“Would have been pretty tame for a Death Eater attack,” Ron pointed out. “They weren’t that inept.”

“A spy might be less skilled at fighting,” Dawlish retorted. “That would explain why they weren’t in the Atrium, fighting for the Dark Lord.”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t think so.” This smelled like some Ministry plot. Or perhaps Malfoy - but mentioning that wouldn’t be a good idea at all. “So, what are we doing about this?”

“We’ll investigate this incident while you keep doing your assignments,” Scrimgeour said. “I would caution you to be cautious, but seeing as Moody trained you, that would be redundant.” He smiled slightly.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this,” Dawlish said.

“That’s settled,” Scrimgeour said. “Go home and skip today’s shift. You’ve already put in enough overtime.”

Harry nodded.

After he and Ron had left the Head Auror’s office, he turned to Ron. “We’re not going to leave this investigation to Dawlish, are we?”

“Certainly not,” Ron answered with a grin.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 13th, 1998

When Hermione Granger heard Harry and Ron return, she instantly put down her pen - the draft for Sirius’s speech could wait - and rushed to the kitchen, where, as expected, she found her friends raiding the ice box for the sandwiches Kreacher must have prepared. “What happened?” she immediately asked. “You should have been home hours ago!”

“We got delayed,” Harry replied.

Ron, who had already started to eat, swallowed, then added: “Hi, Hermione. And good morning.”

“Morning,” she answered reflexively, ignoring his sarcastic tone. She knew that they had been fine after their fight, but they didn’t know that she knew. They should have called - if only to tell her that they were going to be late. “Delayed?” She frowned at Harry.

“We arrested some suspects during our patrol and processing them took longer than expected,” he explained.

“Hours longer?” Hermione had studied the procedures with both of them; they shouldn’t have taken that long.

“Well, they needed the attention of the Healer on duty before they could be interrogated,” Harry said. He held a sandwich in his left hand, a little awkwardly, she noted.

“I still think at least two of them would have been fine without any healing,” Ron added. “We didn’t hit them that hard. Just a little harder than in training.”

Harry glared at him, Hermione noted. “I see,” she said. “And did you interrogate them?”

“No.”

“Why not? Isn’t it standard practice that the Aurors who make the arrest interrogate the suspects?” She had studied the handbook as well, of course. A thief never knew when such knowledge might turn out to be useful.

“Yes, it is,” Harry admitted. “Unless the Aurors are personally involved in the case.”

“What?” That didn’t make any sense, she thought. Unless… “Why did you arrest them?”

“Well, they knew we were on patrol and were waiting to ambush us,” Ron said.

“What?” “What?” Hermione barely kept from screaming. Sirius, who had just arrived, didn’t bother.

Harry held up his free hand. “They weren’t a real threat. We took them down without trouble.”

“And they were only hired to ‘rough us up’, or so they claimed,” Ron said, before taking another bite.

Hermione exchanged a glance with Sirius. He looked as annoyed at the boys as she felt. She glared at them. “Tell us exactly what happened. From the start of your patrol,” she added.

*****​

“...and then we were dismissed.” Harry finished his story ten minutes and several questions from Hermione Granger and Sirius - which, in hindsight, would have been answered in due course - later.

Ron grimaced. “I also accidentally let slip that you have a Pensieve,” he said. “Sorry about that; I didn’t think.”

She pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t scold them for letting that secret out.

“We told them that Sirius inherited it so they think it’s a Black family treasure.” Harry grinned.

“Clever,” Sirius said. “They won’t dare bother me about it.” He bared his teeth. “That’s just not done to an Old Family. Imagine the precedent it would set!”

And, Hermione added silently, the DMLE wouldn’t dare bother a man who had spent over a decade wrongly imprisoned without a trial. “They might put some pressure on Harry, though,” she added.

Ron nodded. “Scrimgeour will. I’m sure of that. He’s a wily one. Probably was a Slytherin.”

“Gryffindor, actually,” Sirius said.

“You went to school with him?” Harry asked.

“Briefly; he was a seventh-year prefect when I was a first-year,” Sirius explained. “Anyway, if Scrimgeour is being subtle, he might assign you some cases where the use of a Pensieve would be useful.”

“And let us choose between failing or getting you to let us use the Pensieve.” Harry frowned.

“Just because I let you use the Pensieve doesn’t mean anyone else gets to use it,” Sirius said.

“But they’ll claim we only solved the case thanks to that,” Harry said.

“Well…” Ron shrugged. “It would be true, wouldn’t it?”

“But the evidence gained might not be admissible in court,” Hermione pointed out. “They wouldn’t be able to ensure it hadn’t been tampered with.”

“The Wizengamot would only care about that if they wanted to acquit someone no matter what and needed an excuse.” Sirius chuckled, but he was sneering. “Otherwise, they’ll simply have you swear that you didn’t tamper with it and treat it the same as your other testimony as a witness.”

Hermione clenched her teeth in annoyance - both at this casual dismissal of proper legal procedure and at her failure to anticipate it.

“As long as the Ministry can’t get their greedy hands on the Pensieve,” Ron said.

If they did, it would be his fault, Hermione thought. But she nodded. The DMLE having access to the Pensieve would complicate her own plans, after all. “You should have called when you were delayed,” she told them.

“Well… we didn’t know it would take so long,” Harry said, “and we didn’t want to wake you.”

“Yeah,” Ron added. “You usually sleep in, don’t you?”

Hermione glared at him. She didn’t sleep in; she simply had a different schedule, being more active at night. “As you can see, I was awake already. And have been so for some time.”

“Well, I wasn’t asleep,” Sirius said, “but I was still in bed until you returned.” He grinned widely.

Hermione turned to glare at the dog. He wasn’t helping.

Harry yawned. “Anyway, we need sleep now. We can talk some more in the afternoon. Before training.”

“Training?” Hermione asked.

He nodded. “Last night showed, again, how important it is to be able to defend yourself.”

“I thought you had no trouble defeating the thugs,” Hermione said. She had better things to do than play the hopeless witch with Harry! She had a heist to plan!

“That’s right.” He nodded. “But they wouldn’t have had any trouble dealing with you.” He shook his head. “You need to get better at Defence. And you will. I promise.”

Hermione was tempted to demonstrate right then just how good she was at Defence. But she couldn’t do that, so she nodded.

Besides, she suspected that even tired and surprised as Harry would be, he might still beat her. And the dog would never let her forget it.

*****​

Harry Potter flicked his wand and sent a series of Stinging Hexes at Hermione. She had dropped to the floor when he had started to cast and rolled to the side, his hexes passing over her and hitting the wall at the back. His next two hexes would have hit her - she wasn’t moving that quickly while rolling, although she presented a smaller target from his position - but the Shield Charm she had managed to cast while dodging deflected them.

She was improving, he noticed, pleased, when his next spells were stopped by a conjured wall - which he quickly vanished with a flick of his wand. She had kept moving, though he caught her with a volley of Paint-Splash Hexes that were, once again, stopped by her shield. But the colourful explosions obscured her vision long enough for Harry to cast a Disillusionment Charm himself and change position, allowing him to flank her.

His manoeuvre caught her by surprise, and he saw her freeze for a moment when she couldn’t spot him. That was more than long enough for him to shatter her shield with a Piercing Curse. Two Paint-Splash Hexes hit her right afterwards - one of them in the face, he noticed.

She spat some paint out and glared at him. “You used a Piercing Curse!”

“It was the easiest way to take down your shield,” he answered.

“It would also be the easiest way to kill me by accident!” she retorted, baring her teeth at him as she cast various cleaning charms.

“Your shield could take it. And I knew that,” he defended himself. It wasn’t as if she’d be so dumb as to drop her shield in the middle of a fight, training session or not. “Besides, I didn’t aim at anything vital.”

She huffed and kept casting cleaning charms - at her face, hair and the robes she wore.

He cleared his throat. “You’re clean already.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t feel clean yet,” she all but hissed at him.

He frowned. “You shouldn’t keep cleaning, you know.”

“What?”

“You’ll get into the habit of doing so, and might even do it in a real fight - and that could cost you your life.”

“Leaving unknown liquids and substances on me could also cost me my life!” she shot back.

“Yes, but one good charm should take care of those. You don’t need to cast it seven times.”

She sniffed. “You didn’t need to cover me with paint!”

“I wouldn’t have to, if you’d dodge,” he retorted. “You froze again. That’s a fatal mistake in a fight.”

She huffed and redid her ponytail, which had come undone during the fight - or during her frantic cleaning afterwards. “Alright, let’s do it again,” she said.

She looked as if she had just finished dressing - her tight robes, split in the front and back to allow her unhindered movement were spotless, again, as was her face.

Harry shook his head, smiling. “As you wish.” He bowed as if he were in a formal duelling event, but flicked his wand as he straightened, casting a full Body-Bind Curse at her.

She hadn’t fallen for it, though, and her hastily cast Shield Charm stopped his curse. The hexes with which he followed up missed when she executed a perfect roll over her shoulder that carried her behind the next pillar before he could adjust his aim. Harry didn’t even bother reacting to the Stinging Hexes she cast at him from behind that pillar - the one that wasn’t going wide was stopped by his own Shield Charm.

“Dodging alone won’t be enough,” he said, stepping to the side so the pillar was blocking her line of sight. Once more, he disillusioned himself, then moved to flank her again.

She wasn’t fooled this time, though - she must have cast a Human-presence-revealing Spell since she kept the pillar between them. “You can’t keep that up forever,” he told her.

“I don’t have to. I just have to last longer than you!” she retorted.

But she knew as well as he did that he could simply vanish the pillar. So, she probably thought she had that covered. He tapped his glasses. Yes, she kept her wand aimed straight at the pillar. So she would be ready for him as soon as he removed the obstacle.

Or so she thought. Harry grinned and charged straight at the pillar. Instead of vanishing it, he blew it up - and then jumped through the cloud of fragments and dust. His glasses let him know exactly where Hermione was. He saw her eyes widen in surprise and probably shock, right before he crashed into her and their Shield Charms broke each other.

He slammed her to the ground, trying to pin her, but she managed to twist out of his grip - she was quicker than he had expected. She almost escaped, but he caught one of her legs with his own and kept her down. He moved to stun her, but she kicked him in his right arm with her free leg, and his spell went wide. He did manage to grab her wand hand, though. “It’s ov…” he started to say when she slugged him in the face with her free hand.

He grabbed her left hand with his right hand without thinking - he was still holding his wand! - and then had to deflect her knee with his thigh before she hit him in the groin. Hermione didn’t give up, though, and kept struggling with surprising strength, wriggling and bumping against him as she tried to escape his hold and he used his entire weight to keep her pinned down.

Finally, she stopped fighting him and he felt her body relax under his own. He knew better than to assume she had given up. “Surrender?” he asked, panting as he tried to recover his breath.

He saw her clench her teeth - she, too, was panting heavily, and he could feel her chest pushing into his with each breath she drew. Could feel her breasts pushing into his chest, he realised. Could feel her toned body tensing under him as she once more tried to break his grip, before relaxing again.

And he could feel his own body starting to react. He pushed himself off her at once, before she realised what was happening, and threw himself into a backward roll, ending in a crouch and facing her. “I think that’s enough for today,” he managed to say between heavy breaths.

She blinked, then sat up. “Yes.” She nodded, brushing her hair out of her face - her ponytail had come undone again. And her chest was heaving under her tight robes.

Harry tried to think of something to say. Something to distract himself... and her. Something professional - this was a training session, after all. He had to focus on that. And not on how attractive she was. Just focus on the lesson. On Defence. Alright.

“I think we need to spend more time grappling.”

*****​

Hermione Granger stared at Harry as she tried to slow down her breathing. More grappling? More time spent in such close contact with Harry, rolling over the floor as their bodies were pressed against each other and their faces were close enough to touch? She felt herself blush at the thought, and her chest was still heaving. And other parts were not cooperating either. She swallowed dryly. And Harry wanted to spend more time doing that?

He blinked and she saw he was blushing as well. “I mean, it’s an obvious weakness of yours.”

Ah. She nodded. “Yes.” She hadn’t done well - not at all. Much worse than she should have, given what she could do - but clawing her friend’s eyes out would have been going too far, she supposed - even for Harry’s rather extreme views of what was considered ‘training’. And changing into a cat would have been hard to explain. And wouldn’t have been as much fun as wrestling with Harry in her human form. He was in very good shape, she could now tell. Not like a bodybuilder - but he had hard muscles. And probably… She cleared her throat and tried to push the rather distracting thoughts away. “So, ah… how about we take a break? This was, ah, intense.”

“Yes. Good idea” He nodded and turned away - rather brusquely. But he had been staring at her and blushing, Hermione noted.

She bit down on her lower lip until it hurt before saying: “Is there any mineral water?” She knew there was; she had checked earlier.

“Yes.” He spent a little more time than usual looking through the small bar they had installed in the duelling chamber before straightening and handing her a bottle.

“Thank you.” She took a few sips, wondering what she should say. The fight had been… exciting. Very much so. But if he didn’t want to talk about it, she certainly wouldn’t either. Not until she had figured out how she felt about this. Apart from the obvious physical attraction and reaction she had felt, of course. She had noticed those clearly. She cleared her throat. “Are you happy at the Ministry?”

“What?” He blinked again. Had he been as distracted as she had been?

She repeated her question.

He frowned. “Why are you asking?”

She didn’t tell him the truth - that she had no idea what she wanted to ask or say about what had just happened and that the silence was making the whole thing even more awkward. “I just wonder whether you’re happy. You said most of the Aurors resent you and want to sabotage you. And now someone - maybe an Auror - has even hired people to attack you.” She shook her head, then had to brush her hair out of her face again. While she quickly restyled her mane and cast a few cleaning charms on her robes for good measure, she said: “It doesn’t sound like a friendly working environment.” It sounded like an assassination attempt waiting to happen.

He snorted. “It isn’t. But someone has to straighten out the DMLE.”

“The Auror’s performance in the riot was rather lacking,” she agreed. Sirius had worded it more succinctly. More vulgarly as well.

“I’m not talking about that. That’s simply lack of skill and, apparently, experience.” He shook his head. “Ron and I could have done better, too. A conjured wall to block them, instead of providing cover for ourselves. Maybe more water, earlier…” He shrugged. “We had some trouble thinking of non-lethal responses.”

“Figures,” she said with a fake smile, “seeing how you train.”

He chuckled. “Sorry. Anyway, that’s not the most important problem. The real issue is that the laws aren’t enforced equally - too many have too much influence on the DMLE. What’s the point of Sirius - and you - reforming the laws of Wizarding Britain if they aren’t enforced?”

She frowned. “But even if you manage to straighten out the DMLE, the cases still end up in front of the Wizengamot.” Where politics had at least as much weight on the court’s ruling as evidence and the law.

“I know.” He grinned. “But that’s Sirius’s and your job.”

“You’re the Boy-Who-Lived. You could help there too.”

“And I will. If you need me to, I’ll nod and read my lines.” He shook his head. “But I can do more as an Auror than as a mouthpiece in the Wizengamot.”

She bit her lower lip again - perhaps she had pushed her speeches on him a little too strongly. “Sorry.”

He waved her apology away. “No need to be sorry. I know you mean well.”

She nodded. He also meant well. It was just a shame that he was stuck on being an Auror. And, it seemed, one of the better ones in the Corps. Ultimately, an Auror was the enemy of any self-respecting thief.

Even, she added as she watched his back when he grabbed a snack from the bar, if he looked very attractive in their red robes.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 14th, 1998

As Harry Potter watched - without being obvious, of course - Hermione drinking tea at breakfast, he thought that she was a weird mix of contradictions. Not that she was likely to notice him observing her; it was very early for her, after all, even if she didn’t look that tired.

She was wearing plain robes. They weren’t as tight as he’d like - for entirely Defence-related reasons, of course - but they were impeccable. He couldn’t spot a speck of dust. Or a loose thread. And her hairstyle, too, was simple - a ponytail - but no strand looked out of place. It was obvious, now that he was paying attention and remembered what Parvati used to tell him, that Hermione spent a lot of effort to care for her hair and appearance.

He glanced over at Jeanne, who was sipping her coffee - Kreacher still considered it inappropriate but had grudgingly chosen to brew it rather than see Jeanne encroach on his kitchen. The French witch seemed to be the opposite of Hermione. The way she was dressed looked quite haphazard - loose, dark red, silken house robes which showed quite a bit of skin - though her hairstyle looked elegant, despite being the result of a single charm. And yet, she looked more attractive than Hermione.

If Hermione dressed like Jeanne, but made the same effort as she was doing already… Harry took a deep breath as he imagined her in that slightly loose silk robe that threatened to slide down a shoulder. He couldn’t understand why she didn’t dress more elegantly. She was all but living at Grimmauld Place nowadays, and with Jeanne as an example, and willing to help, she could easily spruce up her wardrobe.

Perhaps she thought that if she dressed less plainly, there would be more rumours about her having an affair with Sirius? It certainly wasn’t as if there was a dress code at the Wizengamot that prohibited more elegant robes.

“Why do we have the early shift on a Monday morning?”

Harry looked at the doorway, where Ron had appeared and was apparently stifling a yawn.

“Good morning, Ron,” Hermione said pointedly as she nodded at him with a thin smile.

“Good morning, everybody,” Ron said promptly.

“Good morning.” “Bonjour.” “Morning.”

Ron sat down and started to fill his plate. “Seriously, though, I know we’re getting the rookie shifts, but graveyard shift on Saturday and morning shift on Monday?”

“It’s the normal shift, actually,” Harry said. “We start work at the same time as everyone else at the Ministry.”

“Exactly!” Ron nodded. “Just as we’re getting used to spending our nights in Knockturn Alley and sleeping in the mornings, suddenly we’re supposed to be at work so early?” He shook his head. “Smells fishy to me.”

“We were supposed to have the graveyard shift yesterday, too, but since we had so much overtime following our patrol, it was changed,” Harry pointed out. “I guess we got shifted around.”

Ron groaned and Harry scowled - his pun wasn’t that bad.

“Can you drop it?” Hermione narrowed her eyes at them. “I also had to get up far too early, but do you hear me complaining?”

“She actually was complaining, before Harry arrived,” Sirius cut in.

That earned Harry’s godfather a glare from Hermione as Harry and Ron chuckled. She looked very cute, too, Harry noticed, as she half-frowned and half-pouted.

“Do I have something on my face?” she suddenly asked, staring straight at him.

Apparently, he hadn’t been as subtle as he had thought. He shook his head. “No. I’m just evaluating your robes.”

“They’re perfectly fine,” she said.

“They’re also a little plain,” he retorted.

“I didn’t know you were a fashion critic,” she shot back.

“All men are,” Jeanne remarked, “when it concerns attractive women.”

Harry glanced at her; the witch looked a little too smug for his taste. And so did Sirius, too, he noticed.

“Oh?” Hermione tilted her head slightly as she addressed him. “I thought you judged my robes exclusively with regards to how well I could fight in them.”

“I did. I do,” he corrected himself. “I just thought that your robes looked a little plain.” He glanced at Jeanne and Sirius again. They were smirking.

“Jeanne is wearing house robes,” Hermione said. “You don’t expect me to wear such robes to work?”

“Of course not!” He shook his head and held up a hand, even though she didn’t sound as if she were angry. “I’m not criticising your choice in robes.” Though he certainly wouldn’t mind if she started wearing such robes at home.

“It sounded to me as if you just did exactly that.”

“I didn’t mean that your robes looked ugly. They look good. I just think they could look better.” He knew that Hermione could look better, too - even, no, especially, when she was all worked up like yesterday. That prim and proper secretary look wasn’t working for her, in his opinion.

“And what do you think I should be wearing instead?” Hermione asked with a toothy smile. “Hm?”

Fortunately, Kreacher entered and saved Harry from having to answer that. The elf brought the Daily Prophet and the headline served as the perfect distraction.

“They arrested Skeeter?” Hermione stood and went round the table to read over Sirius’s shoulder. Jeanne simply leaned over. “Suspected instigator of the riot in Diagon Alley?”

Harry frowned. “They got it wrong. She’s a person of interest, not a suspect.”

“Yet,” Ron added.

“You knew about this?” Hermione sounded far more offended than when he had criticised her robes, Harry noted.

He nodded. “We heard about it yesterday.”

“You could have told us,” Sirius said.

“No.” Harry shook his head. “We weren’t allowed to tell anyone.”

“Oh.”

Sirius didn’t have to look so surprised, Harry thought - he wasn’t about to start his career as an Auror by breaking the law.

*****​

“Have a nice shift,” Hermione Granger said as Harry and Ron stepped up to the fireplace in Grimmauld Place’s entrance hall.

“Aren’t you coming too?” Harry asked.

She sighed. “Sirius is taking his time. Fortunately, the session won’t begin until nine o’clock.”

“That’s an hour away,” Ron remarked.

Hermione simply nodded with a long-suffering expression and watched as her friends left. When she heard steps behind her, she knew what was waiting for her. And she was correct - Sirius and Jeanne were there, looking insufferably smug.

“He likes you,” Jeanne said.

“And you like him,” Sirius added. “If I had said anything like that about your robes, you’d have hexed me! Or tried to, at least.”

Just for that quip she should hex the dog. She scoffed instead. “Our Defence training got a little physical and we ended up wrestling. He obviously noticed my body. That’s all.”

“That’s rubbish!” Sirius frowned. “I know him and I know you. It’s more than that. About time, too,” he added with a rather lecherous grin.

Hermione glared at the dog, tempted to change and claw his leg or nose or something. That would teach him to make such remarks. And it would also stop the conversation.

Unfortunately, Jeanne must have anticipated her plan and took a step forward, interposing herself between Hermione and the dog. “Please.” She smiled, gently now, rather than smugly. “Sirius is right - we know you well enough to tell that you like each other. There’s no reason to deny it.”

Hermione sighed and drew a long breath through her clenched teeth before answering. “Yes, I’m attracted to him,” she admitted. Harry was a great boy, wizard, man. Handsome, kind, if overly protective. “But we can’t have a relationship, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t keep pestering me about it. Or him.”

“Why couldn’t you have a relationship?” Jeanne asked, looking honestly puzzled. “You like each other. You are fond of each other. You love each other.”

Hermione closed her eyes. She really didn’t want to talk about this. But she had to, to nip this in the bud before the dog tried to ‘help things along’. “Harry’s an Auror. I’m a thief.” So were Sirius and Jeanne, technically. “It wouldn’t work out.” Love didn’t conquer all, after all.

“He doesn’t have to find out,” Sirius said. “You’ve been living with us for years, and he doesn’t suspect a thing.”

“That’s because we’re not sleeping with each other. How do you think I would explain any injuries I suffered on a heist? I can’t pass them off as training accidents to Harry, can I?” Harry wouldn’t be fooled by whatever excuse she made up. Certainly not by a headache - he’d probably drag her to a Healer if she had recurring headaches. She went on before they could say anything. “And even if I could manage to avoid any injuries, or heal them without leaving any traces, how do you think I’d be able to do a heist if I’m sleeping with him?”

“Schedule the heists on nights he’s working. We’ll have to do something like that anyway,” Sirius said, “with Harry and Ron living here.”

“That won’t always be an option,” Hermione retorted. “As things are, we have an easier time finding excuses to be absent at night. You can be on a date, and I can be at my parents. Or grandparents.” Maybe she could fake a boyfriend, or a friend to go clubbing with. “Or I might get a flat of my own.” She could claim she wanted to be independent, and have her own space.

Sirius frowned. “You already have sports as an excuse for injuries. Start that muggle ‘martial arts’ thing? It’s pretty brutal, isn’t it?” At her stare, he shrugged. “I read that in a magazine.”

Hermione knew what kind of muggle magazines Sirius read. And ‘Bike’ wouldn’t feature such articles. “I think your sources are a little outdated. Did the article mention Bruce Lee?”

“Yes, indeed. Brutal, as I said.” Sirius nodded gravely. “It would cover up any kind of injury, I think.”

“I don’t think that’s entirely accurate,” Hermione said. “But learning martial arts might be a good idea.” Even if it came from the dog. At least it would let her show Harry a thing or two in training. “But that doesn’t mean that having a relationship with Harry is a good thing. It won’t work.” Having a major secret would ruin a relationship. Her break-up with Paul had taught her that.

Jeanne tried another tack. “But denying your feelings won’t work well, either. It’s not healthy. Pushing Harry away will just leave both of you unhappy.”

She wasn’t wrong. Hermione knew that. But Harry wouldn’t be as hurt as he’d be if he found out about her real career while sleeping with her. “He’ll get over it.”

“You could tell him the truth, though?” Jeanne suggested.

Hermione stared at Sirius as she answered. “Not any more. He’s just told us that he wouldn’t break the law for us - not even for something as minor as telling us about Skeeter’s arrest.”

“That doesn’t mean that he’d arrest us,” Sirius said. “All of us? For getting back at Malfoy and the other Death Eaters?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Not Harry.”

“He would be hurt, though,” Hermione said.

He didn’t deny that.

“I don’t want to force him to choose between his goals and us,” Hermione continued. “We can keep our secret as long as I don’t start anything with him. Long enough to ruin Malfoy, at least.”

After that… well, things would be different. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, September 14th, 1998

“Merlin’s beard, why is doing paperwork more exhausting than patrolling?” Ron asked as he dropped into a seat in the break room. “We should have a special anti-parchment section.”

Harry Potter chuckled, but his friend was only slightly exaggerating - they certainly had earned their break, even if they were taking it rather early. He reached into his enchanted pocket and pulled out the tea Kreacher had prepared for them. Ron conjured two cups.

Just as he was pouring the tea, another Auror in the room spoke up. “Is something wrong with the teapot here?”

Harry put his pot down and looked at the man. He shrugged. “Nothing, I suppose. But I don’t know who made it. Or if anyone tampered with it.”

The Auror blinked. “Do you really think that someone’s trying to poison you? In the middle of Auror Headquarters?”

“Better safe than sorry,” Ron answered.

The Auror shook his head in apparent disbelief. “In your place, I’d be more concerned about sitting in Shacklebolt’s spot. He usually takes a break a little later, but he has been known to take his break early some days.”

Harry blinked. “And he always picks the same spot?” Granted, it was a good spot - in the corner, which meant neither Harry nor Ron had anyone behind them, and with a good view of the door. That was why they had chosen it, after all.

“Well, yes.”

Harry shook his head. “Moody would curse our buttocks off if we did that.”

“Not just our buttocks,” Ron added. “Constant vigilance!”

“Did Mad-Eye really train you?” A witch from the only other occupied table, near the centre of the room, asked.

Harry snorted. “What do you think Moody would do to someone lying about him training them?”

“Oh.”

This Auror didn’t seem to be one of the smarter ones. Harry decided to use the opportunity. “Has anyone heard anything about the Skeeter investigation?”

The Auror who had asked about the tea answered. “She’s still in the interrogation room - with Scrimgeour himself.”

“I heard Bones is going to talk to her, too,” the female Auror added. “Looks like she’s cutting a deal.”

That would mean that she was guilty. Harry frowned. “Or Bones has to deal with the politics,” he said. Skeeter had to have friends among the Wizengamot to get away with what she did.

“At least she wasn’t under a spell,” the first Auror said. “The Unspeakables checked. And she’s claiming that she had no idea that her article might cause a riot.”

Harry nodded. “Did she claim that someone cast the Imperius Curse on her?”

“No. But they’re covering everything. Don’t want to make it too easy for the Wizengamot to acquit her, I guess.” The Auror grinned cynically.

“I don’t think they’ll acquit her. I bet there are a lot of members who have a bone to pick with her,” the witch said.

“Like Black, right?” The male Auror grinned.

Harry knew better than to reveal anything. He shrugged. “He has bigger things to worry about than Skeeter.”

“Ah.” The other wizard sounded as if Harry had just said something important.

“Say, how long did Mad-Eye train you?” an Auror who hadn’t said anything yet suddenly asked.

Harry looked at Ron. “Two and a half years, right?”

Ron nodded. “We started in February 1996, after that attack on you and Ginny. Feels like we’ve been doing this forever, doesn’t it?”

Harry nodded, chuckling.

“Wait…” The female Auror - Harry should really ask their names - said in a hesitant tone. “Do you mean that he’s still training you?”

“Not as often any more,” Harry replied. “Once a week.”

Judging by the way the rest of the room was staring at him, the other Aurors mustn’t train as regularly. That would certainly explain their performance during the riot.

*****​

“Say…” Harry Potter started once they were back in their new - and thoroughly searched and protected - office.

“Yes?” Ron looked up at once, probably glad for any distraction from doing paperwork. How many bloody forms did they have to fill out for a simple arrest, anyway?

Harry took a deep breath. “I’m wondering about Hermione.”

“Wondering? Is that what you call it?”

Was Ron grinning? Harry narrowed his eyes at his friend. “What do you mean?”

“You were undressing her with your eyes at breakfast,” Ron said, smirking.

“I wasn’t!” At Ron’s expression, Harry added: “Not literally.” He sighed. “The Defence lesson yesterday was a little intense.”

“Intense?”

“We ended up wrestling on the floor.” Harry rolled his eyes. “Literally wrestling, not what you think.”

Ron chuckled. “But you would have liked that?”

“That’s what I’m wondering about.” Harry grimaced.

“Do you like her?”

“Yes.” What wasn’t to like? Hermione was pretty - beautiful if she would make an effort - smart and athletic, she liked Quidditch and she was his best female friend.

“Then what’s the problem?”

Harry sighed. “All my relationships have ended in nasty break-ups.” Daria didn’t count - they hadn’t had a real relationship. “I don’t want to lose her friendship.”

“And she’s living with us,” Ron pointed out.

“Yes.” If things went sour, that would be incredibly awkward.

“So, you don’t want to risk your friendship for love.”

“A chance at love,” Harry corrected him.

“Tough.” Ron rubbed his chin. “Does she like you?”

“I think she does.” She certainly had acted rather flustered yesterday. “But she hasn’t said anything.” Neither had he, but that wasn’t the point.

“Well, I’d let her make the first move. You know her - she doesn’t really hold back with her opinions.” Ron grinned.

“Perhaps.” She might not be as direct when it concerned her relationships, Harry thought. Hadn’t Paul The Ex-Boyfriend asked her out? “But I still don’t know if I should start anything.”

“Hm.” Ron looked at him. “Luna would say that you should follow your heart, not your head.”

Of course she would, Harry thought as he nodded.

“And if she does like you and asks you out, and you turn her down - wouldn’t that hurt her, and pretty much cause exactly what you’re afraid of?” Ron asked.

He had a very good point, Harry thought. That didn’t make him fear losing her friendship over this any less, though. But he would let her make the first move.

*****​

London, Knockturn Alley, September 20th, 1998

Hermione Granger tapped her mask to activate her latest enchantments when she saw the figure approaching Borgin and Burkes. A week after the Diagon Alley riot, things had gone back to what was normal in Knockturn Alley. In this part of it, at least. That meant that the kind of clients that didn’t want to come during the normal opening hours - or couldn’t, she added, thinking of vampires - were once again frequenting the shop at night. None had visited after midnight, however, and this one wasn’t an exception either.

Her Supersensory Charm let her easily observe as the cloaked customer - a wizard, according to the voice - knocked at the back door of the shop and Borgin answered the door. As with the others she had observed during the week, Borgin, safely behind his wards, took a look at the man before letting him enter the shop. He didn’t ask for a password, though, so theoretically, Polyjuice Potion would give her access to the shop. But she would need hair from one of Borgin’s known customers for that, and she would have to subdue Borgin, which meant dealing with whatever protections he had set up for such deals - she was certain that he didn’t trust his obviously criminal customers not to betray or even attack him.

All in all, it wasn’t worth the effort. Not when, after several days of analysing them, she was certain that she could deal with the wards.

Several days, she couldn’t help thinking, during which Harry hadn’t said anything about what had happened. Or almost happened. He kept staring at her, though. It wasn’t a bad thing - it spared her from turning him down - but it irked her. And distracted her when she should be focusing on observing her target.

Not that there was much to see from her vantage spot, anyway - nothing new, at least. She knew all that she needed about the area and the shop’s wards already.

But while Mr Fletcher had visited the shop in the past, they didn’t know enough about its current interior layout. Something she planned to rectify, of course.

*****​

London, Knockturn Alley, September 22nd, 1998

“That’s a fine-looking necklace, Miss. A fine looking necklace indeed.”

Hermione Granger, disguised as a young witch down on her luck, forced herself to smile at Borgin. “Really? Is it worth a lot then?”

The wizard sighed in an overdone and utterly unconvincing manner. “It isn’t worth much, I’m afraid. The spells on it are old but utterly trivial. And there isn’t anything special about its make either.” He dropped the necklace on the counter with a far too casual gesture. “But seeing as you are in need of gold, I would be willing to pay you ten Galleons for it.”

“Ten Galleons?” Hermione had no trouble sounding aghast at the offer - even without any enchantments, the necklace was worth ten times that sum in materials alone. “But my mother told me that it was a family treasure! The only thing, other than myself, that she got from my father before he left her.”

“I’m afraid that he must have lied to her, Miss. Not uncommon in a man who would leave his pregnant lover to marry a rich witch.”

She had seen more sincere smiles from pureblood bigots talking to her at the Ministry. “But…” She shook her head. “I was hoping to…” She swallowed and rubbed her eyes, triggering a simple spell that made tears appear. And another, far more complicated spell, that switched the spells on her fake glasses to let her take a look at the shop’s backroom - and basement.

“Please don’t cry, Miss. I can raise my offer to fifteen Galleons, even though that will rob me of any profit.”

“I’m not sure…” She took a deep breath, knowing it would draw attention to her chest, as she quickly looked through the wall and the floor. She could analyse it later for as long as she wanted thanks to Sirius’s Pensieve. “Mum wouldn’t want me to part with it,” she said, looking at the ceiling, then through the ceiling, “and if she’s watching me now…” She shook her head. “I need to think about this.”

“I completely understand,” Borgin said, smiling. “It must be hard to part with a memento.”

He probably thought that she would end up selling it to him anyway - many who approached his shop lacked other options, after all. Especially if they wanted to sell a necklace that might be proof that a wizard from an Old Family had had an affair. She nodded, sniffling. “Thank you. I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “I’m happy to help - within my meagre means, of course.”

“Thank you.”

She didn’t stop the spell making her cry until she was safely in a side-alley and disillusioned. Mission accomplished.

*****​

London, Knockturn Alley, September 23rd, 1998

“This is too easy,” the dog complained. Again.

“It’s not too easy,” Hermione Granger whispered, despite the privacy spell preventing her voice from carrying further than the disillusioned floating platform on which she was working. “It’s the result of more than a week’s hard work.” Her hard work.

“Knockturn Alley shops are supposed to be protected better than this!” he insisted. “They have to be, or the residents would rob them blind. Have you seen how they live? They have nothing to lose!”

“Anyone with the skills to go through these wards would have much easier ways to make money - legal and illegal ones,” she retorted. Highly qualified Curse-Breakers wouldn’t be living in Knockturn Alley unless they wanted to. And those who lacked such skills would die to these wards. Which the residents would know. “Now shut up and let me work - you don’t want us to get killed, do you?”

To her surprise, he actually stopped talking. She was tempted to ask why he was so nervous, but she had a mission. And wards to crack. But she really wished Mr Fletcher were with her, instead of playing lookout with Jeanne. He, just like any self-respecting cat, knew that patience was a virtue. Something dogs never seemed to understand.

A task that, even as prepared as she was, took all her concentration. It wasn’t as if Borgin and Burkes’ wards were actually weak, after all.

They simply weren’t strong enough to stop her.

Two hours later, she sighed and smiled. “Done.”

“About time,” Sirius muttered. “Harry’s shift ends in three hours.” Fortunately, he and Ron weren’t assigned to patrol Knockturn Alley tonight.

“Plenty of time,” Hermione said, grinning widely as she reached for her lockpicks.

Mr Fletcher had told her that many purebloods simply bought the best muggle locks they could find. Borgin wasn’t among them - she had the window open and the crude alarm on it disabled in less than a minute.

After a final check for spells and traps - she had scanned the building, but you never knew - she stepped off the platform and on to the windowsill. A moment later, she stood inside Borgin’s office and ended her Disillusionment Charm - she didn’t want the dog to stumble into her. She grinned as she looked around. Borgin had curses protecting his files, but compared to his wards, they were nothing special. She had dealt with more difficult tasks in her ‘exams’ - although Mr Fletcher hadn’t used lethal curses, of course.

Sirius climbed in after her, becoming visible himself. “That’s the cabinet?”

She nodded. “But first we need to deal with Borgin.”

He flashed her a grin under his half-mask as he raised his wand.

*****​

 

Chapter 38: First Strike

London, Knockturn Alley, September 24th, 1998

Allan Borgin was a man of habit. Every day, he ate lunch in his shop and had dinner in the same pub. And every night, he went to bed at half past midnight and slept for six hours until his alarm clock woke him up at half past six in the morning.

So when he wasn’t woken by the ringing sound of his alarm clock, but by the sunlight shining through the gaps in his shutters, his first thought was that he must have forgotten to set and wind it up. When he muttered a curse under his breath and couldn’t hear his own voice, though, he knew that something was wrong.

He grasped for his wand - but his fingers didn’t find it under his pillow. He felt his breath speed up as he threw the pillow away - his wand wasn’t there. Someone had silenced him and stolen his wand from under his pillow while he slept!

Had Shipley betrayed him? No, his partner would have simply killed him. He wasn’t the type to play such games. Allan shook his head, silently cursing up a storm, and got out of his bed. He had a spare wand in his armoire. It wasn’t the best fit, but it would let him remove whatever curse had been cast on him. And defend himself.

He flung open his armoire and gasped - it was empty. All his robes, all his clothes, even his socks - gone. And his spare wand. He knelt down and pulled at the loose board in the bottom of the armoire. They couldn’t have… They had. He closed his eyes for a moment, tears of anger and frustration appearing in his eyes. His emergency bag, carefully hidden and protected, was gone.

Trying to calm down, he stood and looked around. Everything was gone. His alarm clock. His nightstand - an antique from Prussia! His chair, another antique - gone. Someone had stolen everything but his bed, his pillow and his blanket while he slept! Even his slippers were gone!

It was impossible! His wards… He closed his eyes and concentrated. They were intact. Undisturbed, even. That was impossible. It must have been Shipley then. But why would he do such a thing?

His eyes widened. His shop! He rushed to the door, then froze. What if this was a trap? What if they were waiting for him in the hallway? He glanced at the window. He could climb down to the Alley. But wearing only his nightshirt? And without a wand? Given his neighbours, he might as well face the ambush inside.

He wiped his tears away - he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him cry - and clenched his teeth, then opened the door. The hallway was empty. Not just of intruders, but of all the furniture. Even the old, worn carpet was gone! Who would be as insane as to steal an utterly worthless carpet? What demented mind was behind all of this?

But if they did this… He rushed to the door to his office and froze. His books! His papers! All gone! He stared at the bare room, barely noticing the brighter spots on the walls where his furniture had once stood. And at the hole where his strongbox had been hidden. They had stolen his books - the real books! While he slept! Shipley would murder him for this!

If his partner hadn’t done this. Shaking his head and screaming silently with rage and fear, he stumbled through the hallway, pushing open doors left and right. Kitchen - empty. Even the ice box was gone. Living room - empty. His Chocolate Frog Card collection! The Snitch signed by Wronski! His library - empty! Even the old Daily Prophet issues had vanished together with their basket near the fireplace.

Or had been vanished. Of course! No one would steal worthless things - but to vanish them? This was personal. Someone wanted to take everything from him!

He went downstairs, almost losing his balance on the rickety stairs when he managed to catch a splinter in his bare foot, and entered his shop. As he had expected, and dreaded, it was empty as well. Only dust was left on the floor. Everything he had managed to acquire, even antiques left to him by his father - gone. The fruits of countless days spent haggling and fleecing the desperate and stupid, gone. Even the counter was gone!

He sat down on the floor and wept.

*****​

When the shadows on the floor changed, Allan Borgin looked up. There was an Auror standing in front of the entrance. Probably knocking on it, too. And he was looking straight at Allan. That should not be happening - he had spells preventing anyone from looking into the shop. Or rather, he had had such spells.

He chuckled and got up. He might as well let the Auror inside. What did he have to lose any more? It wasn’t as if there was anything left in his home that the Aurors could charge him for!

He opened the door. The Auror was talking, but Allan couldn’t hear a word. “I can’t hear you, someone cursed me,” he said, carefully.

The Auror nodded and flicked his wand. “Can you hear me now, Mr Borgin?”

Allan sighed with relief. “Yes. Thank you.” His voice sounded slightly hoarse, too, he noticed - he must have screamed more than he thought.

“I’m Auror Dawlish.” The wizard waved at his partner, a rather young witch. “This is Auror Meringworth. We heard that there was an incident involving a dangerous dark artefact here.”

“What?” Allan stared at them. “There was no incident! I was robbed! Look for yourself! They emptied out the entire house! While I slept!” He all but screamed the last words.

“Please calm down, Mr Borgin,” Dawlish said. “Bathilda, keep an eye on him. I’ll check the shop.”

Aurors - as useless as ever. Allan stared at the witch, who had her wand aimed at him. He scoffed. “They even stole my wand. Are you afraid that I’ll attack you with my bare hands?” Like a filthy muggle?

She didn’t answer him. He shook his head. “I’ve been robbed. I’m the victim here! Everything vanished!” He had to vanish, too, he realised. Even if Shipley didn’t murder him for this, others would, once they realised that Allan couldn’t fulfil several of the deals he’d made. But he needed a wand for that.

“Merlin’s beard! We need the Unspeakables for this, I think - I’ve never seen so many dark artefacts in one pile!”

What? Allan blinked and slowly turned around, then felt as if his blood had frozen in his veins as he stared through the open door into the backroom that he hadn’t bothered to check. The thieves hadn’t emptied out his stock of dark artefacts, as he had thought - they had gathered them all in one spot on the floor! And were those his books?

He was still staring, shaking his head, when Dawlish arrested him.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 24th, 1998

Hermione Granger was smiling widely as she looked at the loot from Borgin and Burkes, all neatly sorted in front of her. Antiques. Jewellery. Various old weapons and enchanted housekeeping items. And books! Three shelves full of books! Old, valuable, interesting books! She couldn’t wait to start reading them all!

“You look as if you’ll start drooling at any moment. Better cast an Impervious Charm on the books.”

She turned to glare at the dog and the giggling Jeanne. Dogs drooled, not cats. “I’m merely showing proper appreciation for the results of our heist.”

“The loot you mean,” Mr Fletcher commented.

“Yes.” She grinned. They had taken everything including the kitchen sink. Most of the furniture and all the clothes they had vanished, of course - they had only kept the valuable antiques.

“Yes, it’s very impressive,” Sirius said. “But let’s hide it now. Harry and Ron will be home soon.”

Hermione eyed the books. That 1715 edition of Hogwarts: A History was calling out to her.

“Leave it!”

She turned to look at her tutor. “What?”

“I know it’s tempting, but this is loot. Freshly stolen. You can’t take it to your room to read it.” He snorted. “You pulled off the heist without any mistakes; don’t spoil your record now with a foolish one.”

She pressed her lips together. He was correct, of course. If Harry or Ron saw the book and connected it to the break-in at Borgin and Burkes, there would be trouble. There was no pressing need to study the books, anyway - they weren’t looking for crucial information to fight the Dark Lord any more. But she didn’t have to like it. She sighed and nodded.

Mr Fletcher smiled. “Cheer up. You did very well. Even kept Black in line.” She smiled at hearing that - she had done well. Her plan had worked perfectly.

“Hey!” the dog protested. “I’ll have you know that I was the very picture of professionalism!”

Hermione coughed, then smirked at his expression. Jeanne patted his arm with a smile. And Mr Fletcher rolled his eyes.

“Anyway, we’ll have to sit on the loot for quite some time,” Mr Fletcher said. “The DMLE won’t treat this as a common burglary.” Meaning, it wouldn’t be filed under ‘Knockturn Alley business as usual’ and forgotten.

“It wasn’t meant to be seen as a common burglary,” Hermione said, grinning. “It’s a statement.” And the first step of her revenge.

“And a very devious one,” Sirius chimed in. “Although I still think you should have trapped the armoire. Nothing lethal, or dark,” he added at her glare, “just something to hex him when he’s down. Maybe a Bowel-loosening Jinx.”

Hermione scoffed. Only a dog could come up with such a plan. She wouldn’t stoop that low. “No. This wasn’t a prank. This was a heist.” A perfectly planned and executed one, too. “I only left the armoire to make a point because it wasn’t an antique.”

“You could have duplicated it,” Jeanne pointed out.

Hermione shrugged. “It wouldn’t have been worth the hassle.” She turned back to her loot and aimed her wand. “Now let’s see if Sirius needs to extend our lair a little more!”

She grinned at his frown.

*****​

It hadn’t taken long move the loot into the secret chamber. Actually, most of the time was taken up with sorting out the mess made by Sirius’s over-enthusiastic Summoning Charm. But Hermione Granger was used to sorting out such messes, and it didn’t take her overly long to set up everything in its proper place.

“Here.”

She looked at the vial Mr Fletcher was holding out to her. “Pepper-Up?” The colour was the same.

“Special recipe,” he confirmed. “It’ll make you look more awake, but not too awake. It’ll last half a day, too.” He snorted, presumably at her expression. “Your friends are Aurors. Best not let them notice that you’re tired the morning after a heist.”

“I could claim I was reading until very late at night,” Hermione said. She had done that often enough, too.

“You could. But you’d have to be careful to avoid forming a pattern.” He handed her the vial. “This will also keep them from thinking that you were up worrying about them. And it’ll keep Potter from deciding that you need more sleep than you’re getting.” He grinned.

She frowned as she took the vial. Harry had a protective streak. A rather strong one, too. And painful at times, she added, remembering the training sessions. Then she remembered their last training session and quickly downed the vial to distract herself.

Just because she knew what she had to do didn’t mean she had to like it.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, September 25th, 1998

“...and then we arrested him.” Bathilda shook her head. “I’d heard so much about Knockturn Alley, how dangerous its residents were and how ruthless, but Borgin wasn’t doing anything - he didn’t resist at all. Didn’t even protest.” She refilled her teacup from the pot in the break room.

“But there wasn’t much he could have done to resist without his wand, was there?” Smith asked.

Harry Potter almost sighed at the naive wizard. “He could have tried to get Bathilda’s wand. If you’re close enough, you can make a grab for the wand arm. It doesn’t take much to keep someone from casting - or, at least, from aiming their wand at you.” Bathilda looked surprised, he noted - hadn’t Dawlish taught her anything?

“Really? Fighting like a muggle?” Nott, unsurprisingly, sneered. “You’d have to be a poor excuse for a wizard to let anyone grab you.”

“You’d be surprised how often that works,” Harry said.

“You would know, wouldn’t you? Didn’t you get attacked like that in the riot?” Nott snorted.

“I did, yes,” Harry said. He grinned, showing his teeth. “And I dealt with the man. I wonder what you would have done in my place.”

“Not much,” Ron said before Nott could answer. “Didn’t you pretty much spent the entire riot standing around doing nothing?”

Nott glared at him but didn’t have a comeback.

Bathilda spoke up. “Please. Borgin didn’t attack me. And if he had attacked me, John, I mean, Auror Dawlish would have stunned him.”

Harry had his doubts about that but held his tongue. Bathilda was obviously very impressed by the older Auror and he didn’t want to start a row.

“Anyway, Dawlish said that it was the work of someone with a grudge.”

“Of course it was!” Ron chuckled. “You said that they took everything from Borgin but for his nightshirt, his bed and his armoire. And his pile of dark artefacts. You wouldn’t do that if you just wanted gold.”

“Isn’t he claiming that someone planted the dark artefacts there to frame him?” Harry asked. It would be hard to prove that they belonged to him, wouldn’t it?

Bathilda shook her head. “No, he’s not, actually.” She grinned. “At the bottom of the pile, we found his books - his real books. He didn’t actually write up the sales, but he made enough notes to nail him, John said.”

“Provided his good friends in the Wizengamot don’t acquit him,” Ron said. “Dad told me all about Borgin and Burkes’ dealings with the Old Families.”

Nott scoffed at that. “Rumours and slander, nothing more.”

“Oh? Already defending your family?” Ron sneered.

“Hardly,” Nott snarled. “No wonder you and Lovegood are a couple - you both spread your parents’ delusions.”

Harry grabbed Ron’s arm. “He wants you to lose your temper,” he whispered - Ron was very protective of his family and Luna. Harry felt him tense, but after a moment, Ron nodded.

“We’ll see who’s delusional, won’t we?” Ron told Nott.

“Merlin’s beard! Can’t you get along?” Bathilda exclaimed.

“I’m sorry,” Nott said - or lied, Harry thought. “I was just defending my family’s reputation.”

Ron snorted but didn’t say anything in response. It seemed that that was enough for Bathilda - or she really wanted to tell her tale - since she continued: “So, Dawlish said that Borgin is offering to sell out his partner and his customers, in return for leniency and protection.”

“His customers?” Nott looked apprehensive, Harry thought.

“Don’t worry, Nott,” Harry said in the most patronising tone he could manage, “I don’t think Borgin is stupid enough to sell out his customers among the Old Families.” Not when they would judge him in the Wizengamot. He’d probably sell out the rest of his Knockturn Alley friends, though.

Bathilda tried once again to finish her story. “Well, anyway, John said that Borgin wasn’t as important as the burglar who broke into his shop. His wards were untouched - they somehow got past them without disturbing them.”

“Probably an inside job,” Harry said. “His partner would have known how to get past the wards, wouldn’t he?”

Nott scoffed. “And why would he leave the dark artefacts for us to find? It’s obvious that you’ve been listening a little too much to Mad-Eye.”

“I didn’t say that his partner willingly shared the information, did I?” Harry showed his teeth. “Just because some people lied about being put under the Imperius Curse doesn’t mean that no one actually uses that spell.”

“More lies and slander!” Nott all but hissed through his clenched teeth.

“Can’t you go five minutes without accusing each other? Didn’t you tell us that we’re not at Hogwarts anymore?” Bathilda slapped her hands on the table. “Merlin’s beard, I’m sick of listening to the lot of you!” She pressed her lips together and Harry thought that she looked a little shocked at her own outburst. She still glared at him, though.

“Sorry,” Harry said. He managed not to add ‘He started it!’. But despite her using his own words, Bathilda was wrong. This wasn’t about Hogwarts houses - this was about the rot in Britain’s ruling class.

“So we have either a master thief or a dark wizard running around, with a personal grudge against Borgin and Burkes?” Smith asked.

“Or both,” Bathilda said. “You have to be a disturbed person to steal everything, even the clothes, from someone.”

“Sounds like a prank,” Ron said. “For a thief, I mean. Steal all his stuff, and leave the dark artefacts for us to find?”

“We don’t know if they left all the dark artefacts,” Harry pointed out. “It could just be a cover-up to hide what they stole. Make it look like a personal grudge to throw us off.”

“You’ve spent too much time with Mad-Eye,” Nott muttered.

“John said that Borgin had ripped off so many people that the list of suspects would encompass half of Knockturn Alley’s residents,” Bathilda said.

“And half of the Wizengamot,” Ron added.

That set Nott off again, of course. Fortunately, their break was over anyway.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 25th, 1998

“Did you finally decided to leave your bed?”

Hermione Granger ignored the dog’s comment as she entered the kitchen. How long she napped was no one’s business but her own. She sat down at the table and summoned the teapot and her teacup.

“Harry and Ron have already left for work. They’ve got the regular shift today.”

Did he think she didn’t already know that from a glance at the clock? She closed her eyes and took a sip of her tea - an excellent variety, and kept hot by Kreacher, as usual. Maybe she should cast a Silencing Charm on the dog so he’d learn not to bother her before she had had her morning tea.

“Harry asked me how to ask you out.”

“What?” She didn’t spit out nor spill her tea, but she came close as she whirled to face him.

“Ah! You were listening. I wasn’t sure if you were already awake or just sleepwalking.” The dog laughed, shaking his head at her in a distinctively patronising manner that was just begging for a claw to be raked across his nose.

So she indulged him.

Ten minutes and a wild chase later, the natural superiority of cats had been proven once again. The collateral damage caused by her justified reaction and the fruitless attempts of the dog to retaliate needed half a dozen Mending Charms to fix, but that didn’t matter.

“Isn’t answering a verbal comment with violence a sign of intellectual inferiority?” The dog asked afterwards as he was checking if his nose had healed.

“I would gladly respond verbally if I thought it would do any good,” she responded as she checked her hair for any traces of dog drool.

“Really? I’m wondering if I should hex both of you,” Jeanne said. She was looking slightly peeved as she twirled her wand between her fingers in a flashy move Hermione had once seen a French duellist do in a magazine.

“We were just…” The dog shrugged. “Fooling around?”

“Making a fool out of yourself, I’d say.”

Hermione nodded - Jeanne had the right of it.

“I mean you as well,” her friend added.

Hermione frowned. “I was merely defending myself.” Or her right to a peaceful, uninterrupted breakfast. Close enough, in any case.

Jeanne sighed. “I guess as animagi, you can’t help acting like this from time to time.”

Hermione pursed her lips. She was in complete control of her spirit animal’s instincts. It wasn’t a real animal, anyway. That some of her habits were shared by cats was merely a coincidence - it wasn’t as if she had ever eaten a mouse!

“Love, we’re just horsing around,” Sirius said, hugging Jeanne. “That’s part of why you love me!”

“A small part,” Jeanne said, but she was smiling in that sentimental way couples often did.

Hermione wasn’t jealous. With her revenge finally starting, she had no time for a boyfriend anyway. “As long as he behaves on a heist and in the Wizengamot, we’re fine,” she said. “Of course, there’s still room for improvement in both cases,” she added - she hadn’t forgotten how annoying he had been while she had dealt with Borgin’s wards.

“The effort would be wasted on the Wizengamot,” Sirius said, scoffing. “Malfoy has his allies locked down and the Minister paid off. We’ve stopped his proposals, so far, but his position remains unassailable - as long as he has gold to spend.”

She knew where that was heading. “His manor also has the strongest wards,” she said. “Not to mention any other defences he may have.” Unlike his son, Lucius Malfoy was arrogant, but no fool. He would have done what he could to protect himself while spying on Voldemort, and she doubted that he had significantly scaled back his defences since the Dark Lord’s defeat.

“That’s why we should hit him next. Before he can reinforce his manor even more,” Sirius said. “Without him, his faction will collapse while his so-called friends fight each other.”

“I don’t think there’s much he can do that he hasn’t done already,” Hermione said. “And tackling the other families first will net us more resources as well as more experience. Experience we all need,” she added. Especially with Mr Fletcher unable and unwilling to take the lead in their heists.

Sirius, still with his arms wrapped around Jeanne, nodded, if slightly reluctantly. “I’m just impatient.”

“I know,” she said, grinning. “But revenge is a dish best served cold, too.”

“My family certainly would agree,” he said, chuckling. “They might even be proud that I’m following their example in that, at least.”

Hermione nodded. The Blacks had more than earned their reputation, but they had known how to take revenge. And so did she.

She wanted to save Malfoy for last. She wanted him to see his friends get ruined and spend his days and nights anxiously wondering when it would be his turn to get robbed, until she finally broke into Malfoy Manor and ruined him.

She had spent years waiting for her revenge and had no intention of cutting it short. Malfoy would pay for what he had done to her. With compound interest.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, September 28th, 1998

“...and in light of his full confession and his cooperation with the prosecution, which led to the arrest of his accomplices, it is my opinion that this body should be lenient when choosing Mr Borgin’s sentence,” Dawlish said in his pompous way, addressing the Wizengamot. “Therefore, I ask for him to be incarcerated for two years in Azkaban.”

“Two years?” Harry Potter muttered under his breath, sitting in the audience section of the chamber. “For a pile of dark artefacts that filled half a room?”

“It wasn’t exactly half a room,” Bathilda, who sat on his right side, whispered. “And John wanted to ask for six years, but…”

“But all the honourable members of the Wizengamot who dealt with him and don’t want him to rat them out put pressure on Dawlish,” Ron, sitting on Harry’s left side, finished her sentence.

She frowned at him. “If they wanted to pass a light sentence they could just do that,” she said. “There’s no need to meddle with the Corps!”

“It would look bad if the prosecution asked for six years and then the Wizengamot sentenced him to two years,” Harry said. “Especially if there’s no doubt about his guilt. People might get the idea that the rumours about his dealings with Old Families weren’t quite baseless. Didn’t Dawlish say anything about that?”

Bathilda pressed her lips together and shook her head. “No, he didn’t.”

Harry felt a little bad for destroying her illusions - this was her first case, after all, and she was rather proud of her part in it. So he added: “It’s not your fault. And not Dawlish’s either, I suppose. It’s how the system works.” So far, he added to himself.

“But it’s not right!”

“No, it isn’t,” Harry agreed.

Below them, Alfons Runcorn, the heir to the late, disgraced Philius Runcorn, rose to speak for Borgin. “Honoured members of the Wizengamot! The accused has made a full confession! Even the prosecution admits that - and that his cooperation led to the arrest of numerous accomplices. It is, therefore, obvious that he not only regrets his crimes but has also made every effort to remedy his mistakes. Two years seems far too severe a punishment for a confessed and repentant defendant. One also has to consider the fact that Mr Borgin was simply continuing his family’s tradition as he took over the shop from his father, and…”

Harry turned the man out - his words didn’t matter anyway; the sentence had already been agreed upon by the Wizengamot in advance. Informally, of course. Instead, he looked at Hermione, who was sitting behind Sirius. Borgin had been among those who had framed her and now he was getting off lightly. This travesty of justice had to hurt her.

He couldn’t tell from her expression, though - she certainly didn’t appear to be livid. She simply looked as serious as she usually did in the Wizengamot. In her place, he’d be clenching his teeth and fighting the urge to curse the accused.

Harry smiled as he thought to himself that she was a much more forgiving person than he was.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, September 28th, 1998

Hermione Granger was seething. Borgin had spent decades dealing in dark artefacts, supplying criminals without a care in the world so long as he made money. He had preyed on the poor and desperate, conning them out of their last remaining valuables. And now he was getting off lightly thanks to his dealings with certain Old Families!

She was only able to keep her composure and avoid showing any of her feelings thanks to the fact that the man was thoroughly ruined. He had lost his shop’s entire stock and all the gold kept there, and the fines he would have to pay would empty out his vault at Gringotts. And he would have to flee Britain after his stint in Azkaban - the denizens of Knockturn Alley took a very dim view of those who snitched on their partners and contacts.

His finances and reputation ruined, followed by exile, was enough of a punishment to satisfy her. Barely. But to see the Old Families, especially Malfoy and his cronies, manipulate the system once again to protect themselves, angered her. A lot.

“...and the accused Allan Borgin is sentenced to one year imprisonment and a fine of…”

She refrained from sneering at Borgin’s expression when the man heard how much he’d have to pay. Had he really expected an even lighter sentence? She briefly contemplated whether or not the man might reveal his dealings with the Old Families out of spite. She dismissed the possibility, though - Borgin would know that if he did that, he wouldn’t survive his imprisonment. He probably wouldn’t even live to see Azkaban, Hermione thought.

She glanced up at the audience. At Harry. Seeing him glare at Borgin as the man was led away lifted her spirits. He cared for her. Ron, too, was frowning. As was the female Auror - Meringworth, Harry had introduced her earlier - sitting on Harry’s other side. She was pretty, although no great beauty. Hufflepuff, a year older than herself. She meant well, too, or so Harry had told her. And she was sitting a little too close to Harry for Hermione’s comfort.

It would simplify things, Hermione told herself, if Harry started a relationship with another witch. She wouldn’t have to watch him watch her with that peculiar expression any more whenever he thought she wasn’t looking. She wouldn’t be tempted to start something with him and risk their friendship, either. Yes, having Harry fall for another witch would be a good thing.

And yet she loathed the thought.

She tore her eyes away from the three rookie Aurors and glanced at Malfoy. The wizard was leaning to the side, whispering to his son. Probably trying to teach Draco how to behave in the Wizengamot. Judging by the younger Malfoy’s expression it was an uphill battle. Draco didn’t seem to have learned how to hide his emotions and present a polite facade to everyone. Or perhaps he did not understand why he should have to.

She smiled, slightly. Anything that caused trouble for Malfoy was a good thing. The more he was occupied trying to mould his son into a wizard who wouldn’t ruin the family’s position as soon as he took over, the less time he could spend on politics.

“The chair recognises Mr Runcorn.”

Hermione frowned as Runcorn stood once again.

“Honoured members of the Wizengamot! With the sentence passed on Mr Borgin, there remains the question of what should be done with the items confiscated from his shop. While the DMLE’s policy is to destroy such item, I think that would be hasty in this case.”

“What?” a wizard yelled. Amos Diggory, Hermione noted. “They’re dark artefacts! They need to be destroyed!”

Runcorn frowned at the interruption. “Similar items inherited by some families have been deemed acceptable to own, provided certain precautions are taken. To simply destroy all the confiscated artefacts would be short-sighted in the extreme. Not only would we risk the loss of irreplaceable relics - part of our country’s history - but we would also miss out on the chance to put some of those items to a more beneficial use for Britain.”

“Use the Dark Arts for Britain?” Diggory sneered at Runcorn. “Will you next ask for the Aurors to use the Unforgivables?”

“Such was done in the last war,” Runcorn retorted. “Which was almost lost, I remind you.”

“The Unforgivables didn’t bring us victory; the Boy-Who-Lived did!”

The sound of a bell ringing cut off Runcorn’s reply. “Mr Runcorn will finish his proposal without further interruptions and then it will be answered and debated in a civilised manner!” Elphias Doge finally stepped in. Dumbledore’s successor lacked the Headmaster’s authority, Hermione knew. Malfoy’s meddling hadn’t helped, of course.

But Diggory fell silent, and Runcorn continued talking about how it would be hasty to simply destroy all the artefacts.

Hermione agreed with some of the arguments - it wasn’t as if the definition of ‘dark artefact’ was particularly clear. Most often, politics influenced the classification of a spell, as much or even more than it influenced the Ministry’s classification of a magical species.

But in this case, Hermione had taken pains to leave only unquestionably dark artefacts for the DMLE to confiscate. She had saved most of the books, too, so there shouldn’t be any doubt that the items should be destroyed.

But this was the Wizengamot. She saw that Malfoy was raising his wand to signal his desire to speak and suppressed a sigh. He would be supporting Runcorn just to make Sirius spend more political capital.

She looked around the chamber and noticed that Michael Smith, Eleanor Smith’s heir, was present for a change. And paying rapt attention, it seemed. Certainly more than Draco Malfoy.

The Smiths hadn’t been among Borgin’s customers, at least as far as she could tell from his books. But seeing Michael there, she made a mental note to go over the books again, before she listened to Diggory’s vehement, if not overly eloquent, plea to destroy the entire lot of confiscated items.

Sirius leaned to her side. “It’s not going to be enough,” he whispered, despite the privacy charm protecting them.

“Why not?”

“Most of the families have similar items stashed in their vaults. They don’t want a ruling that might be used against them one day.”

“You can’t let them auction the items off!” she hissed.

“I won’t,” he said, grinning. “I’ll let the Unspeakables sort it out. Their vaults hold far more dangerous things - and they are unlikely to part with anything once they have it.”

That sounded like an acceptable compromise, Hermione thought. And it also sounded as if she should look into just how good the protections on those vaults were.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, September 30th, 1998

If there was one thing Harry Potter hated about his work as an Auror, it was the way his shifts changed from day to day. Today wasn’t the first time he and Ron were returning to work eight hours after they had left, and he wouldn’t put it past his superiors to make them pull a double shift either. At least they weren’t scheduled to patrol straight away, though a few hours of paperwork until dinner wasn’t much better.

It certainly made trying to stay awake much harder, Harry thought as he reached into his enchanted pocket and pulled out a Pepper-Up Potion.

“Is that a good idea?” Ron, sitting across from him, behind his own desk, asked.

Harry knew what his friend meant - the potion’s effect would end during their patrol after dinner. He shrugged. “I’ll take another one if I have to.” Walking through Knockturn Alley tended to keep him awake anyway. Especially knowing that someone was willing to pay thugs to attack him. And that Selwyn’s murderer still hadn’t been found.

Ron shook his head. “Hermione won’t let you forget it if you can’t fall asleep until tomorrow morning.”

Harry snorted. “She won’t get up early enough to notice.”

“That’s true,” Ron agreed. “She wasn’t that bad in first year, was she?”

Harry blinked, then focused on his memories. “No, she wasn’t. She usually got up earlier than us. Unless she stayed up too late reading,” he added with a grin, remembering how she had looked on those mornings, trying to act as if nothing was wrong.

“Or explored the castle with us at night.” Ron grinned. “We were a terrible trio, weren’t we?”

Harry nodded. And now they weren’t any more. He and Ron were Aurors, and Hermione was Sirius’s secretary. He sighed.

“What’s wrong?”

Harry sighed again. “Just wondering how things would have turned out if Malfoy hadn’t framed her.”

Ron shrugged. “Worrying about what might have been won’t do you any good.”

Harry scoffed. “I’m not worried. I’m just wondering.” Whether Hermione was interested in him as a boyfriend or not - she hadn’t said anything yet.

Ron nodded but didn’t push him. “Did you hear anything new about the Markdotter case?”

Harry snorted; Ron and himself were the only ones using the official name. Everyone else was calling it the ‘Potter case’. “No. But I’ve got an appointment with Scrimgeour before dinner; maybe he’s got news for us.” The investigating Aurors certainly hadn’t told them anything.

*****​

“I’m sorry to say that according to Auror Macmillan’s latest report, she doesn’t see any way to find out whoever hired Markdotter and his gang.” Scrimgeour sounded honestly regretful as he spread his hands in apparent apology. “The use of Polyjuice Potion renders Markdotter’s cooperation pointless.”

Harry Potter nodded. Truth to be told, he hadn’t expected anything else.

“There’s a slight possibility that an extensive analysis of Markdotter’s memories of the encounter might provide us with more clues,” Scrimgeour went on, “but we lack the facilities for such an investigation.”

Harry nodded. He had expected this as well. He shook his head slowly. “I can ask my godfather if he would let the Department use his Pensieve, but he isn’t terribly fond of the DMLE.”

“Understandable after his experiences,” Scrimgeour said, “even though neither Bones nor myself were in a position of authority at the time of his arrest.”

But they had been in positions of authority during Sirius’s incarceration. Harry nodded anyway. “Can I talk to Marksdotter? A personal impression might help me convince my godfather.”

“I’m sorry, but as you are directly affected by the case, regulations forbid your involvement.” Scrimgeour’s regretful expression didn’t change. “It would threaten our case against him if you talked to him.”

“Too bad.” Harry looked at his watch. “Was there anything else?”

“No.” Scrimgeour shook his head, his long hair sliding over his shoulders. “I simply wanted to inform you of the results of Macmillan’s investigation. Unofficially, of course.”

“Of course. Thank you, sir.” Harry smiled as he stood.

Ron was waiting for him outside the Head Auror’s office. “So?” he asked as soon as they were out of earshot and protected by a privacy charm.

“As expected - they consider the Markdotter case closed, but tried to use it to get us to give them the Pensieve,” Harry replied with a snort.

“Typical.” Ron shook his head. “And what about our plan?”

“We’ll have to wait until Markdotter’s been tried and in Azkaban.” There wasn’t any regulation prohibiting them from visiting a prisoner once the case was closed, after all. And they had a few questions for the thug. “Did you see Shacklebolt?”

Ron shook his head. “No. But I talked to Tonks. She said there wasn’t any news in that case either. Shacklebolt’s still putting together a possible timeline for the killer’s tour of Europe.”

Harry sighed. “Sirius and Jeanne won’t be impressed.” And neither would Hermione.

“I think that’s why Tonks told me - so she doesn’t have to tell Sirius,” Ron said. He was grinning, though.

Harry sighed. “I guess I’ll have to do it, then?”

“You’re Sirius’s heir. I’m just the house guest.” Ron chuckled. “Or we can send a letter, and have Hermione deliver the news.”

Harry snorted. “Sirius and Jeanne won’t be angry at us for the Corps’s lack of success. But Hermione would certainly be angry at us for saddling her with telling them.”

He was tempted to do it anyway - that might make her try harder again in the next Defence lesson.

“By the way, Bathilda wanted to know whether we wanted to eat dinner with the rest of the rookies on duty today,” Ron said.

“Oh?” Harry looked at him. “I’m OK with it unless they want to eat in the Cauldron.”

“No danger of that. They ate there last week.” Ron laughed, then lowered his voice. “They wrapped up Skeeter’s case. You’ll love it.”

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, September 30th, 1998

Harry Potter wasn’t surprised that Sirius was still awake when he and Ron returned home. But he was surprised to hear from Kreacher that his godfather was still working in his study - he wasn’t aware of any current proposal in the Wizengamot that would require such effort.

But, as Harry found out for himself when he entered the study, Sirius was sitting behind his desk, which was covered with parchment and paper. “Harry! You’re back already?”

He nodded at the clock on the wall. “Shift ended as planned.”

“Ah, right.”

Harry looked around. “Where’s Hermione?”

“Visiting her parents. She’s staying over, too.” Sirius grinned. “Missing her?”

“Just wondering why you’re still working,” Harry said. Usually, Hermione had to force Sirius to work late.

“Jeanne’s in France. One of her friends called her for a surprise party.” Sirius pouted. “Witches only.”

“Ah.” Harry nodded and sat down on a conjured seat.

“How was work?” Sirius asked.

“Paperwork and patrolling,” he answered. “The only fight was with a particularly stupid form.”

Sirius chuckled. “That’s the Ministry for you, Harry.”

“Stupid and bloated?” Harry asked.

“And runs on paperwork.” Sirius gestured at his desk. “As does the Wizengamot.”

“Isn’t the Wizengamot part of the Ministry?”

“No. Technically, the Ministry is subordinate to the Wizengamot.” His godfather snorted. “In practice, both are run by the Old Families, so it doesn’t matter.” He leaned back in his seat. “So, no news is good news?”

“Been reading your magazines again?” Harry shrugged. “There’s no lead on whoever hired the thugs to ambush me and Ron.” He sighed. “And there’s no news about the murder of Jeanne’s dad.”

“Typical for the DMLE,” Sirius said, scowling. “Useless drones. Present people excluded, of course. And the Weasleys, too.”

Harry nodded. “Scrimgeour once again hinted that the Pensieve could help solve those cases.”

“And did he also hint at how that’s supposed to work?”

“By examining the thugs’ memories,” Harry said.

Sirius snorted again. “Really? And then have every suspect use Polyjuice Potion, too, and compare them?”

“He didn’t go into details,” Harry said.

“Of course not!” Sirius sneered. “Bloody idiot!”

Harry shrugged. “He’s been subtle so far. Not really pushy.”

“That’ll come soon enough,” Sirius retorted. “Mark my words! He won’t accept being denied this.”

Harry shrugged. “We’ll see.” He didn’t think Scrimgeour would want to antagonise Sirius too much. Or himself. He looked at Hermione’s desk. Of all the days this week for her to visit her parents, she had to pick today. Tomorrow he had the graveyard shift again and Hermione would be with Sirius in the Wizengamot during the day. Barely any time to talk to each other, and no time at all for a Defence lesson.

“You do miss her!” Sirius smiled widely.

Harry rolled his eyes at his godfather. That wasn’t helpful at all, even though it was true.

Sirius sighed, though he kept smiling. “She likes you too, Harry. Trust me.”

“She doesn’t really show it.” Well, she did show it, unless he had completely misread her. But she hadn’t said anything.

“She’s still affected by her break-up with Paul,” Sirius said. “Give her some time and she’ll come around.” He smiled.

“Alright.” Harry nodded. It figured that stupid Paul the Ex-Boyfriend was still messing up his relationship with Hermione. He was tempted to go and give the guy a piece of his mind, but Hermione wouldn’t like that. She would accuse him of poking into her private life.

He sighed. He just wanted to help her.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, October 2nd, 1998

“She knowingly published rumours and hearsay, carefully crafted into a libellous article designed to scare the general population, without any consideration for the consequences of her actions so long as it sold newspapers. She claims that she couldn’t have known that her article would lead to a riot, but that’s a purely self-serving assertion. Miss Skeeter has been one of Britain’s pre-eminent journalists for decades; she covered the Ministry’s policies, the Wizengamot’s business, sports and society extensively.

“Further, she lived through the first Blood War and its aftermath, when she saw first-hand how British wizards and witches were so relieved that they even endangered the Statute of Secrecy with their celebrations. And, as we have proven, she was well aware of how her ‘dear readers’ often overreacted to her ‘mere speculation’ thanks to dozens of letters written to the editor in the wake of her past articles.

“No, honoured members of the Wizengamot, Miss Skeeter was aware of the danger she would create with her article, but she didn’t care. And this riot not only caused great damage and loss of life but also almost led to war between the goblins and Britain. For such callous disregard of wizarding lives, I ask for her to be incarcerated for two years in Azkaban!”

Scrimgeour tossed his head back, his long hair swinging as he pointed at the cowering defendant.

Hermione Granger scowled at Skeeter, though inwardly she was smiling. Skeeter was finally getting her just desserts. That witch had done so much harm to so many, always skirting the line between speculation and libel, but never crossing it. That now she would be sentenced to Azkaban because the public was crying for blood and the Ministry needed a scapegoat was, in Hermione’s opinion, delightfully ironic.

Alexander Avery rose to speak in the witch’s defence. Hermione wondered what hold Skeeter had over the man for him to go against the majority of the chamber. “Honoured members of the Wizengamot! The prosecution kept mentioning the riot - the damage done to the heart of Britain’s trade and artisanry, the lives lost, the many wounded. Even the spectre of another Goblin Rebellion was raised, all to better condemn Miss Skeeter as the sole reason for this tragic event. He paints a picture of her as a witch who knows Wizarding Britain better than anyone else, just so that he can lay the blame for the death and destruction caused by the riot at her feet.

“However, as we have also heard, several people caught in the riot were the victims of spells. Someone compelled them to incite their fellow wizards and witches to violence. And that was what, ultimately, caused a gathering of scared and concerned witches and wizards to turn into a riot. Miss Skeeter couldn’t have anticipated that, even were she such an expert as the prosecution wrongly claims. Therefore I ask the Wizengamot to acquit her.”

Hermione scoffed. If the Wizengamot were to acquit Skeeter, then the Ministry would have to explain why they couldn’t produce the real culprit. And they wouldn’t like that. They might sentence Skeeter to less than two years, but the odious woman would go to Azkaban. But more importantly, Skeeter was ruined as a journalist. The Prophet had already fired her and no other publication would hire her under these circumstances.

The only thing Hermione regretted was that she hadn’t played a part in Skeeter’s downfall. Though at least breaking into the witch’s home while she was in prison wouldn’t be much of a challenge.

*****​

Harry wasn’t as pleased about Skeeter’s trial as she and Sirius were, Hermione Granger found out shortly after the witch had been sentenced to one year in Azkaban and to pay for part of the damage done to Diagon Alley. Her friend was scowling openly when they met outside the Wizengamot Chamber.

“What a farce!” Harry declared right away, shaking his head. “It’s pretty clear that someone helped the riot along, and yet they blame Skeeter for it.”

“Do you really think she’s innocent?” Hermione asked.

“No. But I don’t think that we had enough evidence.” Harry scoffed. “It was all politics. That’s why Scrimgeour took over the prosecution. I talked to the Auror in charge of the investigation. Nominally in charge, of course - there wasn’t much of an investigation.”

“Well, Scrimgeour made a pretty convincing case that Skeeter should have known that a riot was possible,” Hermione said.

“I’m not denying that,” Harry said, looking around before continuing, despite them being protected by a privacy charm. “But there was so much political pressure, no one even tried to look for any evidence of Skeeter being innocent. It was a done deal from the start. That’s not how an investigation is supposed to be done.” He shook his head. “Just another reason why the Ministry needs to be reformed. The law shouldn’t be bent like that.”

Hermione forced herself to nod and agree with him.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 5th, 1998

Harry Potter was on top of Hermione. She was writhing underneath him. He could feel her body pressing into his, her legs sliding over his, her hips bucking as she grunted, her arm wrapped around his neck… he managed to tuck his chin against his chest and tense his neck muscles to keep her from strangling him. “Give up!” he grunted, panting. “I’ve got you.”

“Not a chance!” she spat. He felt her tense as her legs wrapped around his waist, squeezing his body - but she wasn’t strong enough to do much harm with that move. And he had her wand arm in his grip and was wrestling her other arm down. It had taken him more effort than he had expected, but she was beaten.

But then she pushed up her head and bit him on his ear.

*****​

“I still can’t believe that you actually bit me!” Harry Potter said twenty minutes later, as both of them were sitting on the mended bench that he had used as an improvised projectile earlier.

“Well, what did you expect?” she answered as she cast cleaning charms on herself. “You had a grip on both my arms and I couldn’t use my legs.”

“Still…you bit me. Like an animal.” He shook his head.

She glared at him. “Who said that I had to use all the means at my disposal? Wasn’t that you?”

“Well, I was more thinking about headbutts,” Harry admitted.

She sniffed and tossed her mane back before gathering it in her usual ponytail with a flick of her wand. “You broke my nose with a headbutt and you’re complaining about a little bite?”

“I think you drew blood, actually,” he said, touching his earlobe.

“No, I didn’t.” She bared her teeth at him. “I would have tasted that.”

“I think I’ll wear a cross next time,” he joked. “Just to check if you’re a vampire.”

To his surprise, she didn’t laugh but stiffened for a moment. “If I were a vampire, I would have gone for the jugular.”

“Good thing you aren’t, then,” he said. “But it was a surprising move, I’ll grant you that. Although you still lost.”

She pouted at him, which was a cuter expression on her than he had expected. “Maybe I should scratch you, too.” She flashed her teeth at him again.

He chuckled. “You’d try, you mean.”

That caused another pout. Which, in turn, caused him to shift his weight a little and cross his legs. Merlin’s beard, she was looking hot.

For a moment, she smiled rather slyly at him - had she noticed how he had to adjust how he was sitting? - but then she frowned and stood. “Well, I still lost. I guess we need to continue these lessons.”

“Definitely.” He nodded, smiling even though he felt frustrated. She still hadn’t said anything. But the way she looked at him… until she closed up like this.

If he ever had an excuse to curse Paul…

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 6th, 1998

Hermione Granger lifted her left arm and smiled at the bracelet on her wrist. One more Knut, gold-plated and shrunk, dangled from the golden chain. This one was special, though - it was taken from Borgin. The first heist of her revenge.

“New jewellery?”

She looked to the door, where Sirius was standing, leaning against the frame in a pose she was sure he had copied from a Playboy ad.

“Just another trophy,” she said, flicking the miniature coin with her finger. “Borgin.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “One coin per heist?”

“Yes.” She shook her hand and let the coins jingle.

“You might run out of space.”

“I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “My list isn’t that long.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Greengrass, Parkinson, Davis, Bulstrode and, of course, Malfoy. Umbridge and Dawlish, too. And some unrelated Old Families, so there’s no obvious pattern.” She grinned at him. “Do you have anyone particular in mind who’d deserve losing their gold?”

He grinned back. “Oh, yes. Far too many.” He stepped inside and looked at the wall, where she had stuck the plans for the next target. “I’m relieved.”

“What do you mean?” She frowned at the dog.

“I was half-afraid that you were planning to break into the Department of Mysteries.” He flashed his teeth at her.

She scowled. “I was merely making sure that their vaults are secure enough to store dark artefacts.” As much as she hated to admit it, she wasn’t ready to breach the Unspeakables’ defences. Not yet.

“So who’s our next target?” He pointed at the map. “I’m not familiar with this manor, and you didn’t label it.”

Of course she hadn’t! Mr Fletcher had taught her better than that!

“Bulstrode.”

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, October 4th, 1998

“Sunday shift. Again,” Ron complained from behind his desk.

Harry Potter snorted. “Did you expect anything else? Be glad it isn’t the graveyard shift.”

Ron sighed. “That just means that we have the early Monday shift.”

Harry rolled his eyes at his friend. “What are you complaining about? Luna’s still stuck at Hogwarts, and by the time she’s taken her N.E.W.T.s, we’ll no longer be rookies.” He should be the one to complain - his and Hermione’s schedules were barely lining up with each other any more. Not that she had made any moves, anyway. He sighed.

“Well, at least some of the other rookies are on duty as well,” Ron said, “so we’re not suffering alone.”

“I think I’d prefer it if Nott had another shift,” Harry complained. “Stupid git is ruining our breaks.”

“You could ask Bathilda to stop inviting him along,” Ron suggested.

Harry chuckled. Their colleague seemed determined to make everyone get along with each other. It was endearing, but hopeless, of course. Not that that would stop her from trying her best. “She’s a Hufflepuff,” he said.

“Yeah.” Ron sighed. “So we’ll be facing another meal with Nott.”

“Unless we manage to convince Bathilda to give muggle fish and chips a try.”

“That’s an idea,” Ron said, grinning. “Nott would never come along. Do you think that we can pull that off without her suspecting our true motive?”

“Hm.” Harry mulled this over. Bathilda was more perceptive than one would think at first glance. On the other hand, she had a tendency to see the best in people - otherwise, she’d certainly have stopped bothering with Nott. “We’ll have to be subtle, I think. Probably plant the seeds today, but not push for it.”

“That means another meal with Nott. I swear the git could ruin Mum’s cooking with his mere presence!”

Harry laughed. “Yeah, he probably could.”

Ron started to expand the thought further when the Auror offices’ alert charms went off.

Then an amplified voice - Dawlish - filled the offices and Harry felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

“Everyone, prepare to deploy at once! Someone’s attacking Gringotts with Fiendfyre!”

*****​

 

Chapter 39: Outmanoeuvred

London, Ministry of Magic, October 4th, 1998

Nye Rees had just arrived at work and was in the process of checking his mail when he heard the alarm charms in Hit-Wizard headquarters go off. He froze for a second. A general alert? The last time that had happened had been the riot. And the time before that had been the Dark Lord’s attack on the Ministry. He fought down the nausea that his memories of both events brought up and stood, joining his colleagues.

“What’s going on?” he heard Mulberry yell from behind him as Nye and the rest of the Hit-Wizards on duty rallied in the entrance area.

Selwyn, the Head Hit-Wizard, glared at Mulberry but answered his question anyway. “Someone’s attacking Gringotts with Fiendfyre. The Aurors can’t handle it and so we’re being called in.”

Nye snorted. Bloody Red Robes couldn’t handle anything more dangerous than a third-year student drunk on Firewhisky.

“So we have to save the pricks again?” Mulberry said what everyone in the room was thinking.

“Yeah,” Selwyn sneered. “While the Aurors will contain the fires and the goblins, our mission is to deal with the attacker. Or attackers. And help out where needed - Scrimgeour is in command. Again.”

“Stunners only?” Mulberry was on a roll today.

Selwyn scoffed. “With Fiendfyre involved? If you see anyone pointing a wand at you, kill ’em.”

Rye wasn’t the only one who nodded in agreement. That had been the worst part of the riot - seeing your comrades get cursed without being able to retaliate in kind. He hadn’t joined the Hit-Wizards to coddle his enemies! Poor Hubert had been savaged… He blinked. Rye couldn’t see him among the gathered Hit-Wizards.

“Has anyone seen Hubert?” he asked. “Today’s his first day back after the riot.”

“Lucky sod,” Mulberry said.

“Shut up, Mulberry.” Apparently, Selwyn had gotten fed up with the comments. The Head Hit-Wizard looked at Rye. “You two are assigned to Azkaban guard duty, right?”

Rye nodded. Relatively light duty after Hubert had spent two weeks in St Mungo’s and at home.

“Alright. Find him, then go to Azkaban and send the ready force back. We’ll need them.”

“I’m also assigned to Azkaban,” Mulberry cut in.

“Not any more,” Selwyn said. “We need everyone we can spare in Diagon Alley. Everyone, follow me! We’ll split into squads in the Cauldron.” He turned and strode towards the exit.

“We should just take over the damn pub and turn it into our mess hall,” Mulberry muttered as he passed Rye with the rest of the group.

Rye took a deep breath, relief flooding him as he watched the others file out. He wouldn’t have to face Fiendfyre. Or goblins. Or dark wizards. But his comrades would. He clenched his teeth. He hadn’t asked to be spared; Selwyn had ordered it. And only because Hubert couldn’t be trusted to keep his nerve in another battle so soon after getting cursed in the riot.

It wasn’t Rye’s fault.

He still felt ashamed. But also relieved.

But where was Hubert? He should have arrived already - their shift had started five minutes ago. Maybe he should call him… but the Floo Network would be strained already by the deployment and the evacuations. Rye clenched his teeth. If he didn’t get the reserves at Azkaban moving quickly, Selwyn would probably assign him to Azkaban for the whole of the next year. Or worse. The prison wasn’t as bad as it had been when the Dementors had guarded it - Rye shuddered at the memories of his first year as a Hit-Wizard - but it was still a cold, wet rock in the middle of the sea. Maybe he should go on alone…

“Where’s everyone?”

Rye whirled around. Hubert stood there, looking confused. “You’re late!” He shook his head. “Didn’t you hear? Fiendfyre attack on Gringotts. Everyone’s deploying.”

Hubert gasped, and Rye felt both satisfied as well as ashamed again. “Fiendfyre?” Was the man trembling?

Rye held up a hand. “Don’t worry - we’re still going to Azkaban. But we need to hurry; the others need everyone who can be spared from the prison.” Hubert looked so relieved, Rye knew that the man hadn’t fully recovered yet. “Let’s go!” Rye said, heading towards the closest Floo connection.

A minute later, they arrived at Azkaban, ducking their heads and using their cowls to keep their faces from getting splashed as they walked through the Thief’s Downfall installed there.

“You’re bloody late!” Smith, the Hit-Wizard in charge of the shift, snarled at them, causing Hubert to stumble and fall.

Rye met the angry Hit-Wizard’s glare with a scoff. “Haven’t you heard? Fiendfyre attack on Gringotts. Selwyn wants the ready force and everyone else you can spare at the Cauldron. Yesterday!”

Smith hissed. “Merlin’s balls!” He hesitated for a moment, then started to yell orders at the others present. It didn’t take long for the guards to leave - but that was normal for Azkaban; everyone wanted to leave as soon as possible. He shook his head and turned towards Hubert, who was still bent over, staring at the floor and clutching his stomach. He hadn’t even pulled his cowl back. “Are you alright?” The man shouldn’t be back at work, Rye thought. He wasn’t fit for duty yet.

“I’m perfectly fine.”

Rye blinked. That wasn’t Hubert’s voice! The Thief’s Downfall! He started to draw his wand, but the other wizard was already casting.

“Avada Kedavra!”

*****​

London, Diagon Alley, October 4th, 1998

“Bloody hell!” “Merlin’s balls!” “Shite!”

Harry Potter wasn’t the only one to curse when he and the other Aurors on their brooms rose above the roofs near the Cauldron and saw what was happening at Gringotts: Green cursed flames were approaching the massive building from two sides, the neighbouring buildings already half-consumed by the Fiendfyre. The few Aurors on duty in the Alley were trying to keep the fire at bay, but Harry could tell at a glance that they weren’t achieving much - two were trying to use the Water-Making Spell, even though that wouldn’t do anything against Fiendfyre! At least someone had started to conjure walls to contain the fire, but they hadn’t managed to match the height of the flames with their spells.

“Potter, Weasley - help Shacklebolt stop the fire on the south!” Dawlish barked. “Everyone else, with me!” The Auror was already diving on his broom as he shouted the last words.

Harry pulled off a Wronski Feint and was levelling his broom out - barely scraping the pavement with the tips of his boots - before Dawlish was past the roofs. Ron wasn’t far behind and caught up with Harry as he jumped off his broom next to two struggling Aurors who he didn’t know yet. “Where’s Shacklebolt?” he shouted over the roar of the fire.

“What?”

“He’s coming.” Ron pointed behind them. The older Auror was just landing. He should have known that Shacklebolt wouldn’t have been on duty in the Alley, Harry realised.

Shacklebolt shook his head as he dismounted next to them. “Be more careful,” he said - using a selective privacy charm that dimmed the noise outside, Harry noticed. “You can’t help anyone if you break your neck; this isn’t a Quidditch pitch.” Before Harry could protest that he hadn’t been in any danger, the other wizard started giving orders: “Simmons, Brocktuckle, focus on the left side. And create higher walls. Potter, Weasley - right and middle. We need walls as high as the rooftop, at least, and as thick as you can manage. I’ll start conjuring sand to smother it.”

It would take a lot of sand to smother Fiendfyre, Harry knew, but there was no time to discuss it - the wall in front of them was starting to crumble. He pointed his wand at it and conjured a thicker wall, barely finishing before the Fiendfyre burned completely through the previous wall. Even so, he felt the heat on his face and took a step back.

“Merlin’s balls,” he heard Ron curse next to him. “I didn’t think it’d be this bad.”

Harry could already see some spots on the wall he had just finished creating starting to grow dark - the heat must be even worse than he had imagined. “I just hope Moody’s found the dark wizard who cast this,” he yelled. He didn’t fancy trying to contain Fiendfyre while a dark wizard was trying to kill him. But they couldn’t stop, either - even if they escaped the flames, the Fiendfyre would hit Gringotts. And that would lead to war. The dark wizard probably wanted that, Harry thought. First the riot and, when that didn’t work, the Fiendfyre.

He cast another wall to reinforce his first, taking another step back. Ron did likewise. “Doesn’t look like the sand is working,” his friend yelled.

“It’ll take a little time,” Shacklebolt answered, sounding remarkably calm considering that they were caught between Fiendfyre and the goblins.

“We might not have the time,” Harry spat as he conjured his third wall. If the dark wizard eluded Moody… he blinked. Why hadn’t the Auror patrols who had first arrived on scene been attacked? If the dark wizard wanted the Fiendfyre to reach Gringotts, that would have been the logical tactic - ambush the Aurors as they arrive. Or cast the Fiendfyre directly at Gringotts, though their wards would likely make that more difficult than first feeding the cursed flames a few buildings to let them grow stronger.

But they had done neither. That made no sense, unless… “It’s a diversion!” he yelled. “It’s a bloody diversion!”

“Focus on containing the fire, Potter!” Shacklebolt yelled back, “Or we burn!”

The other Auror was right, Harry knew as he conjured yet another wall and resisted the urge to go above Shacklebolt’s head and use his enchanted badge to alert Scrimgeour.

But that didn’t mean Harry was wrong.

*****​

Four more walls later, the Fiendfyre hadn’t grown weaker at all - quite the contrary, in fact - and they were starting to run out of space to retreat. And each time a wall started to crumble, the heat got worse - Harry’s face felt as if he had taken a sunbath in the desert. Simmons’s hair had even caught fire.

“We can’t keep this up,” Ron said. He had taken over for Simmons and Brocktuckle - they hadn’t been able to keep up.

“We can’t let the fire reach Gringotts,” Shacklebolt snapped. “Keep casting!”

“I don’t think we can stop it. Your sand isn’t working,” Harry spat.

“We just need to hold until the Unspeakables arrive!” Shacklebolt yelled back. He didn’t sound as calm any more as he had been at the start.

Harry had to conjure another wall before he could answer. “They better hurry!” He glanced behind him - he had about two yards left.

“Here they come!” Shacklebolt shouted.

Harry looked up. High above them, a single Unspeakable, their face hidden by their cowl, was flying on a broom - and holding a box in their left hand. They flicked their wand, and suddenly, it was raining dozens of boxes. Maybe hundreds. When the first hit the cursed flames, it blew up and white foam burst forth, covering the fire.

A few minutes later, the Fiendfyre had been weakened enough to seal it up with conjured stone. Harry did his best to turn the area into a single massive, solid rock.

A weak cheer went up from the exhausted Aurors and Hit-Wizards. But Harry didn’t feel like cheering himself. He was certain that this had been a diversion. Where was Moody? He would understand.

The scarred Auror’s loud voice filling the entire Alley answered his question. “Everyone who can still hold a wand, rally at the Ministry! We’ve got a mass breakout in progress at Azkaban!”

*****​

North Sea, Azkaban, October 4th, 1998

Azkaban was unplottable and covered with Muggle-Repelling Charms. In addition to that, it was also surrounded by a perpetual rainstorm, which would appear as a squall to muggle meteorologists, occasionally augmented by fog.

Harry Potter had learned that when studying for the Auror entrance exam. He had also seen pictures. But neither had prepared him to fly through said storm. A storm that also served to hide the new defences which had been added to the island to compensate for the loss of the Dementors. Wards which prevented any attempt to leave the island - and any unauthorised approach to the prison.

He reached up to his chest to check that he was still wearing the amulet that would - or so he had been told - allow him to pass through the defences. He and Ron had chosen theirs randomly from the stock of amulets, to prevent anyone from sabotaging them, but if a saboteur had tampered with all of them…

Ron floated closer to him, his broom easily countering the stiff breeze that was blowing into their faces. “Looks nasty,” he said.

“Yes.” Harry licked his lips. He didn’t like waiting. The longer they were delayed, the more time the inmates had to break out - or prepare ambushes. But they had to wait for the rest of the Aurors and Hit-Wizards - those who were forced to use the Department brooms. If this were on land they could have used a Portkey, but Harry didn’t think too many of his colleagues would fare well using a Portkey while on a broom.

“Nasty?” Harry looked up, ignoring the raindrops that hit his face. His glasses were charmed to keep themselves clean. Moody was floating above them, his scarred face twisted into a sneer. “That little cloud is nothing compared to facing the Dark Lord’s worst.” He pointed ahead. “They’re in there, preparing to break out. Rookwood’s a former Unspeakable; he’ll be working on the wards. But, so far, they’re holding.”

“Shouldn’t we rush in, then?” Ron asked. They had been sent to scout ahead, thanks to having the fastest brooms in the detachment.

Moody shook his head. “We need more wands. Remember: When we go in, I want both of you with me. We’ll have to take out the Death Eaters while the rest of the Corps deals with the regular prisoners.”

“Just the three of us, right?” Harry repeated the quick briefing they had received.

“I’d grab Shacklebolt and Tonks, if they weren’t needed to lead the curse-fodder.” Moody chuckled without any sign of humour. “Besides, I know how you two fight. I haven’t trained as much as I should’ve with them lately.”

That made sense. But it meant that they would be outnumbered as they faced the likes of the Lestranges and Rookwood. They would be weak and out of practice from spending over a decade in prison, Harry told himself. Even though he knew that it hadn’t taken Sirius that long to regain his skills in Defence. And who knew what kind of twisted magic Rookwood had learned as an Unspeakable.

“There’s the rest of the force,” Ron said, pointing behind them.

Harry glanced back over his shoulder. He could see red and grey figures growing in size as the rest of the Aurors and Hit-Wizards, those who had been still fit to fight after dealing with the Fiendfyre attack, approached on their brooms. Dawlish was in the lead, Harry saw as they closed in, with Bathilda right behind him. She looked tired and more than a little nervous, but determined at the same time. There was no sign of Smith or Nott, nor of the other rookies.

As soon as the Aurors and Hit-Wizards were in range, Moody’s amplified voice rang out over the sea, easily overcoming the noise from the storm in front of them. “Dawlish, Shacklebolt, Tonks - you know the plan. Grab your groups, and head in! Selwyn!” He addressed the leader of the Hit-Wizards, an older wizard with greying hair and a trimmed beard. “Cover them and nail anyone who gets past them.” Moody turned his broom around without waiting for an answer. “Potter, Weasley - with me!”

Harry and Ron flew up to Moody as the rest of the force split up and started to vanish into the storm cloud.

“Looks like the amulets are working,” Moody grunted. “Stay behind me!” With that, he shot forward himself.

Harry and Ron followed him. Straight into the storm.

Harry had flown in storms before - he had played an entire Quidditch match in a rainstorm, once, braving the freezing rain for two hours and thirteen minutes before he caught the Snitch - but this was far worse. Water was blasted at him as if there were a hose hidden in the clouds and if not for his Shield Charm, he’d have been thrown straight off his broom. And even with the shield, he had to struggle to keep to his course as the winds tried to buffet him back and forth. Between the rain and the clouds, visibility disappeared in seconds. Without his enchanted glasses he wouldn’t have been able to keep track of Moody or Ron as he forced his broom to stay on course, clenching his teeth so hard he feared they’d crack.

Lightning crackled far too close for comfort, followed by thunder even louder than the roaring storm. Harry drew a hissing breath and hoped that the amulet kept working - this wasn’t natural lightning, but a magical barrier against escape.

He caught glimpses of the other Aurors below him - most of them seemed to be being pushed around by the wind as if they were toy kites caught in a gale - but he couldn’t spare them more than a thought. It was difficult enough to stay in formation with Moody and Ron when there was so much water hitting his shield that he had trouble telling the sky from the sea. If he got lost and flew straight into the waves…

And then the rain and wind suddenly stopped, as if someone had thrown a switch, and he shot through the calm but still cloudy sky above Azkaban, looking down at the prison. And at the dozen prisoners on brooms floating above the dark walls in a circle. Waiting for the Aurors, Harry realised, as one of them suddenly pointed at him.

“Keep ’em busy until the rest of the Corps arrives!” Moody yelled and bent forward, diving towards the flying prisoners just as they were starting to focus on them.

Harry followed suit, rolling to present a harder target as he lined up his first curse. A red spell flashed past him, and he saw the prisoners were abandoning what formation they had managed as they tried to move out of his way.

It didn’t help them. Harry banked to the left without adjusting his angle of descent, weaving through the hastily and sloppily cast curses sent at him and hit one prisoner with a Reductor Curse.

The wizard’s chest exploded, one arm blown clear, but Harry was already past, racing towards the jagged stone walls below. He drew a hissing breath through clenched teeth as he pulled left and up, narrowly missing the stone walls, then rolled and weaved again as more curses flew at him from the ground. He sent a Blasting Curse back that covered the area with dust as it blew up part of the wall, but his focus was on the prisoners on brooms. If they were left alone, they could slaughter the other Aurors as they exited the storm piecemeal and disoriented.

Ron pulled up next to him before they split apart again to attack three flying prisoners in a pincer movement. One of the prisoners spotted them, and tried to escape by diving towards the ground. The other two turned to face them, but they were slow and cast too early - their curses went wide and it was obvious that they hadn’t flown in some time; much less cast while flying. Harry clipped the one on the left with a Cutting Curse that sliced into the man’s shoulder and most of his upper wand arm, then followed up with another that cut the prisoner’s broom in half. Ron simply blasted his target off her broom.

Harry whirled to chase the third and caught sight of him just as the fleeing prisoner crashed into the south wall of the prison then tumbled into the sea below, broom and bones broken.

A glance told Harry that Moody had dispatched three of the other prisoners. Two more were engaged with half a dozen Aurors and Hit-Wizards who had managed to break through the storm already. They didn’t last long. One was caught in a crossfire and fell to his death flailing and on fire, while the other was blown apart by Moody in passing as the old Auror flew towards Harry and Ron.

“Follow me!” he bellowed, “we’re going into the prison proper.”

Harry glanced at the prison yard and the walls, where at least two dozen prisoners were casting curses at the Aurors and Hit-Wizards lining up to attack. More were probably hiding inside.

Moody, as Harry should have expected, caught this. “Those are small fry. The Death Eaters aren’t there, and not on the island outside either. We’ll have to dig them out!” He turned, ignoring the curses cast at them - they were too high above the ground to get hit.

“Can you spot them?” Ron yelled.

“They warded the walls against that,” Moody yelled back. “Bloody fools!”

Then they were diving again, straight at the yard. A few barely aimed Blasting Curses sent the prisoners scattering to the walls - those not caught in the blasts. Moody, Harry and Ron set down in front of the main entrance, conjured walls shielding them from what few curses the surviving prisoners, under attack from the other Aurors, managed to send their way. One prisoner in the entrance, on the ground with what looked like a broken leg, threw his wand away and raised his hands. Moody stunned him, broke his arms, then blasted part of the wall away - and the prisoner who had been hiding behind it.

Harry quickly tapped his glasses - but the walls still blocked his sight.

“I saw his reflection in the lamp there,” Moody grunted as he led them through the wrecked door into the prison proper.

They reached the first cell floor - and the first dead guard. He hadn’t died easily, Harry noted.

“There’s no use hiding!” Moody bellowed.

“I’m not hiding,” someone yelled back. “I’m staying in my cell. I’m not escaping!”

“Step into the hall!”

“No! I’m not escaping! I’m not escaping!”

“Bloody hell!” Moody cursed. “He’ll alert everyone else. Stun ’im!” he ordered, then turned to the stairs leading further down.

Harry found the prisoner in his cell, pressed into a corner. “I’m not escaping! I’m not…” he managed to yell before Harry’s Stunner shut him up. Two broken arms ensured he wouldn’t reconsider his decision.

“There was no one else in the other cells,” Ron told him as they left the area.

“Hurry up!” they heard Moody. “I know they’re planning something nasty!”

They rushed through the next floor, disabling another prisoner who had been hiding in her cell, then stopped before the stairs leading down to the floor for those sentenced to life imprisonment. The bodies of another dead guard and four dead prisoners were strewn around the top of the stairs.

“Hold it!” Moody held up his left hand. “It’s a trap. Fall back - I’ll trigger it.”

Harry cursed under his breath and took a few steps back, ducking behind a wall Ron had conjured. He used his glasses to see through it and watched as Moody conjured a few dogs, then took cover himself before sending them ahead.

The dogs had barely reached the stairs when the corpses pounced on them, ripping the howling animals to pieces with their bare hands.

“Inferi? How?” Ron blurted out.

“Rookwood,” Moody answered. “Former Unspeakable. That’s his work. And it won’t have been the only trap he’s laid to delay us while he works on the wards. Time to live up to your reputation, lads,” he added with a twisted grin as he got up and flicked his wand, cutting the first Inferi charging them in half with a Fire Whip.

Harry clenched his teeth and stood as well, cutting the legs off the next undead while Ron set it on fire. That stalled the remaining three long enough for Moody to destroy them with a single Blasting Curse.

“Good work,” the old Auror grunted, then led them down a narrow spiral staircase before stopping suddenly.

“Another trap?” Ron asked.

“No. There was a Thief’s Downfall here. Blasted apart. Just like the one at the entrance.” Moody snarled. “Why would...Bloody bastards!” He whirled around. “We need to get back up!”

“What?” Harry asked as the old Auror rushed past him, running far faster than he should be able to with a peg leg.

Moody ignored him and tapped his Auror badge. “Bolt! Tonks! Dawlish! The Death Eaters might be using Polyjuice Potion to hide amongst the other prisoners! Watch out!”

Harry didn’t hear the answer, if any was given. But when they reached the yard, Shacklebolt’s expression told him enough even before the Auror spoke.

“Four escaped. Surprised and overwhelmed half my group when they landed, took their necklaces and brooms and flew off. We gave chase, but lost them in the storm long enough for them to apparate.”

“Four? There were more Death Eaters than that!” Moody snarled. “Lock the entire island down; check everyone for Polyjuice Potion - Aurors and Hit-Wizards too. We’ll root the rest out! Potter, Weasley, Tonks - with me!”

Harry saw Shacklebolt grind his teeth as he turned to follow Moody back into the prison.

*****​

As it turned out, they didn’t have to root anyone out. The missing Death Eaters were already dead when they found them.

“What happened?” Ron asked, staring at the carnage in the guard’s room on the lowest level.

“Blood magic ritual,” Harry Potter answered, pointing at the runes forming a broken circle on the floor. He recognised them easily enough - sacrificial ones. “Looks like it failed,” he added, nodding at the corpse in the centre of the circle. It, and four more by the wall behind it, looked as if something had drained them of all liquid, in contrast to the three other corpses inside the circle which had had their throats cut.

“Aye,” Moody agreed. “That was Rookwood. Probably thought he could crack the wards that way. Guess Albus and Croaker were too smart for him. Wards must have sucked them dry.” He stepped forward, carefully not disturbing the circle, and cocked his head, staring at the other drained corpses. “Dolohov. Travers. Mulciber. Avery.” He turned around. “Which means the Lestranges escaped with whoever organised this breakout.”

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, October 4th, 1998

Hermione Granger didn’t know whether she should hug Harry and Ron once they were safely back from Azkaban, or hex them for making her worry so much. First rushing off to battle Fiendfyre and then volunteering to stop the breakout at Azkaban? What would be next? Charging Gringotts without a wand? Invading Magical Australia? Trying to get Quidditch banned in Britain?

She scoffed at her own thoughts. This was too serious to joke about, even in her head. Not even Sirius was making any of his off-colour jokes. Harry and Ron were fighting the most dangerous criminals in Britain - Death Eaters and other dark wizards imprisoned in Azkaban.

“Still no news?” Sirius was all but growling at the hapless Ministry employee who had been assigned to ‘keep the Wizengamot informed’.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the witch said. “The Ministry forces engaged the prisoners half an hour ago.”

“I bet the DMLE knows more but is trying to find a way to spin it so they can hide their incompetence!” Sirius turned away from the witch, shaking his head. “Useless!”

It wasn’t a nice thing to say - the poor witch seemed to be close to tears - but Hermione couldn’t disagree with the sentiment. The Ministry allowed a mass breakout to happen at Azkaban! How inept did you have to be to commit such a blunder?

“You aren’t the only one with family in the battle, Sirius.”

Hermione clenched her teeth for a second so she wouldn’t openly glare or sneer at Malfoy.

Sirius, however, didn’t restrain himself. “I know. But I’m more concerned about my family surviving this battle, than about my relatives escaping the prison.” He cocked his head sideways. “Or did dear Narcissa decide to acknowledge her niece again?”

“My wife and I have never claimed that Auror Tonks wasn’t related to us,” Malfoy retorted.

“Really? You did a very good job at making people think you had.” Sirius snorted. “But I guess when Tonks’s one of the few standing between you and your rabid sister-in-law, it’s easy to grow more tolerant of her origins, isn’t it?”

Malfoy sneered. “And I suppose that you might finally regret not sharing the secret of your own escape. Imagine if it turned out that the guards could have stopped the breakout, if only they had known what you did to escape!”

Hermione pressed her lips together at hearing that cheap shot - or threat. Sirius, though, scoffed. “I informed Albus about it, before the prison’s security was revised.”

“Hiding behind Dumbledore, who cannot confirm or deny any of your claims?” Malfoy shook his head.

Sirius spread his hands. “I wouldn’t be the only one, would I?”

Malfoy’s smile grew very thin, but before he could speak another lie, the fireplaces in the Atrium flashed again and, this time, two familiar figures stepped out of them. Harry and Ron! They looked tired but unhurt!

Hermione rushed towards them, barely managing not to yell their names as she dodged around some stupid Ministry employees who were too slow in getting out of her way, then pounced on Harry, wrapping her arms around him and pressing herself against him. He was alive. He wasn’t hurt. She could feel his breath on her neck, and his warmth against her body.

She didn’t let go for a long time.

*****​

“I see you finally managed to pry yourself away from your girlfriend, Potter,” Scrimgeour remarked as soon as they had entered his office.

Harry Potter swallowed the first retort that came to mind. Everyone was on edge after the morning’s double disaster and snapping at the Head Auror wouldn’t do anyone any good. “My friend,” he stressed, “was distraught. But we didn’t keep you waiting, did we?” he added, a little sharper than he had really wanted. He and Ron had still had to wait a few minutes after Scrimgeour had called for them.

“Don’t mind Rufus, lad,” Moody, who was leaning against the wall of Scrimgeour’s office, cut in. “He’s in a foul mood after today’s cock-up.”

The Head Auror glanced at Moody, his lips pressed together, before clearing his throat. “Cock-up, unfortunately, fits our situation very well.” He shook his head, his grey mane brushing his shoulders. “Several buildings destroyed by Fiendfyre, a dozen Aurors and Hit-Wizards killed in Azkaban and three of the worst Death Eaters escaped.”

“A dozen?” Ron asked, frowning. “Six were on shift when the breakout started, four were killed by the Death Eaters when they stole their necklaces…”

“Two died fighting the rabble in the courtyard before that,” Moody explained with a sneer. “Damn fools were chasing a prisoner as if it were a Quidditch match and flew into a crossfire. Standards have slipped even more than I feared.”

“Something I will certainly bring up with Bones and the Minister,” Scrimgeour said with a tight smile.

“They’re not going to be pleased,” Moody said.

“You were in command of the assault,” Scrimgeour retorted. “They’ll blame you as well.”

“Bones knows better than that, and Malfoy won’t let Fudge do anything stupid.” Moody grinned. “Dear Lucius will want me to hunt down his dear sister-in-law before she disembowels him and his family for betraying the Dark Lord.”

Scrimgeour snorted but didn’t disagree. “In any case, things could be worse. At least Rookwood, Dolohov, Travers, Mulciber and Avery didn’t escape.”

“The Unspeakables confirmed their deaths then? No Polyjuice Potion involved?” Moody asked.

Scrimgeour shook his head. “Croaker confirmed it personally.”

“Wonder why they didn’t join the Lestranges. They could have wiped out Shacklebolt’s entire group and taken their necklaces.” Moody’s expression turned this statement into a question as he stared at the Head Auror.

“Rookwood couldn’t leave the prison that way,” Scrimgeour said. “He was tied into the wards. Croaker’s work. With Dumbledore’s help.”

“So that’s why he tried to break them.” Moody nodded. “And why didn’t they do the same to the rest of them?”

“I asked him the same question,” the Head Auror replied with a sneer. “In his own words, ‘too expensive’.”

Moody scoffed. “More like too secret for the rest of us. If we had known that, we might not have rushed down to the lowest level.”

“That doesn’t explain why the others stayed with Rookwood, though,” Harry pointed out. “They could have gone with the Lestranges.”

“They might not have wanted to go with the Lestranges. Those three were crazy - even before Azkaban. Or Rookwood lied to them, to get them to stay with him.” Moody shrugged. “What matters is that they’re dead.”

“Indeed,” Scrimgeour said. “As are two dozen other prisoners.”

Moody shrugged again. “I wasn’t about to tell the lads to take any chances with those scum. We lost too many as it is.”

“It could have been worse,” Scrimgeour retorted. “It took a dozen Aurors to arrest Bellatrix Lestrange, back in 1981.”

“She’s probably gonna take a while to get back into shape,” Moody said. “Which gives us some time to prepare.”

“And at least the Wizengamot will, for once, not be split over this,” Scrimgeour added. “Both Malfoy and Black will want the Lestranges caught. And whoever managed to pull off this breakout.” He leaned back. “And Gringotts wasn’t touched. The goblins are making a lot of noise, but they don’t have a leg to stand on.” He nodded at Harry and Ron. “Good work there, and in Azkaban, Aurors Potter and Weasley.”

“Yeah, lads. You did well. Better than most of the others,” Moody added. “Which means you won’t be doing patrols any more. You’ll be hunting down the Lestranges with me.”

“The fastest promotion to special assignments in the history of the DMLE,” Scrimgeour added with a smile.

Harry smiled as well, but he couldn’t help wondering how Sirius and Hermione would take the news.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 4th, 1998

Apparently, ‘not very well’ was the answer to that question, Harry Potter thought a few hours later, after he and Ron had returned home.

“They have you hunting the Lestranges?” Hermione asked in that clipped tone she took when she was trying not to yell. She was sitting very stiffly in her favourite seat in the living room.

Sirius was less restrained as he paced on the Persian carpet. “What? Are they crazy? Bellatrix took down half a dozen Aurors by herself when she was arrested last time!” he bellowed. “What is Moody thinking? Or Scrimgeour? Bones? I’ll give them a piece of my mind!”

“They’re thinking that we’re the best they have,” Harry retorted. Who did they think he was, an idiot like Smith?

“And it’s not as if we’ll be alone,” Ron added. “They’ve folded the Selwyn murder case into this since it looks like it’s the work of the same Death Eater, so we’ll be working not just with Moody, but with Shacklebolt as well.”

Jeanne narrowed her eyes. “And how did they come to that conclusion?”

Harry cleared his throat. “Well, mostly because they don’t think that there are two Death Eaters left who have the skill to do this.”

“A slightly optimistic assumption, I think,” Hermione remarked.

“Tonks won’t be officially involved,” Harry went on, “seeing as she’s Bellatrix Lestrange’s niece, but we’ll be able to call upon her for her special talents.”

“She’s my cousin, and you’re my godson and heir!” Sirius objected.

“That relationship isn’t close enough to bar him from being on the case,” Hermione said. Harry smiled at her, but she frowned at him in return. “That doesn’t mean that I’m happy about this,” she told him. “Bellatrix, Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange are among the most dangerous Death Eaters known. And they are in the company of someone who was able to play the DMLE like a fiddle and orchestrate a mass breakout from Azkaban - a feat no one else managed. Not even Voldemort. They will certainly be ready to deal with any Aurors hunting them.”

“We know that,” Harry said. “But we’ll be with Moody. And you know he won’t underestimate anyone.”

“He couldn’t stop them today, could he?” Sirius scoffed as he sat down next to Jeanne.

Harry clenched his teeth and took a deep breath.

Ron blurted out: “That was because we thought Rookwood was the biggest threat.”

Harry glared at him. That was confidential information!

“Oh, stop that!” Sirius scoffed again. “You know as well as I do that they’ll come after us. We were responsible for Voldemort’s death - they won’t let that stand. Only dear Lucius might be higher on their list of enemies.” Harry’s godfather shook his head. “We need to know everything possible to keep ourselves safe.”

“We certainly can’t trust the DMLE to protect us, not with who they have left for guard duty, can we?” Hermione added.

“They’re right, mate,” Ron told him.

Harry drew a deep breath through his teeth. They were asking him to break regulations, if not the law. But they were right. He closed his eyes and sighed. “Alright. Here’s what we know…”

*****​

“...and then we were assigned to Moody’s task force.”

Hermione Granger checked her notes when Harry finished his report. She didn’t seem to have missed anything important. But there were a few points that needed elaboration. “They tied Rookwood into the wards?”

“The Unspeakables did. Apparently, it’s too costly to do it for every prisoner,” Harry said.

“Or the Unspeakables don’t want to bother with it for normal prisoners,” Ron added.

“Bellatrix is anything but normal,” Sirius said, baring his teeth. “She’s a bloodthirsty maniac. She, her husband, her brother-in-law and Barty Crouch’s son were the worst of Voldemort’s followers. And the most fanatical.”

“I don’t think that the Unspeakables care about that. They simply wanted to ensure that Rookwood couldn’t spill their secrets,” Ron replied.

“They could have killed him in that case,” Hermione said. She didn’t think that the Unspeakables had many scruples when dealing with such ‘problems’.

“According to Moody, that was how it was done in the past,” Harry said. “But Dumbledore intervened in his case.”

Sirius scoffed. “Wouldn’t have been the first suspicious death in Azkaban. Crouch Jr died in prison - shortly after a visit from his dear old dad.”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now, I think.” Though she would still have to figure out how to deal with such a ward scheme. Just in case. “What matters is how we react to this new threat.”

“We need more security,” Harry said. “More training. Better wards. And you need to be more cautious. Much more cautious.”

“We already stepped up our security in response to the murder of Jeanne’s father,” she pointed out. “And we can’t really improve the wards. Not efficiently, in any case.” She saw him frown and elaborated: “Improving wards as old as ours is very difficult. They have grown very powerful over the centuries, and even though modern ward layouts are much more efficient and effective, they would need to be in place for a significant period of time before they were as powerful as the old wards.” And, she added silently to herself, even more time to equal the power of the now illegal spells forming the core of the old wards. “Adding new spells to the ward scheme is very difficult and dangerous, and also of limited use.” Harry was staring at her, and she pursed her lips. “I studied the matter after Jeanne’s father was murdered.” And for years before that, of course.

“Ah.” He nodded. “We need to improve our security in other ways, then. Alerts for the DMLE. Traps to stall intruders. Escape routes. And more Defence training,” he added with a glance at her.

Hermione was tempted to tell him that there already were escape routes and traps to stall intruders. But then she’d have to explain why he hadn’t been told about them. They would have to add even more security. And hide the measures taken to keep the DMLE from arresting them, should they raid the house.

And she had thought that Harry focusing even more on her Defence training would be the most annoying consequence of this mess!

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 5th, 1998

Hermione Granger didn’t know any more whether Harry and Ron’s jobs as Aurors were more hindrance than help for her revenge plans. On the one hand, hiding her - and Sirius and Jeanne’s - secret from them was a nuisance. On the other hand, she was certain that if they didn’t have their duties as Aurors, they would have stayed home today, to serve as protection.

But if he weren’t an Auror, she could tell Harry about her real life. And she wouldn’t have to spend even more time playing the useless-at-Defence witch now that the Lestranges were on the loose.

She sighed as she entered the secret room in the basement. Mr Fletcher was sitting in his usual seat already. “Good morning,” she said.

“Morning,” came the terse reply. Judging by the way his prosthetic foot was whipping up and down and he was twirling his wand, her tutor was agitated. “The Ministry made quite a mess.”

She nodded. “They had to respond to the attack on Gringotts, though.”

He scoffed. “They should have kept more guards at Azkaban, instead of at the Ministry.”

She managed not to chuckle, despite the irony of a thief arguing for more prison guards. This wasn’t a joking matter. So she nodded again.

“What’s Black doing to increase your security?” he asked.

She grimaced. “He’s letting Kreacher recreate some of the traps the elf had made to protect the house in the past. We’ll get two more escape tunnels. In addition to that, he’s chasing down some enchanted statuary to provide us with expendable guards. And, finally, we’ll stay at home more often.”

“Which will make the next heist more difficult to plan and pull off.”

She sighed. “Yes. But that can’t be helped.” Her normal cover stories for any absences would worry Harry too much.

He shrugged. “It’s not our worst problem.”

The door to the basement opened just as she asked: “What is our worst problem?”

“Black,” her tutor said with a barely-hidden sneer.

“Fletcher.” Sirius sniffed.

“Good morning, Mr Fletcher.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and exchanged a long-suffering glance with Jeanne. Then she repeated her question.

Mr Fletcher stopped his staring contest with the dog and addressed her. “The Bulstrodes are close friends of the Malfoys; they’ll be increasing their security even more.”

Sirius, of course, had to retort. “They’ve increased their security already, after…” he trailed off and glanced at Jeanne.

“But now the DMLE’s paying even more attention. One murderer, no matter how clever, wasn’t as bad as the Lestranges.” Mr Fletcher shook his head. “The Ministry will have a veritable army ready to respond to any alert.”

Which would ruin the day of any thief who triggered an alert, Hermione knew. She shrugged, though. “They would have increased their security after the first successful heist against an Old Family’s manor anyway; this is just accelerating the timeline a little. And they can’t react to every alert with their entire force - the Death Eaters will count on that.”

“But the Aurors and Hit-Wizards will be far more on edge. Hunting a thief is one thing, but hunting the Lestranges?” Mr Fletcher shook his head. “They’ll curse first, and ask no questions afterwards.”

She frowned. “Do you propose we put the heist’s preparations on hold?” She really didn’t want to do that. On the other hand, she also really wanted those Death Eaters dealt with before they hurt Harry. Or anyone else.

“It would be prudent,” Jeanne said. “But staying behind wards doing nothing while Harry, Ron and Tonks risk their lives?”

Hermione nodded in agreement. She wouldn’t be able to suffer that.

“What can we do?” Mr Fletcher said. “Things haven’t really changed; we still wouldn’t do much good meddling with the investigation. Or the hunt. Unless you’re willing to play bait,” he added with a glance at Sirius.

Hermione thought that Sirius would like to play bait. But after a glance at Jeanne, he shook his head. “I shared a floor in Azkaban with Bellatrix and the others. They’re crazy. And with Voldemort gone for good, they might even sacrifice their lives to get us.”

“With the right plan…” Hermione began.

The dog cut her off. “No, it’s too much of a risk. They’re crazy, not stupid. We’d have to offer them a real chance to get at us to lure them into a trap - they know how safe Grimmauld Place is.” He leaned back in his seat. “But we have to do something,” Sirius said. “Or I will go crazy.”

Hermione thought that Mr Fletcher muttered ‘crazier’, but wasn’t sure. But Sirius was correct. They had to do something. “Well, we can use the fact that the DMLE will be focusing on the Lestranges for the foreseeable future to make a number of preparations. And hit a target of opportunity.”

“Which target?” Mr Fletcher asked.

“Skeeter’s home.”

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, October 5th, 1998

“Oh, look at them - they’re part of Investigations now!”

Harry Potter refrained from rolling his eyes before turning to face Nott, who had just entered the break room. He had expected that kind of comment. “Special assignment, actually,” he said. “Hunting the Lestranges.” Nott didn’t matter much, but the looks some of the older Aurors had given him and Ron today...

“Ah. That’s only fair, then, I guess - after all, you let them escape in the first place,” Nott said, “didn’t you?”

Before Harry could find the right words to put the idiot in his place without using a curse, Bathilda appeared in the doorway behind Nott. “Merlin’s balls! Theo!” She grabbed his shoulder and pushed him into the room while closing the door. “The Death Eaters killed eight of us and you act like a jealous git?”

“You weren’t there,” Ron added. “You were puking your guts out in Diagon Alley while we were risking our lives.”

Nott blinked.

“Grow up, Theo!” Bathilda snapped at him. “If John had heard you, you’d be guarding Azkaban for the rest of your career!”

“And if Moody had heard him, he’d spend a week in St Mungo’s,” Harry said. “Training accident.”

Nott glared at all of them, then left the room without saying anything.

Bathilda sighed. “Sorry about him. He’s just…” She shook her head.

“...just a worse git than Draco Malfoy?” Ron asked with a grin that only grew wider when she glared at him.

Sighing again, she sat down at their table. “I don’t know what he was thinking.”

“He probably thought that everyone shared his opinion of us getting a promotion;” Ron said, filling her cup.

“Technically, it’s not a promotion. Just a temporary assignment,” Harry corrected him.

“You’ve been spending too much time with Hermione,” his friend shot back.

Harry ignored that remark. “But, either way, I don’t think everyone’s happy for us.”

Bathilda bit her lower lip - like Hermione did, when she wasn’t certain how to say something, Harry remembered - then sighed. “Well, I’ve heard some talk. But mostly from people who weren’t there.”

“Ah.” Harry had expected that. He shrugged. “Nothing we can do about that.”

“They shouldn’t talk like that!” Bathilda said. “They weren’t there.” She shook her head. “They don’t know what they’re talking about! The fighting, the deaths...”

She looked like she would’ve been happier if she didn’t know either, Harry thought. He nodded slowly. “Are you alright?”

She pressed her lips together before answering with a fake smile. “I’m fine.”

Ron rolled his eyes at her. “Did you talk to Dawlish about it?”

She hesitated a moment before answering. “No. I don’t… I don’t want him to think that I can’t handle it. He trusts me.”

Harry could understand that.

“He trusts you to tell him when you have trouble.” Apparently, Ron had a different opinion of Dawlish.

Bathilda drew a shuddering breath, then looked at both of them. “How can you stand it? The riot, the fire, Azkaban…” She shook her head.

Harry almost quipped that Moody’s training was worse. “We’ve gone through worse,” he said instead.

“And we talked to others when we needed to,” Ron added.

Bathilda inclined her head and took a sip of her tea. She frowned and reheated it with a flick of her wand, then took another sip before looking around. “It’s usually packed around this time of day,” she said.

Harry sighed. “Too many are busy, or still recovering.” Or dead.

And some were avoiding him and Ron.

*****​

Carlisle, Cumbria, Britain, October 6th, 1998

For Wizarding Britain’s most famous - or infamous - journalist, Skeeter had lived a rather frugal life, Hermione Granger thought as she looked around in the small flat in Carlisle. Weak wards - breaking in hadn’t been a challenge at all, as expected - cheap furniture, lots of parchment and old newspapers cluttering up the flat… She frowned. Something was off.

“Trouble?” Sirius asked from where he was checking Skeeter’s desk.

“Something feels off,” Hermione said. “This doesn’t look like I imagined Skeeter’s apartment.”

He shrugged. “She spent more on appearance than on her home, then.”

Hermione shook her head. “It’s not just that.” She looked at the walls, where instead of pictures, newspaper articles had been framed and hung. Old ones - Skeeter’s debuts and greatest scandals, as far as she could tell. That kind of decor she had expected; Skeeter had a very big ego.

But it didn’t match the rest of the flat. On a whim, she aimed her wand at the closest article. “Finite!”

The article vanished - with its frame.

“It was a copy!” Sirius exclaimed. He flicked his wand, and more articles disappeared. And a chair.

“This flat is a decoy,” Hermione said. “I should have realised that when we found no books.”

It seemed that cleaning out Skeeter wouldn’t be as easy as she had thought.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 6th, 1998

Harry Potter rubbed his shoulder as he walked towards the living room. Hermione had been rather aggressive in today’s Defence training, and he had had the brilliant - or not so brilliant, as it turned out - idea to use the opportunity to practise his own skill at evading curses. Technically, it wasn’t evading as much as spoiling the opponent’s aim through movement, but no one called it that. Other than Hermione, of course. And probably Percy.

And while he had done well at evading, jumping around like a Puffskein which had fallen into a cauldron full of Pepper-Up Potion, as Sirius once called it, had caused a few bruises - which had left some lingering pain even after he had healed himself.

Hermione had fared worse, though she hadn’t complained. Not much, at least. Although she had insisted on focusing on spells, not wrestling. Granted, that was a smart decision - he didn’t think the Lestranges would resort to melee combat - but he couldn’t help worrying whether it meant something else. Not that he would ask, of course. He’d let her take the first step.

He entered the living room and froze for a moment when he saw Sirius and Jeanne looking at him. They were smiling, but they also looked a little nervous, or so he thought. Before he could ask what had happened - they hadn’t acted like this at dinner, though now that he thought about it, Jeanne had been acting a little off, too, then - Sirius spoke up.

“Harry! We’ve got great news! Jeanne’s pregnant!”

*****​

 

Chapter 40: Groundwork

The Weald, Kent, Britain, October 6th, 1998

“Waiting? Waiting? No! We need to strike while the blood traitors are still reeling from their defeats!”

Rabastan Lestrange closed his eyes as Bellatrix went off on another tirade. His sister-in-law was a great duellist and a terror on the battlefield, but her understanding of strategy and, albeit not to the same degree, tactics was somewhat lacking.

The years in Azkaban hadn’t been kind to her voice, he added to himself, as she continued in a rather hoarse tone. “That was how we forced the Ministry to the brink of defeat last time! By relentlessly pushing and attacking! Not by letting them rest and recover!” Bellatrix drew a shuddering breath as she looked around, daring anyone to disagree with her.

Rabastan would have - he hadn’t forgotten whose reckless plan had led to their arrest so many years ago - but he knew better than to challenge her. He wasn’t her equal, as much as it grated to admit it. And his brother followed her blindly. Fortunately, Rabastan thought as he glanced at the fourth person in the living room of this small cottage, he wasn’t alone.

Barty shook his head. “That was when the Dark Lord was with us and our numbers rose with each victory.”

Rabastan clenched his teeth at the reminder that their Lord was truly dead. His hopes had soared when Barty, thought dead for so long, had appeared in front of their cells and led them to freedom. But then…

Bellatrix glared at Barty. “We only have your word that he is dead!” she spat, but Rabastan could see that she was wavering. “You weren’t at his side when he fell!”

That, of course, set Barty off. The wizard jumped out of his seat and faced Bellatrix. “I would have been at his side, but the Dark Lord himself ordered me not to follow him when he went off to conquer the Ministry, but to prepare for the worst!” he snarled. “He trusted me with his life! I was the one he told the secret of his immortality! I was the one who helped him regain a fitting body!” He shuddered and wiped his eyes. “And I was the one who tried a dozen times to resurrect him. In France! In Germany! In Poland! I tried everything, every ritual I could think of - but his soul anchors are gone! Gone!”

Bellatrix shook her head wildly, but other than a low, guttural wailing, she made no sound as she cried. The sight of the proud witch wailing made Barty back down - he sat again.

“Betrayed twice by those he trusted,” Rabastan’s brother spat as he wrapped his arms around his wife. “First by denying him after his defeat, and then by luring him into a trap and cursing him in the back!”

“They will pay! All of them!” Bellatrix screeched, pushing Rodolphus away, and for a moment, Rabastan feared she would destroy part of the house, like before. His sister-in-law managed to control herself, though.

“They will,” Barty said, “but we will have to prepare carefully to bring them to justice. We cannot act recklessly or all will be lost.” He took a deep breath. “You are still weakened by your ordeal.”

Rabastan nodded. As good as it felt to hold a wand again, and to wear decent robes, he knew that he was far from being ready for another battle. The effects of spending more than ten years rotting in prison didn’t disappear with a hearty meal and a dozen cleaning charms.

Barty looked at everyone, then continued: “The Ministry’s forces are stretched thin. With careful planning, we can force them to react as we want them to, and strike at exposed locations. Just as I did when I freed you,” he added. “Following the riot, another threat to Gringotts forced the Ministry’s hand. They had to draw away most of Azkaban’s guards to prevent a war with the Goblins.”

Rabastan had heard it before, but it would be rude to interrupt. Barty had gone to great lengths to rescue them, after all. “If only the others would have followed us, instead of trusting Rookwood,” he said.

Barty shrugged. “They made their choice, and they chose poorly.”

Rabastan didn’t point out that they might not have been able to capture enough necklaces for everyone if all of them had followed Barty’s plan. It didn’t matter now, anyway.

“Why didn’t you attack Gringotts?” Bellatrix demanded to know. “The traitors wouldn’t have been able to send reinforcements to Azkaban if they had to battle the goblins in Diagon Alley!”

“The guards stationed in Azkaban don’t normally wear necklaces which allow them to pass through the wards. For that, we needed to capture reinforcements who arrived by broom,” Barty retorted. “I had thoroughly interrogated the Hit-Wizard I impersonated.” He grinned. “Besides, we might want to start the war at a later date, when we are ready to fully exploit such an opportunity. The traitors will pay for their crimes! The Dark Lord’s death will be avenged a hundredfold!”

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 6th, 1998

Jeanne was pregnant. With Sirius’s child. His godfather was going to be a father.

Harry Potter wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He was happy, of course. Sirius and Jeanne deserved this. Especially Sirius. After a decade in Azkaban, he was due such happiness. Harry’s godfather had done so much for him, and for Hermione, only a cad wouldn’t be happy for him.

But Harry couldn’t help worrying how his relationship to his godfather would change, now that Sirius would have a child of his own blood. A real son or daughter. Harry knew very well how it felt to be the not-quite-as-much loved child in a family. The orphan taken in out of duty, next to one’s own flesh and blood…

He sighed and lay down on his bed, closing his eyes. Sirius wasn’t like Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon. He wouldn’t ignore Harry just because he had a child of his own. And Harry wouldn’t be left with cheap gifts while the baby received the expensive ones. He snorted - not that there would be a competition anyway. Harry was an adult now, working as an Auror. And Sirius’s child wasn’t even born yet.

A baby… He sighed again. A baby demanded a lot of attention. Harry had known that ever since their neighbours, the Smiths from number two, had had a baby ten years ago. They weren’t able to sleep through the night, they had to remodel the entire house so it was safe for the baby, they had to feed the little tyke at odd hours with special meals… Sirius would be very busy with his baby, and between that, Jeanne and his work - his important work to reform Britain, Harry reminded himself - Harry’s godfather wouldn’t have much time left to spend with Harry.

It wouldn’t be as bad as the Dursleys, but it would still sting. But there wasn’t anything Harry could do. Or should do. Sirius deserved this and the baby would need the attention, and hadn’t done anything wrong.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. “Harry? May I come in?”

Sirius! “Of course,” Harry answered, sitting up.

His godfather entered, then closed the door behind him. He was taking a little longer to do so than usual, Harry noticed. And he seemed nervous.

“So…” Sirius began, then trailed off.

Harry nodded. After a moment, he said: “So.”

Sirius chuckled. “Alright. There’s something I think we should discuss. Talk about.”

“Yes?” Harry tried not to sound as nervous as he felt.

Sirius sat down at Harry’s desk. “You know that you’re my heir, right?”

Harry nodded. “You’ve mentioned that before. Until you’ve got a child of your own.”

Sirius cleared his throat. “Yes. That’s the thing. That’s what we need to talk about.”

Harry frowned. “What’s there to talk about? Once you have a child of your own, they’ll be your heir by law.” Provided they were legitimate, of course.

“Well, that’s the law, yes.” Sirius’s smile looked rather forced. “But there are ways around that.”

“What?”

“I could adopt you. Adopted children have the same legal status as other children. And if I adopt you before the baby’s born, there’s no question at all who’ll be the firstborn, and heir.”

Harry blinked. “Why would you do that?”

Sirius drew a deep breath. “Well, it feels as if we’re robbing you of your birthright. You’ve been my heir for years, and now, suddenly, you aren’t any more. Or won’t be, once the tyke is born.”

Harry shook his head. Was that what Sirius was worried about? “But I’m a Potter, not a Black. I couldn’t inherit your name, not without abandoning my own.”

“But you’d inherit my gold. A lot of it, at least.”

Harry bit back his first retort. “Did I ever care about gold? Other than when Hermione needed help, I mean.”

“No,” Sirius admitted, “but you always had gold, too.”

“I’m not going to be suddenly poor, am I?”

Sirius shook his head. “No, of course not. But you’ll lose your status as the Black heir.”

“So?” Harry shrugged. “It’s not as if I wanted to become a member of the Wizengamot.”

“Well, since you were awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class, you have the right to attend anyway,” Sirius pointed out. “And you won’t be potentially the richest bachelor in Britain any more.”

Harry scoffed. The witch he wanted didn’t care about gold at all. “It’s better this way, actually. You’ll have an heir to carry on the Black name.” And he wouldn’t have to decide whether he’d abandon his parents’ legacy - after they died for him - or the family of the only one who had truly cared for him since his parents’ deaths.

“If you’re certain…” Sirius trailed off, and, for a moment, he looked very vulnerable.

Harry nodded. “You’ll always be like a father to me, anyway.”

That made Sirius smile. Genuinely. He started sniffling, too, and Harry hugged him so he wouldn’t have to see Sirius cry.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 7th, 1998

“One good thing about our new assignment: No more graveyard shifts!”

Hermione Granger waved as Harry and Ron disappeared through the fireplace, then sighed. She wouldn’t call that a good thing - it made preparing her next heist quite a bit more difficult. And Harry being around much more often also meant they’d be training more often. Which was a problem of its own, on more than one level.

She sighed, then glanced at Sirius and Jeanne, frowning slightly when the expected comment about missing Harry wasn’t made. “Mr Fletcher should have arrived already,” she said after a moment.

Sirius grumbled, which was expected, but he nodded, and they went downstairs.

Mr Fletcher was already sitting at the planning table, sipping from a cup of tea courtesy of Kreacher and whipping his prosthetic foot up and down. “Quite a mess,” he said instead of a greeting.

“The Ministry certainly didn’t cover itself in glory,” Sirius commented as he pulled out a seat for Jeanne before sitting down himself. Jeanne rolled her eyes, Hermione noticed.

“To be honest, they didn’t show too much competence,” she said, “but their hand was forced by the attack on Gringotts.”

“They overreacted,” Fletcher replied. “Shouldn’t have pulled the reserve from Azkaban.” He shrugged. “And now we’ve got not just one, but four, highly dangerous Death Eaters at large.”

Sirius shrugged. “Our unknown criminal might not have done themselves a favour by freeing the Lestranges. They’re dangerously unstable. I should know - I spent far too much time just two doors down from their cells.” He shook his head. “And with Voldemort dead, they’ll fly off the handle. They’ll probably get themselves killed attacking the Ministry or Malfoy Manor.”

“Or your home,” Fletcher said. “I trust your cousin won’t be able to enter.”

Sirius glared at him. “Of course not! I dealt with that before I let Harry stay here!”

“She would still have considerable knowledge of the house’s layout and defences,” Hermione pointed out. “And we have to assume that the Lestranges are in the company of the murderer of Jeanne’s father - someone who has proven twice now that they can infiltrate heavily warded locations.”

“It takes a little more to get through our wards than to sneak into Azkaban or the Ministry,” Sirius retorted. “And we’re already adding more defences.” Kreacher had been happy and tired this morning, Hermione recalled. “But, more importantly, this unknown Death Eater is obviously very good at breaking into places. The first murder could have been an inside job. But this? Using Fiendfyre as a distraction, then sneaking into Azkaban and killing all guards there… There can’t be that many wizards in Britain who could accomplish that.” He was staring at Fletcher.

Hermione’s tutor scowled. “I’ve been asking around. No one knows of anyone who could have pulled off this. They must be a new face.”

“Or a Death Eater veteran who went to ground after 1981,” Sirius said. “Or a foreign mercenary.” He shrugged. “Too many possibilities. We have to focus on what we can do to protect ourselves. And our families.”

“My parents will have to take a trip again,” Hermione said, biting her lower lip. She should have arranged that after Jeanne’s father had been murdered.

“I’ll cover it,” Sirius said. He looked at Jeanne. “And your family…”

“They have already taken appropriate measures after my father’s death,” she answered. “But I will urge them to be even more cautious and vigilant.”

Hermione didn’t know if Jeanne was talking about her family in France or the Selwyns, or both. She didn’t ask - it wasn’t her business.

“I’ve got no family, and no one knows I’m with you,” Mr Fletcher said. His tone didn’t invite any questions.

After a moment, Hermione cleared her throat. “I think that’s settled then. Let’s talk about Bulstrode Manor.”

“Not yet,” Sirius said. “Jeanne’s pregnant.”

“Ah.” Mr Fletcher tensed, Hermione noticed.

“So?” Jeanne said, glaring at Sirius.

“An Old Family’s manor isn’t like the locations we’ve hit so far. The Bulstrodes aren’t as rich as the Malfoys or our own family, but they’ll have all manners of defences - rare dark curses, exotic poisons, guard creatures,” Sirius went on. “And, unlike vampires in hiding or paranoid dark witches, they’ll have a lot more wands to bring to bear, even without the DMLE coming to help.”

“So?” Jeanne repeated herself and her glare seemed to intensify.

“I don’t think you should join us for this heist,” Sirius said.

“You’d rather have me wait at home while you take all the risks? And if you get killed, I should raise my child without their father?” Jeanne all but growled at her husband.

“Be reasonable!” Sirius replied - Hermione saw that he was clenching his teeth. “It’s not the same!”

“Mais oui! C'est la même chose!” Jeanne had switched to French now, a bad sign.

“If you die, our child dies as well!” Sirius retorted.

“Si tu meurs, mois, je ne veux pas vivre non plus!”

“I won’t die!”

“Mais tu pense que moi, je vais mourir?”

“I didn’t say that!”

“Tu mens! Hypocrite!”

This was very embarrassing and getting far too intimate. Hermione exchanged a glance with her tutor, who seemed as ill at ease as she felt. “Please…” she began, but Sirius and Jeanne ignored her.

“Just until the child is born!”

“Tu peux faire pareil!”

“No, I can’t! If our child is to have a better future, then Malfoy’s power needs to be broken!”

They were both standing, their noses almost touching now. Both had their wands drawn - unconsciously, Hermione hoped. She was holding her breath.

“Please…” Sirius’s whisper cut through the sudden silence. He looked like he wanted to cry.

Jeanne looked away, then lowered her head. She was crying. But she let Sirius hold her.

Hermione glanced at Mr Fletcher and they snuck out of the room. They could plan the Bulstrode heist later.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, October 7th, 1998

“There you are. Sit down,” Moody growled as soon as Harry Potter and Ron entered his office.

“Let’s sum up what yesterday’s mess taught us about our unknown dark wizard,” Moody went on before either of them had taken their seats. “What do we know about that scum?”

Harry cleared his throat before answering. Fortunately, he and Ron had given this some thought. “They used Fiendfyre as a diversion - and they had experience casting it. They placed it so we could stop it before it hit Gringotts, but only if we mobilised everyone we could spare.”

The old Auror nodded.

“They also have considerable experience with Polyjuice Potion and the Ministry’s counter-measures,” Ron added. “No one suspected a thing until the reserve had left Azkaban.”

“They interrogated the Hit-Wizard they impersonated. Killed him, too - messily,” Moody said. “Anything else?”

“They are very dangerous - they killed half a dozen Hit-Wizards in Azkaban,” Harry said.

“Right. Hit-Wizards aren’t the brightest, but they generally can fight.” Moody sneered. “Anything else?”

“They aren’t an expert Curse-Breaker,” Ron said. “Their plan relied on infiltrating Azkaban through the Floo connection. They didn’t even try to go through the wards.”

“Rookwood tried,” Harry pointed out.

“And died,” Moody retorted. “But the Lestranges didn’t stick around to wait for him - they went straight with the Polyjuice Potion. This wasn’t a thief, but a dark wizard.”

“A Death Eater,” Harry said. “But all of the skilled, dangerous ones are accounted for.” They had checked that already.

“Voldemort might have recruited a foreigner before he returned to Britain,” Ron said. “Maybe a houngan or a vampire.” The blood magic could point at either.

Moody snorted. “It would have to be a true believer to continue like this after Voldemort’s death. You’re not likely to find such a person among foreign mercenaries.” He shook his head. “Look at how the Azkaban job went down: Only the Lestranges followed them, none of the others - they stayed with Rookwood.”

“The Lestranges might have known our suspect and trusted them,” Ron said. “That would explain it.”

“The only friend the Lestranges had was Barty Crouch Jr - and he died ten years ago, in Azkaban.” Moody scoffed. “I heard Lestrange cried when she heard about that.”

Harry blinked. “Crouch Sr was one of the first victims of Voldemort, after his return.”

Moody nodded. “Indeed. There might be a connection there.” He grinned. “We’ll have to do some digging there. Literal digging.”

Harry blinked. “We’re going to exhume Crouch Jr?”

“Aye. I already informed Rufus and Bones. We’re good to go.”

*****​

North Sea, Azkaban, October 7th, 1998

Azkaban’s cemetery looked as bleak as the rest of the prison, Harry Potter thought as he looked around in the small, enclosed yard. Dozens of plain, grey tombstones, arranged in narrow rows - far too narrow for normal coffins, he noticed. He tapped his glasses and took a closer look at the latest rows, where the dead from the breakout had been buried not a day ago - it wasn’t as if many families wanted the bodies of the inmates to bury them in the family lot or crypt. There were spells on the ground. “Extension Charms?”

“Aye,” Moody answered.

“I would have thought they’d cremate the bodies,” Ron said, “to avoid someone creating Inferi.”

“That practice was stopped in 1742, after the guards tried to cover up the murder of a prisoner,” Moody replied as he walked through the rows.

Movement up on the wall south of them drew Harry’s attention and he aimed his wand before realising that it was a wizard repairing the damaged stonework. He still kept an eye on the man, of course. And on the Hit-Wizard on the other wall, who was staring at them.

“There aren’t many guards around,” Ron commented.

“There are fewer prisoners to guard,” Moody said.

And there were fewer Hit-Wizards available after their losses, Harry knew.

They stopped in front of an older tombstone. “Bartemius Crouch Junior,” Ron read aloud, “1962-1981.”

Barty had been - or was - two years younger than his parents and Sirius. They would have been together at Hogwarts for five years, Harry realised.

Moody reached into his robes and pulled out two shovels. “Start digging, lads.”

“We could just vanish the earth,” Ron protested.

“And contaminate the site?” Moody snorted. “Don’t worry; it’s a shallow grave.”

A shallow, but extended, grave, Harry discovered soon enough. And the earth was hard and packed tightly - it took them half an hour to reach the shabby coffin and another ten minutes to get it out.

“Do we open it here?” Ron asked.

Harry was about to cast a Bubble-Head Charm when Moody shook his head. “No. I’ll put a seal on it and we’ll let the Unspeakables open it.”

“How long will the examination take?” Ron asked.

“You never know with the Unspeakables,” Moody answered with a chuckle, “But with the Ministry and the entire Wizengamot pushing for results? I doubt that even the Unspeakables will drag their feet. Croaker will want to avoid getting blamed for any delays.”

Moody was right - they got the results before Harry and Ron’s shift was over.

The body in the coffin had been under the effects of Polyjuice Potion at the time of death. Which meant that Barty Crouch Jr hadn’t died in Azkaban.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 7th, 1998

Hermione Granger carefully studied the book on the stone table in front of her and moved her wand in an intricate pattern as she cast yet another detection spell. Still nothing. She bit her lower lip in frustration. She was certain that the tome was protected against unauthorised readers - several other books which referred to it had mentioned that - but she simply couldn’t find any curses. And she didn’t think that Borgin and Burkes would have removed the book’s protection; that would have lowered its value for their usual customers.

Although… maybe Umberto Eco had had the right idea. She flicked her wand and grinned when the tome’s pages glowed green. Poison. How quaint. It couldn’t be too lethal - all of the contact poisons strong enough to render bezoars useless would wreck the parchment unless the best preservation spells were used. And there were no such spells on the book, just the usual ones. Of course, she wasn’t an expert - there might very well exist an exotic contact poison that wouldn’t damage parchment.

Although… maybe there were two poisons mixed on the pages which, when combined, had a much stronger effect? She sighed. She didn’t know enough about poisons to answer that, either.

She would have to ask Mr Fletcher if he knew anything, but he had left already ‘to look into things while Black and Jeanne are having it out’.

The sound of the door opening made her look over her shoulder. Speak of the devil - or dog...

Sirius was standing there, looking none the worse for wear. “We’ve come to an understanding.”

“Oh?” She turned around and cocked her head. She hadn’t been afraid that they would break up over this, not really, but a having a baby changed relationships and lives.

“Yes.” He sighed. “Jeanne won’t do anything dangerous while she’s carrying our child.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “And what did you concede in return?” She knew her friend; Jeanne wouldn’t have given in without a concession.

He sighed again. “After the child’s born, we’ll either go together on heists or not at all.”

She nodded. “I see.”

He scoffed. “I don’t like it either, but it was the best I could manage!”

She frowned at his presumption that she would share his views - although not going on a heist while pregnant was just common sense. “And will you continue to go on heists?” If the answer was no, then she would have to go over her plans - see if she could finish her list within eight months.

“We want to.” He conjured a seat and sat down.

“The Potters went into hiding after Harry’s birth,” Hermione said.

“After they heard of the prophecy and that Voldemort was after them,” Sirius corrected her. He scoffed. “They didn’t want to. They wanted to keep fighting.”

“Like you and Jeanne.”

He nodded. “But…” He shrugged. “I remember how having Harry changed James. Mostly,” he added with a familiar wince. “I don’t want my kid to grow up in a Britain ruled by the Old Families. But…”

“You don’t want your child to grow up without parents either,” Hermione finished for him.

Sirius nodded. “That’s why I wanted Jeanne to stay safe while I do what we need to.”

Hermione snorted. Jeanne was a typical French witch; only a stupid dog would have even considered that plan. But she could understand him; if she had a husband… She stomped down on that thought. “Did you even consider that when you decided to try having a baby?” she asked, her tone a little harsher than she’d intended.

He coughed. “Well…”

They hadn’t, then. “Have you talked about the consequences of her getting pregnant at all?”

“Not in that much detail.” He frowned. “But we both thought, after her father’s murder, that we should start the next generation of our families.”

She couldn’t help smiling ruefully at that. It was understandable. Have a baby, so if you get killed your family - or your line, for Old Families - lived on. Probably an almost instinctive urge, even. “And you both thought that the other shared your opinion on how things would work out.” She would have expected that from the dog, but Jeanne should have been smarter. But then, she had just gotten married only to lose her father within a day.

He glared at her, then sighed. “I understand that she wants to fight as much as I do. But if we both die, who will take care of our child?” He scoffed. “Malfoy would push for Narcissa getting custody as ‘next of kin’ no matter what arrangements I made. And if I’m dead, he would have the clout to get the Wizengamot to rule in his favour.”

Hermione bit her lower lip. She hadn’t considered that. If Malfoy got his hands on the Black fortune… “We need to step up our timetable then,” she said. They had to finish off Malfoy before Sirius’s child was born. She doubted that she would manage to find trusted partners-in-crime to replace Sirius and Jeanne.

Sirius nodded. “Yes, we do.”

*****​

London, Merton, October 7th, 1998

It didn’t feel like coming home any more, Hermione Granger realised as she approached her parents’ house. It felt like visiting her parents. Even though she had a room there. Home was Grimmauld Place. Her parents wouldn’t like that. Didn’t like that. But then, shouldn’t they have expected it? She was an adult now, she had a job, and so it was only natural to move out of her parents’ home. Although most people wouldn’t move out gradually, she supposed.

Not that it mattered since she had come to get her parents to move out of their home. For the second time. Third time, if she counted being forced out of their original home due to her debts.

Her parents really wouldn’t like that.

She opened the door and entered. “Mum? Dad?”

“Hermione?”

That was Mum, in the living room. She heard noise from the kitchen, so Dad would be cooking. “Yes, Mum!” she answered as she went to the living room.

“You’re early.” Mum’s smile took any sting out of her words as she hugged Hermione.

Hermione nodded. “Yes. We need to talk.”

Mum released her and stared at her with narrowed eyes. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t want to repeat herself, but she also didn’t want to stall. So she took a deep breath and started talking. “There was a breakout at Azkaban. Three of the most dangerous and deranged Death Eaters escaped.”

“Oh no!” Mum gasped.

Hermione saw that Dad had left the kitchen as she nodded. “And they will come after everyone involved in Voldemort’s death. And their families.”

“Does that mean you’re here to send us to Australia again?” Dad asked. Well, no one had ever called her parents dumb.

She forced herself to smile. “Australia or maybe a cruise around the world. As long as you’re not in Britain, where they can find you. Money’s no issue.”

“I thought with Voldemort’s death, things changed.” Mum shook her head and sat down. “That’s what you told us.”

“Things did change,” Hermione insisted. Just not enough. Not yet.

“But we need to flee our home again. And I assume that Mr Black will be paying for our trip. Again.” Dad stood next to Mum’s seat and crossed his arms.

Hermione sighed. As she had feared, her parents were going to be difficult. “The alternative would be to move into Grimmauld Place for the duration of this crisis. Which would mean no telly. No computers. No Internet. And no working either.”

“But we would be with you,” Mum said.

“And you’d be with Mr Black, his wife and the rest of his family,” Hermione countered. “All of them wizards. And you’d need them to handle the magic whenever I’m not around to do it.” That was a small hyperbole. Not that small, actually. Hermione felt bad for manipulating her parents like this, but she really couldn’t have them move in with her. That would make it almost impossible to go on heists.

Her parents exchanged a glance. They hated owing Sirius, and this would be much worse than going on a cruise. To depend on wizards and witches for near everything every day, to feel helpless and useless… They would see reason, Hermione was certain.

But they were so stubborn, it would take a while.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 8th, 1998

“That mouse wasn’t very good. Can’t you get a dessert mouse next time? A young one?”

Harry Potter closed his eyes and muttered a small curse. He should never have joked about desert mice being ‘dessert mice’ to Mr Biggles. It wasn’t as if the two words sounded the same in Parseltongue. Now the little snake wanted - demanded - more exotic food. Even though Mr Biggles had never, ever - at least not in his care - tasted anything other than feeder mice.

A barking sound drew his attention away from his pet snake to his pet owl. Hedwig couldn’t understand Parseltongue. She couldn’t know what Mr Biggles wanted. And yet, the snowy owl prodded her own feeding bowl - full of her favourite owl pellets - with one claw, then stared at him.

Harry snorted. “You already hunt whatever you want,” he told her. The droppings he had to clean up each day certainly showed that she wasn’t just eating pellets and bacon. Those didn’t have fur or bones.

She barked, then stared at Mr Biggles. The snake quickly hid beneath the log in his habitat.

Harry sighed. “Whatever you want but Mr Biggles. You know that pets are not for eating. That includes my pets.”

Hedwig barked again and prodded her feeding bowl. Harry offered her one of the feeder mice from the ice box in his room - everyone had made it clear that he couldn’t store pet food in the kitchen.

Hedwig turned her head away.

“What? Do you also want some exotic mice?”

Harry couldn’t speak owl, but the sound Hedwig made was a clear affirmative. He sighed. Maybe the Owl Emporium had some special food. He’d have to check next time he visited Diagon Alley. Something, he reminded himself, that might not happen for a while; the hunt for Crouch and the need to improve the security of his family were taking up most of his time.

Although, he added to himself as he got up - it was time for another training session with Hermione - seeing how Hedwig was looking at him, maybe getting her some special treats would be the right thing to do for his own safety. His owl still hadn’t gotten over her jealousy.

*****​

Harry Potter dashed forward then turned left, his wand flicking up and down as he sent a continuous stream of Stinging and Paint-Splash Hexes at Hermione. Two hit her Shield Charm; the others missed as she dropped to the ground and started to roll out of his field of fire. Or rather, as Harry’s wand swished, directly into a puddle of water he conjured. A fraction of a second later he hit the salt water with a Sparking Hex and she yelped.

“That hurt!” she complained, sitting up and rubbing her side. “And if my hair is now frizzy…”

Harry snorted, despite her threatening tone. “Your hair is fine. Slightly wet, but fine.” As he had come to expect, she was already casting a hairstyling charm. “Besides, you were already out - I hit your shield twice.” In a real battle, her shield would have been shattered by the first curse, and the second would have taken her down.

She huffed as she dried herself. “You could have called it.”

“Why stop when there’s more to learn?” Harry grinned. “‘You need to be aware of your environment at all times’,” he quoted Moody. “You’ve been getting better at avoiding my hexes,” he added to encourage her.

She scoffed. “Better doesn’t mean good enough, or does it?” She rubbed her thigh. “I’ll have bruises tomorrow from your Hammer Hexes.” She glared at him.

Harry coughed. He might have gone a little overboard with those spells - they were more powerful than Stinging Hexes, although not even close to a Bludgeoning Curse - but he was still holding back compared to what Moody was doing in training. “Sorry.” Her attempts to dodge had improved after she had been hit by a few of those hexes, though, so Harry wasn’t too sorry. Anything that helped her improve was justified if it might save her life should she get attacked.

“No, you aren’t,” she retorted with a frown.

He didn’t deny the accusation, shrugging instead. “Nothing a little ointment won’t fix.”

“A lot of ointment,” she complained. “And I’ll be needing a Cushioning Charm for dinner.” She rubbed her rear for emphasis.

Harry didn’t remember hitting her there. Although he might have. “I can put the ointment on, if you want,” he said without thinking, then coughed. “I mean, only if you need the help and no one else is available.”

“I’ll manage,” she said after a moment. “Dinner’s in half an hour.”

That meant that she was done with the session, Harry knew. Even though they had ample time left for a few more rounds. But she looked tired - she was still breathing heavily, and she was moving quite a bit more slowly, too, as she got up and started to stretch.

So he nodded and started to stretch himself. And didn’t stare too much at her as she stretched. “Alright.”

“How’re things with Sirius?” she asked after a moment, slowly rolling her shoulders.

He knew what she was really asking about. The baby. “Fine,” he replied. He wasn’t lying, but he didn’t want to talk about it.

She glanced at him, but didn’t press him. Good. Ron had been annoying enough when he joked how how he envied Harry for being the big brother. It wasn’t like that. But she was still looking at him. And not in the way he liked her looking at him. He sighed. “We talked. He offered to adopt me.” He ignored her surprised gasp and went on. “I refused. I love him, but I’m a Potter. I’m not giving up my parents’ name.” Or stealing a baby’s inheritance. “He won’t love me less.” Sirius wouldn’t.

“Of course he won’t.” She nodded, but he couldn’t tell what she was really thinking.

“I don’t suppose there’s been any progress in your hunt for Crouch?” Hermione asked a bit later as she arched her back and spread her arms.

He pressed his lips together for a second. He still felt it was wrong to tell anyone confidential information concerning the investigation. But everyone in the house already knew about the exhumation and its results; you couldn’t keep something like that a secret, especially not after the breakout at Azkaban. Not in Wizarding Britain. “Nothing new,” he said, just before she turned her head to look at him. “We’ve been chasing down some of his old classmates from Hogwarts.” He scoffed. “Of course, everyone who had been close to him at school ‘didn’t really remember’ their Death Eater friend, and those who weren’t close had nothing relevant.”

She nodded. “What about the Lestranges?”

“Same results so far, but we haven’t talked to the Malfoys or the Tonkses yet.”

“Why not?”

“Moody wanted to make sure that everything was by the book.” With Bellatrix being so closely related to those two families, and Tonks working as an Auror, not to mention Malfoy’s past as a Death Eater, they couldn’t afford any mistakes or any evidence gathered might become unusable.

Hermione snorted. “Does that really matter? With Sirius and Malfoy’s interests overlapping in this case, the Wizengamot’s verdict is a foregone conclusion. If they even need a trial, seeing as all of them were already sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban.”

That wasn’t an excuse to break regulations, much less the law, Harry knew. He didn’t say that, though. “Malfoy’s pushing for the death penalty. He’s even asking for a kill on sight order, or so I’ve heard.”

Hermione shrugged. “Of course he would - all of them want him dead. And if they managed to break out once, they might do so again.” She didn’t sound as if she cared too much about the Death Eaters’ fate. Or rights.

Or, Harry thought, it was more likely that after her own experiences, she had lost any faith in the judicial system. And it was up to him and Ron to restore that faith.

He could only hope that they would succeed.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 10th, 1998

After she had returned home - to Grimmauld Place - from Heathrow, Hermione Granger went straight to the kitchen. When she saw Jeanne sitting at the table there, she almost turned around. She wanted tea and scones, not company.

“Hermione. You’re back.”

Hermione swallowed a sarcastic comment along the lines of ‘Really? I thought I was still at the airport. Are you sure?’ and nodded. “Hello, Jeanne.”

“How did it go?” Jeanne asked as she flicked her wand and pushed the chair across from her back - an invitation Hermione couldn’t refuse.

So she sat and shrugged. “It wasn’t the first time. They weren’t happy, but put on a brave face.”

“Ah.” Jeanne nodded as she floated the teapot and a cup over to her.

“It took longer to convince them that they really had to go, for their own safety, than to organise the trip and the substitutes at their practice,” Hermione said, more to avoid an awkward silence than because she thought Jeanne actually wanted to know the details. “Money smooths a lot of things over.” Such as rescheduling appointments and getting the most skilled replacements available.

“But not everything,” Jeanne said.

Hermione winced. She had been insensitive again, too focused on herself. Her parents were going on a world tour for at least several months - but Jeanne’s father was dead. “Yes,” she managed to say as she filled her cup and summoned a pair of scones from the basket on the counter. “Is your mother safe?”

Jeanne nodded. “Yes. She’s staying with an old friend.”

It had to be a rich, old friend if Jeanne considered that enough to keep her mother safe. Maybe a step-father of sorts - Hermione knew that Jeanne’s mother hadn’t married. She absentmindedly petted Crookshanks, who was rubbing himself against her leg.

“I offered her refuge here, at Grimmauld Place,” Jeanne went on, “but she declined.” She snorted. “She still hasn’t forgiven me for choosing to become Father’s heir. Not really.”

“Ah.” What else could Hermione say? She bit into a scone to have an excuse for her almost-silence.

“But she’s safe.” Jeanne refilled her own cup - coffee. Black. But with a lot of sugar.

“That’s the most important thing.” Hermione took a sip from her cup. “What about the rest of your family?”

Jeanne scoffed. “The Selwyns are on their own. Most of them would be overjoyed if the Lestranges killed me.” She shook her head. “They even have the gall to blame me for my father’s death!”

That wasn’t entirely unreasonable, Hermione thought. Unfair and cruel, of course. But it was pretty obvious that Crouch wouldn’t have attacked Selwyn if not for Jeanne’s marriage to Sirius - the Selwyn family had taken care to keep their heads down during the Blood War. Not that Hermione would ever say that. Or defend the Selwyns - they probably only cared for the gold they ‘lost’ to Jeanne anyway. Then she had to break the silence again before it got too awkward. “Did you tell your mother about your pregnancy?”

“I did. She was pleased.” Jeanne smiled, as she usually did whenever her baby was mentioned. “Not pleased enough to visit, though,” she added with a frown.

“She might be unwilling to risk it while the Lestranges and Crouch are at large,” Hermione pointed out.

Jeanne sniffed. “She shouldn’t be.”

Hermione didn’t know whether Jeanne meant that her mother should be braver - she was French, after all - or that there was no real risk. “Let’s hope things have been settled by the time you’re giving birth.”

Jeanne smiled, one hand on her belly. Hermione took another sip from her tea to mask her expression. Jeanne wasn’t that much older than Hermione, but she was married and going to be a mother. Hermione knew that wasn’t an option for her. Neither was. A visibly pregnant thief would be ridiculous. And she had no marriage prospects anyway.

But she couldn’t help wondering. For a moment, at least.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, October 11th, 1998

“Yes, I know that it’s Sunday,” Hermione Granger said, sighing in the best manner of a poor, abused flunky of a Wizengamot member. “But Mr Black wants those records right now so that he can prepare his speech for tomorrow.”

“The Ministry archives aren’t open to Wizengamot members or their staff on Sundays unless it’s an emergency.” Mr Clark, the archivist on duty, quoted the regulations at her. “And this doesn’t seem like an emergency,” he went on. “Trade records of the 18th century?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “I wasn’t aware that deciding what does and doesn’t qualify as an emergency was one of your competencies,” she said in shaper tone. “But, for your information, Mr Black is very concerned about the current - and growing! - tensions with Gringotts and wishes to estimate the possible consequences for Britain’s trade should those tensions escalate to war. And for that, he needs an overview of the effects of the last few Goblin Rebellions on our economy.”

“That was over two hundred years ago!”

“Our treaty with Gringotts is only a few decades younger,” she retorted. “Now, either let me enter the archives or give me a written refusal that I will take back to Mr Black so he can respond to your judgment that there is no emergency in whatever way he so chooses.” She bared her teeth and lowered her voice. “He’s been in a very foul mood since that incident at Azkaban, and I certainly won’t risk his ire on your behalf.”

She refrained from smiling when she saw Clark had grown pale during her little performance - sometimes, Sirius’s reputation was very useful.

“On second thought, and as an exception, I think there’s no harm in granting you access to the Ministry archives on this occasion.” Clark was smiling weakly. “Although I have to point out that my duties require me to remain at my post, which means I cannot render you any assistance in your search.”

She frowned, even though she had counted on that. “I should be able to manage,” she said through pursed lips as Clark unlocked the doors.

Once inside, she made her way to the trade records, which were very far towards the back of the magically extended archives, and conjured a small desk upon which she deposited her parchment and writing utensils. A quick glance told her that Clark had closed the door again and so wouldn’t be able to observe her. She then drew her wand to check for detection spells. There usually weren’t - this wasn’t her first visit - but they might have stepped up security this weekend.

A few spells later she was sure that as long as she didn’t try to tamper with any of the records - they were positively glowing with protective spells in her enhanced sight - she wouldn’t trigger an alert.

Hermione grinned. She had no intention of tampering with the records. She just needed to read the right file. Like, for example, the court records of the Bulstrode family inheritance dispute two hundred and twenty-seven years ago. Those records, unlike the Floo Connection permits, would contain their manor’s physical location, since that had been the main part of the disputed inheritance.

She pulled out the trade records from 1767 and placed them on her desk, then used her wand to send a paper aeroplane from her notes flying through the archives - towards the court records.

‘I had to catch a paper aeroplane that suddenly flew off for no reason’ wouldn’t make her look particularly competent, but it would provide a decent excuse for being near the court records instead of the trade agreements sections, should Clark actually bother to check up on her.

*****​

Wiltshire, Malfoy Manor, Britain, October 11th, 1998

“Welcome to Malfoy Manor.”

Mrs Malfoy greeted Harry Potter with an almost-curtsey as he stepped out of the fireplace in the manor’s entrance hall. Malfoy, standing next to her, nodded - though not quite as courteously as would have been polite, Harry noticed. But then, Moody, who had arrived before Harry, simply grunted a greeting in return, and Ron’s nod was almost imperceptible.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Harry replied. He wasn’t being quite as rude as Moody, but Sirius had told him enough about the views and character of ‘dear cousin Narcissa’ that he didn’t bother with more than the minimum politeness required.

If the witch took offence, then she didn’t show it as she and Malfoy led them to their salon. The manor’s furniture and decor looked more expensive than Grimmauld Place’s, but also a little more… Harry couldn’t put it into words. It was elegant, tasteful, classy, he supposed, but it felt… designed, he guessed was the correct word. Composed, not grown. Mrs Malfoy’s work, he thought.

On the salon’s small table waited tea and several plates with snacks. Moody once again just grunted, refusing the offer. Harry didn’t think that the Malfoys would attempt to poison three Aurors in their own home - certainly not when they wanted as many Aurors as they could get for their protection - but he wasn’t about to provoke a lecture from Moody. Besides, they weren’t here for tea, but for information.

“Let’s skip the chit-chat,” Moody growled. “You know why we’re here.”

They certainly knew, Harry thought - preparing and arranging this ‘interview’ had taken long enough.

“You wish to learn what I know about my sister,” Mrs Malfoy replied with a graceful nod.

That was interesting - Harry would have expected Malfoy to answer.

“And what you and your husband know about the other Lestranges. And Barty Crouch Jr.” Moody said.

Neither Malfoy showed any surprise at the last name, so they had known about that already. Harry wasn’t surprised - no secret lasted long in the DMLE. Too many were more loyal to their family than to the Ministry. Or slipped at times, he added to himself with a slight twinge of guilt.

“I’m afraid that I haven’t had much contact with those people,” Mrs Malfoy told him.

“Your sister married into the Lestrange family. You were at her wedding,” Moody said, his artificial eye spinning.

“Of course I was, but that was a family event. I wasn’t privy to their illegal activities.”

Moody scoffed. “Of course you weren’t.”

Malfoy spoke up. “What are you insinuating?”

“Bellatrix didn’t just decide one day to become a Death Eater. She and the Lestranges, as well as Crouch, were part of a crowd at Hogwarts. Like you.” He nodded at both Malfoys.

“We were all in House Slytherin, if that’s what you mean,” Malfoy retorted, “but that was as far as our social circles overlapped. They kept their more extreme views to themselves, and to others who shared them.”

“You were a Death Eater as well,” Moody spat.

“I was under the Imperius Curse,” Malfoy replied with narrowed eyes. “Unlike the Lestranges. They didn’t share their plans or mingle with their victims.”

Ron snorted next to Harry, which earned him a glare from Malfoy.

“Are you really going to keep claiming that?” Moody scoffed. “Even when all of them want to murder you and your family? Do you honestly think that we can catch them if you don’t share what you know?”

“Since the Lestranges and Mr Crouch desire to kill my family and me for fighting the Dark Lord, all you have to do to catch them is to guard our home. Sooner or later, they will attack - none of them were very stable or patient, even before they were sent to Azkaban,” Malfoy said with a familiar sneer.

“Seems Crouch at least learned patience,” Moody replied. “He has kept to the shadows ever since he escaped from Azkaban in 1982.”

“No doubt on the direct orders of the Dark Lord,” Malfoy said. “Or he would have tried to free the Lestranges long ago.”

“Be that as it may be, it means he is patient. You can’t count on him rushing into a trap.” Moody shook his head. “Merlin’s balls, cooperate! Do you want that scum torturing your family? They will - Crouch murdered his own father.”

Malfoy clenched his teeth before he answered in a clipped tone. “You know as much about the Lestranges as I do, Auror Moody. They are fanatically loyal to the Dark Lord, reckless and cruel, as their attack on the Longbottoms aptly demonstrated. I have no insights to share that go beyond that. When I was forced to do the Dark Lord’s bidding twenty years ago, my orders didn’t lead to any contact with the Lestranges, and when I risked my life as a spy for Dumbledore upon the Dark Lord’s return, they were still in prison.”

“Our social contact dwindled in the wake of Andromeda’s marriage,” Mrs Malfoy spoke up. “Bellatrix took the news… exceedingly poorly. Neither my parents nor my aunt and uncle approved of her reaction, and she stopped attending family events soon afterwards. She was completely under the Dark Lord’s spell.”

Moody didn’t bother to hide his scorn. “You think she was also compelled to work for him?”

“I didn’t mean a literal spell,” the witch clarified. “But she was fixated on him. I believe it started during her time at Hogwarts - she was a very talented duellist and would have caught his attention at a young and impressionable age.”

“That doesn’t help us catch her before she tortures you and your family into insanity,” Moody said. “We need locations she might visit. Hideouts. Allies and friends who might support her.”

“As I told you: We did not share the same social circles after her wedding,” Malfoy cut in. “Neither of us would know what contacts she made while serving the Dark Lord.”

“The hunting cottage,” Mrs Malfoy suddenly said. “Uncle Abraxas gifted her a hunting cottage when she won the Parisian Duellist Exhibition the summer after she had left Hogwarts. I remember her bragging about it.”

“A hunting cottage? Where is it?”

“I don’t know,” Mrs Malfoy said. “She never showed it to me or anyone else. Said she wanted to keep it a secret for herself and her future husband. And Uncle Abraxas didn’t tell us, either.”

“Better than nothing, I guess,” Moody said. “We’ll look into it.”

*****​

“Do you think they withheld any information?” Ron asked as soon as they were back at the Auror Office.

Moody shook his head. “Malfoy is a cunning bastard. He would have found a way to share anything useful without incriminating himself. I just wanted to push his buttons - ‘I was a victim’ my cursed arse!”

“How will we find that ‘hunting cottage’?” Harry Potter asked.

Moody grinned. “By sifting through decades of records.” More serious, he added: “But no one can know about this, or someone might warn the scum.”

Harry frowned. “I need to tell Sirius, at least, if I want access to the family records.” And Hermione to help him search them.

Moody grunted again. “I guess he’s unlikely to warn them,” he said after a moment - as if he had to seriously think about that!

Sometimes, Harry thought, Moody was just a little too paranoid.

*****​

West of Bracknell, Berkshire, Britain, October 11th, 1998

Bulstrode Manor looked far older than Hermione Granger, who was studying it while she hid in the canopy of a centuries-old oak tree, had expected from reading the court files. According to those, the Head of the Bulstrode family had had it built in 1742.

She snorted. Perhaps the Bulstrodes, as a recently elevated family at the time, had preferred an older looking manor to cover up their origin. Or they had taken over a muggle-owned manor. It didn’t really matter.

What mattered were the building’s wards and other protections. And from what she could tell from her vantage point, those looked quite impressive. Of course, she would have to get far closer for a real analysis of the wards, but she bet that all the statues in the gardens surrounding the building were enchanted, and some of the bushes looked rather suspicious too. And then there were the gargoyles on the roof, overlooking every approach.

She sighed. If the wards matched the building’s claimed age - and she had no reason to expect anything else - then breaking them would be both too dangerous and take far too long for a heist that had to be over before Harry and Ron grew suspicious of her and her friends’ absences.

There were ways around either problem, of course. Old wards often had weaknesses that could be exploited - but that would require extensive analysis practically on top of the wards themselves. Which was, given the presence of guards and possibly Aurors, not practical. Burrowing to the wardline might be possible - but she would have to ensure that there were no underground defences that would detect her tunnel. Infiltration, as a guest or friend of a guest, might be the best, if also the most dangerous, option, although…

She blinked and tapped her mask, zooming in on the side entrance. There was a cat prowling in the garden! A cat who was allowed to roam around - past the wardline. If the wards didn’t keep cats out, or if someone in the manor liked cats so much that they had their cat outfitted with a key to the wards, then that might be the weakness she had been looking for!

Hermione grinned widely.

*****​

 

Chapter 41: A Feline Heist

Bulstrode Manor, Berkshire, Britain, October 12th, 1998

“There you go, Matheus!” Millicent Bulstrode cooed after filling her tomcat’s feeding bowl with small strips of chicken breast. Her familiar, as usual, sniffed the meat first, then looked at her and miaowed.

“You’ll get your treat after you finish the bowl,” she told him.

With a sniff, he started to eat while she watched, seated on a chair in the kitchen. Before he had finished, though, she heard her mother call her name.

“Millicent?”

“I’m in the kitchen, Mother!” she yelled, startling Matheus for a moment, before her cat continued eating.

Her mother entered a few moments later. “Don’t yell, dear,” she said. “Use an Amplifying Charm - we wouldn’t want to act like mudbloods.”

“Sorry, Mother.” She knew better, of course. Due to their ancestry, her family had to take great care to keep up appearances. More than any other Old Family - the whispers at Hogwarts had been bad enough, even though Millicent had been close friends with Pansy and Draco.

Her mother nodded and took a seat and the teacup Bibsy offered her. “I see that you’re still spoiling the animal,” she said, taking a sip.

Millicent frowned at her. Matheus deserved the best, but that wouldn’t convince her mother. “What would our friends think if my familiar had to eat common pet food?” she asked instead.

“Touché,” her mother admitted. “Although my family would consider us mad.”

Millicent pressed her lips together. She knew what was coming when her mother mentioned her French origins and decided to get to the point. “I don’t want to move to France,” she said.

“It would only be until those criminals have been caught,” her mother retorted. “And you’d be able to see the country. Meet your relatives.”

“Meet a prospective husband, you mean,” Millicent replied, frowning at her.

Her mother inclined her head. “The French aren’t as narrow-minded as the British when it comes to attractive witches.”

Millicent clenched her teeth. She wasn’t ugly - her face was pretty enough even without makeup. Her hair was great, with the right styling. She wasn’t fat either, or deformed. It was just that her father’s ancestry had been expressed more strongly in her, resulting in her growing taller than most wizards - and more muscular.

Something, she had found out at Hogwarts, that a great many boys didn’t find attractive. Both Greg and Vincent had asked her out, but neither relationship had worked out. Both boys were too… simple for marriage. But to marry into a French family? That meant leaving Britain for good; she wasn’t her father’s heir, after all. And it would mean marrying below her station.

“None of my friends are leaving Britain,” she said. “I’d look like a coward.”

Her mother sniffed. “They’re hiding in their manors, trembling at every creaking sound.” She didn’t add a derisive ‘British wizards’, but Millicent knew what her mother was thinking. “They have no right to call anyone else a coward.”

Millicent agreed, but that didn’t change the facts. “They’re seen as defending their homes, not fleeing the country.”

“No one has even seen Lucius’s son since the incident. I wouldn’t be surprised if ‘dear Draco’ has left Britain,” her mother said.

Millicent felt herself blush slightly, both from embarrassment as well as anger. She had been thirteen when she’d had a crush on Draco! Not that anything would have come of it - Pansy had staked her claim from the start, and Draco had made his views on witches who were taller and stronger than him very clear. “I don’t think that he’d leave Pansy,” she said. It might even be true.

Her mother scoffed. “The Malfoy’s French blood has run far too thin for such a gesture. All they care about are themselves. They would be overjoyed if the Lestranges were killed attacking the Parkinsons - regardless of whether or not Pansy survived.”

Millicent bit her tongue. Her mother was letting her bitterness at having been played by Mr Malfoy show again. If Millicent mentioned that, though, she would draw her mother’s ire for her own role in the ‘mudblood affair’. Even though her parents had supported the plan and had enjoyed the gold they had gained from it.

Her mother sighed. “Well, we’re not as exposed as the Malfoys - or the Blacks. We can but hope that the Blacks or the Malfoys will be those criminals’ targets.”

Matheus, long used to human squabbles, had finished his bowl and was now prodding her calf, begging for his treat.

“Here you go!” Millicent said, smiling as he quickly devoured the treat. She looked back at her mother, who had finished her tea. “I’m going into the garden,” Millicent announced.

“Stay inside the wards,” her mother cautioned her.

Millicent rolled her eyes. She wasn’t stupid.

“Millicent!”

She didn’t wince at the reprimand. “Yes, Mother. I’ll stay inside the wards.”

“Good.”

Millicent sighed as soon as she stepped into the garden behind the kitchen. She felt like a prisoner in her own home. She wished she had gone on a Grand Tour instead of staying in Britain. But none of her friends had wanted to go. Draco was getting tutored by his father ‘so that I can one day inherit his seat’, which meant Pansy wouldn’t even think of leaving Britain, while Daphne and Tracey had started ‘apprenticeships’ in their respective family businesses. And travelling the world by herself wouldn’t have been very enjoyable. Matheus was the best cat in the world, but he was hardly the wittiest travelling companion. And if she went on a tour now, everyone would think she were fleeing Britain.

She shook her head as she followed Matheus through the herbal beds. “Don’t go too far!” she called out, even though she knew he wouldn’t listen. Cats didn’t. He’d roam as far as he wanted, no matter what she said. Although a Summoning Charm would have him back inside the wards quickly enough.

Suddenly, Matheus stopped, a few yards short of the wardline, and growled. Millicent frowned and drew her wand. She couldn’t see anyone, but that didn’t mean anything. Maybe her familiar had smelled a disillusioned intruder? But they had guards and spells watching out for that!

Then she saw what had gotten Matheus’ fur up and chuckled. There was a cat, half-hidden in a flower bed, right at the wardline. A stray, she assumed - they didn’t have any neighbours, and the cat’s deep black fur was rather bushy - even a muggle would have taken better care of their pet.

Millicent crouched down and cooed. “Hey there, little one. Are you lost?” The cat took a few steps back, staring at her, but didn’t run away.

Matheus kept growling and she glanced at him. “Be nice, dear. The poor thing probably hasn’t eaten anything but mangy mice for days.”

On a whim, she turned around and raised her wand. “Accio cat treats!” Having to summon her cat every second day had made her quite proficient at casting the charm, and it only took a few seconds for the bag with treats to land in her outstretched hand.

She turned back to the stray, which had retreated a few more steps. “Here!” she said, throwing a treat to it.

The black cat cautiously approached the treat, sniffing at it for several seconds, then looked at her.

“Go on, eat! It’s good!” Millicent encouraged it. Matheus crept forward, still growling, and Millicent handed another treat to her familiar. “See?” she said, as Matheus devoured it. “He likes it, too.”

That - or the threat of losing the treat to Matheus - seemed to convince the stray. It bent down and gingerly picked the treat up in its mouth before eating it in a few crunchy bites.

“There you go,” Millicent said, beaming. Her day was looking up.

*****​

Bulstrode Manor, Berkshire, Britain, October 12th, 1998

Hermione Granger resisted the urge to gag as she bit down on the crunchy treat. Eating food from the ground! Food her enemy had thrown - thrown - at her feet! Although it wasn’t bad. Quite tasty, actually, if a little dry.

She shook her head. She wasn’t here to eat but to scout. And Bulstrode was her target. The tall witch was still cooing and smiling at her - behind the wardline. Which, Hermione had noticed, included a Cat-Repelling Charm. How barbaric! And the witch probably thought she loved cats, despite keeping them out through such insidious means.

Bulstrode’s tomcat was still growling at her, too. Jealous little git. She sniffed in his direction, daring him to leave the protection of the wards. He didn’t, of course. The pampered house cat - he was even wearing a collar! Like a dog! - knew better than to growl at her where she could teach him a lesson. Not that she was here to make the tomcat learn his place.

“...look at that bushy tail, you poor thing! Your owner must have neglected you.”

What? Hermione resisted the urge to hiss at the presumptuous, ignorant witch. Her tail was just fine! Perfect, in fact - no one would mistake it for the thin, ugly appendage of a mouse. And her fur wasn’t matted! Dyed, of course, so she wouldn’t be recognised, but it wasn’t matted or dirty! She settled for glaring at Bulstrode. And miaowing.

“Oh, you want more treats? Here! You probably haven’t eaten anything in days!”

Hermione froze for a second at the implied insult. She wasn’t some spoiled pet who couldn’t catch a mouse to save herself. Not that she wanted to eat a mouse, of course. But if she had wanted to, she could have easily caught all the mice she could eat. Still, she was here for a reason. She sniffed at the treats in front of her.

“They’re fine! Matheus loves them! It’s the same as the one you just ate!”

Hmph. As if she’d be so trusting as to assume that just because the first treat was fine, the others would be as well. But they smelled the same, and she hadn’t seen the witch cast a spell or otherwise manipulate the treats. And she had to play her role as a temporarily displaced cat.

So she ate the three treats. And the next two. It was like eating crisps. Kind of. Although she could have done without the crumbs of earth on some of them. She told herself that wine connoisseurs liked an ‘earthy note’.

“Feeling better?”

Hermione looked at Bulstrode. The witch had closed the can with the treats. Matheus - what a stupid name for a stupid tomcat - was still growling. Despite having been fed several treats himself, which wouldn’t do his paunch any good. A few more treats and he’d comb the lawn with the fur on his belly. But the witch was waiting for an answer, so Hermione miaowed.

“That’s enough, my dear. You can hunt again now, can’t you?”

Of course she could!

“I would brush your fur, too, but I’m not to leave the manor’s protections. There are bad people just waiting to kill me, you know.”

Yes, she actually did know, thank you very much. Although neither the Lestranges nor Crouch were in the area - Hermione had checked. But a harmless cat wouldn’t know that, of course, so she miaowed again.

“I’d take you in, but Matheus would be jealous. And you look fine now.”

She had looked fine before, too, thank you very much! Hermione glared at the stupid tomcat. If not for him, she’d have a way inside the wards. Although… She miaowed again, acting more pitiful this time.

Bulstrode visibly flinched, then stood. “Sorry. Here are a few more treats.”

Hermione forced herself to eat the treats as Bulstrode picked up her spoiled pet and retreated inside the manor. Then she sat down at her spot and kept staring at the manor for a little longer.

And planned.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 12th, 1998

“How did it go?” Jeanne asked as soon as she saw Hermione Granger in the kitchen.

Hermione Granger looked around. Before she could ask, Jeanne answered: “Sirius is still at the Ministry. He’s invited Harry and Ron to lunch.”

“And I spent the day looking through the library.” Hermione nodded. It was a decent cover.

“And Sirius didn’t invite you so you could keep me company, since it wouldn’t be safe for me to go out ‘in my condition’,” Jeanne added with a sneer that didn’t look like it was entirely faked.

It certainly would explain why Sirius wasn’t eating lunch at home, should Harry ask, Hermione thought. It was a tad early for mood swings, but a decent excuse anyway.

“So, tell: How did it go?”

“Well, I think I have a way inside,” Hermione said. “But it will require me to remain a cat for a while.”

Long enough to lure Bulstrode’s pampered pet outside and check whether his collar would let her pass through the wards, or for her to pose as some sorry excuse for a cat until Bulstrode took pity on her and took her in.

Hermione didn’t know which possibility would be more insulting for a proud cat like herself.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 13th, 1998

Harry Potter had realised quickly that the archives of the Black Family, if the half a dozen chests they had taken down from the attic to the library deserved that name - Hermione very vocally insisted that they didn’t - were even less organised than the Ministry archives. So had Hermione. But unlike Harry and Ron, the witch hadn’t stopped complaining about it. He briefly stopped sifting through a list of payments to the Black Family in 1823 and glanced at her.

“When I get my hands on whoever was responsible for this mess, they’ll rue the day they decided to store the records so haphazardly instead of doing a proper job!” she muttered under her breath as she swished her wand to remove layers of dust from yet another bundle of parchment. “I’ll find a way to raise them from the dead just to teach them a lesson. This is no way to treat your books!”

She flicked her wand with more force than needed - or so Harry thought - and the string holding the stack together untied itself. Pursing her lips, she started to skim the sheets, one after the other - and to sort them into four different stacks. “Rent payments go into debtors, not creditors. And personal correspondence goes into correspondence, not financial records!” She blinked, then frowned. “No, this letter should go into erotica. Or the bin.”

Harry suppressed a snort. She was adorable when she was all worked up like this.

“Mate, I know you’ve got it bad,” Ron’s whisper interrupted him, “but we’ve got a job to do. Moody’s gonna be mad if we don’t deliver.”

Harry glared at him, but Ron was right. Sighing, he focused on his own stack of parchment again. Which contained lots of long, narrow rows and columns of numbers. Which didn’t make much sense. “Are we even certain that these are the correct records?” he asked. “And not some fake ones made up for tax evasion?”

“They are the correct ones. They cover the time when the Blacks didn’t pay any taxes,” Hermione replied.

Harry didn’t want to abandon his theory so quickly. “Sirius’s ancestors could have cheated each other,” he said. “Because these numbers here do not add up.” He pointed at the offending column.

“Really?” Hermione put her own stack down and tilted her head. “That could have been a simple mistake.” She stood anyway and came over to him.

“They should have spotted it easily, though,” Harry pointed out.

“Because you spotted it easily?” Hermione asked, raising her eyebrows at him with a teasing grin.

Yes. “No.” He tapped his wand at the sum. “Because the Knuts don’t add up, and there are only two entries that list Knuts.”

“Ah.” Hermione bit her lower lip and studied the sheet herself. “Indeed. I think there’s an entry missing.” She flicked her wand. “No trace of magic, though after more than three hundred years, I don’t think any could be detected.”

“No trace lasts that long,” Harry agreed with her.

“And the amount of gold missing would cover a cottage and some land,” Hermione went on, leaning a little more towards him. He could smell her shampoo even over the dusty smell lingering around them.

“Yes.” Harry had done the math as well. Their thighs were touching, he noticed. He could feel the warmth of her body through their robes.

“Well,” Ron cut in, “we should start looking for signs of an affair, then. That’s the most common reason to hide such records, right?” He held up a dusty letter. “According to this, Orion Black, the Head of the Family at the time, was a ‘lothario’ and his wife was both very skilled in the Dark Arts - even for a Black - and very jealous.”

Harry smiled at him. “That’s great!” That was the break he had been hoping for.

An hour and signs of a dozen different affairs later, they still hadn’t found the damn cottage. Orion Black had spent large sums on his affairs, but not a cottage, or so it seemed. But… Harry blinked. “Of course!” he exclaimed. “If Bellatrix was gifted the cottage, then the Blacks owned it. And all of Orion’s gifts we’ve found so far were gone for good.”

“He might have gifted it to someone and then later taken it back,” Ron pointed out. “You know the Blacks’ reputation.”

“Perhaps,” Harry admitted. “But I think it’s still a more promising lead than sifting through his love letters.” He grabbed another stack of letters. “I’ll check his wife’s records.”

Half an hour later, he found the cottage. “Here it is!” He exclaimed with a wide smile. “She speaks of her hunting lodge - her new hunting lodge - in Herefordshire. Twenty miles from Hereford.” They had done it!

“Which direction from Hereford?” Ron asked.

Harry sighed.

“I’ll get a pair of dividers and a map,” Hermione said. “We can draw a circle with a radius of twenty miles and see where the cottage might be. Provided that she guessed the distance correctly,” she added. “We might have to adjust the search area quite generously.”

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, October 13th, 1998

“Good work, lads!” Moody looked up from the map Harry Potter and Ron had brought him and smiled at them. “We still have to search the area, but that shouldn’t take too long.”

“They might not be hiding there, though. Crouch could have prepared a different hideout for them,” Harry pointed out.

“Indeed, he probably had,” Moody said with a nasty grin. “But he’s a smart one - he’ll probably want to avoid staying too long at his current hideout.”

“And so they might go to the cottage,” Ron said.

“Aye.” Moody nodded. “It’s the best lead we have so far. The surviving prisoners were useless. Not that I expected much from them.” He shook his head. “But you might be interested to know that your old friend Marksdotter survived. The scumbag knew better than to fight us, not with the light sentence he had gotten, and surrendered at the first opportunity.” He scoffed. “So did Skeeter, which is a surprise. After all the articles she wrote, I would have expected someone with a grudge to use the opportunity to do her in. But apparently, she managed to hide for the entire breakout and battle.” He scoffed. “She even wrote an entire article - a ‘first-hand account of the Azkaban massacre’, she called it. Complained a lot when I confiscated it,” he added with another grin.

“Anything useful in the article?” Harry asked.

Moody shook his head. “The usual sensational drivel. If she had seen everything she claims to have seen, someone would have noticed her - disillusioned or not.”

Harry nodded. And whoever noticed her would have cursed her. Just to be safe. “Are you going to let her publish the article?”

“Once I can think of what favour we might need in exchange,” Moody answered. “She has dirt on practically everyone.”

Harry nodded, if a little reluctantly. Such deals weren’t exactly legal, even if they were common in the DMLE.

He hoped they wouldn’t need Skeeter’s secrets.

*****​

Bulstrode Manor, Berkshire, Britain, October 14th, 1998

The Bulstrodes had a very nice garden behind their manor and a veritable park out front, but they didn’t seem to be fond of actually leaving their house to take a stroll through either, Hermione Granger thought as she watched the building through the discerning eyes of a proud cat.

She’d been here for a few hours already, and the only one to leave the manor in that time had been a house-elf weeding the herbal beds. Not even the pampered tomcat had braved the outside air.

Were they that afraid of the Lestranges? Or had they secretly left the manor, turning it into a trap for their enemies? Was she wasting her time here, prowling through the rows of hedges and flower beds?

She hissed at the thought. It was getting difficult to find the time to do this. Today, Harry and Ron were searching for the Blacks’ hunting cottage, so she could safely spend the day observing Bulstrode Manor, but, sooner or later, her two friends would find the cottage, and once again she would have to deal with the risk of spontaneous invitations to lunch. She didn’t even want to think about the danger her friends were braving, hunting the Lestranges. That would distract her too much.

She couldn’t neglect her work for Sirius too much, either - tongues would start to wag if she wasn’t seen working regularly. That meant she had to find excuses for being out of the house after work.

Perhaps she should invent a muggle boyfriend. That would offer a good excuse to be out of Grimmauld Place in the evenings, even overnight. And muggle Britain was safe from the Lestranges too, so no one would have to worry about her safety.

Hermione let out a low hiss. No, she couldn’t do that. She knew that she couldn’t have a relationship with Harry, not until her revenge was done, but she wouldn’t lie to him like that. She’d just have to visit her tutor more often, to study wizarding laws or such. Or brush up on Potions - no, Harry would offer to help her. And she wouldn’t stand for that. A cat had her pride!

A grasshopper who apparently hadn’t noticed that summer had given way to autumn some time ago landed beneath a flower a little away from her. She blinked.

For a moment, she hesitated. She was here to observe the manor and find a way past the wards, not to hunt bugs.

The grasshopper jumped and landed a little closer to her.

Her claws slid out of their sheaths and dug into the soft earth. It was taunting her! But she was on a mission. On a mission to infiltrate the manor disguised as a black cat. She bared her fangs. And that meant acting like a normal cat. And cats hunted impudent bugs that provoked them!

The grasshopper jumped again.

She pounced.

*****​

The bug had led her on a merry chase across two flower beds, but the outcome had never been in doubt. She had caught it a few yards before the wardline, too - if anyone were looking, especially that pampered tomcat, they’d have seen how a proper cat hunted.

But now the bug was dead, crushed beneath her paws. She prodded it, evoking no reaction. Yes, dead. And she certainly wasn’t going to eat it. A flick of her paw batted it into the herbal bed across the wardline. It could still serve as fertiliser.

Or, Hermione thought when she spotted the tomcat approach the carcass, it could serve as bait.

She eyed Matheus - what a stupid name for a cat - through narrowed eyes as he sniffed at the dead bug. It was her prey. She might not have wanted to eat it and thrown it away, but that didn’t mean that any other cat could simply take it!

Matheus sniffed a bit more at her kill, then finally seemed to realise that he was a cat - if a spoiled one - and not a scavenger, and so should act like it. He approached her, stopping a foot before the wardline, and hissed at her.

She hissed back, daring him to leave the protections of the manor and face her paw to paw. She’d teach him a lesson before taking that collar off him and checking whether it was enchanted.

His fur bristled in a pathetic attempt to appear more threatening. As if she’d be impressed by such a sad sight - Crookshank was easily twice the size of this stupid house cat and he knew his place - below her!

She sniffed and sat down, licking her paw to show that she didn’t consider him a threat at all and that this was her spot now. Her territory.

Predictably, the stupid tomcat growled and hissed, his tail swishing back and forth as if he were trying to sweep the stone path on which he was standing, sheathing and unsheathing his claws. She kept her eyes on his hind legs, though. If those tensed…

He pounced, through the wardline, directly at her. His claws met only earth, though, as she had rolled out of the way just in time. And before he could recover from his ill-fated charge, she was on top of him, biting his neck and pinning him, swatting away his feeble attempts to scratch her and ignoring his pitiful cries until he finally submitted.

Sniffing, she released his neck, then herded him away from the manor, towards the forest nearby. She needed the cover to change back and check his collar for spells.

He tried to run twice - once on the way to the forest, and once when she changed in front of him. He didn’t succeed, of course. But when she finally was able to check his collar, she quickly found that it wasn’t enchanted - it wasn’t a key through the manor’s wards.

Hermione pressed her lips together as she obliviated Matheus of the last hour or so. It looked like she would have to get Bulstrode to take her into the manor.

That would complicate things.

*****​

South of Hereford, Herefordshire, Britain, October 14th, 1998

Hidden under his Cloak of Invisibility, Harry Potter hovered about a thousand feet above the ground and checked his map. The hill below didn’t look at all like the one on his map. But the village north of him matched the location depicted on the search grid. He wished he had a magical map of the area, not just this outdated muggle version. He’d know exactly where he was in that case. But if there was a magical map for the area, the DMLE didn’t have it. They only had had magical maps that showed your location for Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley (Including Knockturn Alley) and - ironically - Godric’s Hollow. Two places pretty much every wizard and witch in Wizarding Britain knew very well after seven years at Hogwarts and shopping in the Alley, and the one village in Britain with the largest magical population outside Hogsmeade.

The archivist had claimed that the Aurors were most likely to have emergencies in those areas, and therefore it made sense to have such maps in stock.

Harry wished the archivist were here, helping with the search for the Black’s hunting cottage. That would teach her what was actually needed and what was not. It would even be safer for the witch than setting Hermione on her, he thought with a chuckle, even if she happened upon the Death Eaters in hiding.

His levity was short-lived, though. Sighing, he shook his head and focused on the task at hand again. He tapped his glasses to activate the enchantments on it and guided his broom downwards, until the ground was in range of the detection spells, then flew the usual Seeker search pattern, just looking for any magically hidden buildings instead of for the Snitch.

“Weasley speaking. I cleared Area S-Five. Proceeding to Area S-Six,” sounded from his Auror’s badge. Ron had finished another area on their grid. He was still one behind Harry, though - Harry had more experience with this kind of search.

Five minutes later he was about to pull up and mark another area off the grid when his spells indicated a disillusioned area to his left. He started to weave and speed up, turning as he gained altitude, just in case someone had spotted him and was about to send curses his way. When nothing happened, he tapped his badge. “Potter speaking. Found a disillusioned spot in the south-western corner of Area S-Seventeen.”

“Moody speaking. How large is the spot?”

“I pulled away to avoid detection, but it could be a small hunting cottage.” A very small hunting cottage - but Extension Charms had been invented before the Blacks’ hunting cottage had been built.

“Moody speaking. Keep an eye on the area. I’m headed your way. Weasley, continue your search but be ready to reinforce us.”

“Weasley speaking. Understood.”

“Potter speaking. Understood.”

Harry sighed and flew a little higher. If only his glasses were as good as Moody’s eye. But that had apparently been a personal favour from Dumbledore, something no other enchanter had managed to duplicate - and Dumbledore was dead.

He had left Harry the Elder Wand, though - currently stuck in the hidden holster on his arm - and Harry suspected that with it, he might be able to improve his glasses. Provided he learned the right spells.

Which, unfortunately, would take time he didn’t have while hunting Crouch and the Lestranges.

“Moody speaking. I see you. And the spot.”

A second later, Harry’s Human-presence-revealing Spell created a marker in the air nearby. Moody had arrived.

A moment later, he was chuckling. “Moody speaking. It’s not a cottage but a tent. And unless our Death Eaters have split up and used Polyjuice Potion to look like Alwyn Selwyn and Bridget Brown having an affair, this is none of our concern. Continue your search, Potter.”

Harry was of a mind to send a few spells at the tent below him for making him waste his time. Why would anyone come out to this forgotten area only to have an affair in a tent? But he had his orders. “Potter speaking. Understood. Area S-Seventeen cleared, proceeding to Area S-Eighteen.”

Two hours and half a dozen areas later, Harry was once again hovering in the air, waiting for Moody to arrive. This time, it was an old but well-preserved cottage, surrounded by older trees. He couldn’t spot any sign of muggle technology - no antennas, no phone or power lines, and, most importantly, no road that led to the cottage. Unlike muggles, wizards didn’t need roads.

“Moody speaking. Good find, Potter. That looks like our target. Muggle-repelling Charms and a couple of darker spells. Probably preservation charms as well. Doesn’t seem to be occupied, though.” Harry knew that didn’t mean anything. Moody’s eye was good, but not infallible - there were spells that blocked even its sight. “Weasley, get over here. We’re going to check this out.”

Ten minutes later, Ron had arrived, and they approached the cottage from the ground, using the trees as cover up to the wardline. Harry still couldn’t see any hint that the cottage might be occupied - no smoke rose from the chimney, the grass surrounding it was undisturbed and all the shutters were closed - but that didn’t mean anything for a magical house.

Moody grunted. “Cover the area with Anti-Apparition and Anti-Portkey Jinxes. I’ll check the wards.”

Harry swallowed, but quickly did as ordered. “Done,” he reported a minute later, his wand aimed at the cottage’s front while Ron covered the back.

“Alright. Looks like we’ll have to call in a Curse-Breaker to sneak us through the wards.”

Harry licked his lips, then said: “I could try scouting with a conjured animal.”

Moody didn’t answer right away. Then Harry heard him snort. “Been holding out on me, Potter?” Of course Moody was aware that even familiars weren’t smart enough to serve as reliable scouts. That left only one option.

“There was no need for you to know,” Harry retorted.

That caused Moody to chuckle. “Smart boy. Do your thing.”

Harry nodded and flicked his wand, conjuring a tiny snake. Small enough to slip through the crack under the old door. “Go and see if there are humans inside, then come back and tell me!” he ordered it in Parseltongue.

The snake slithered off without a response. Harry tracked it as it crossed the wardline without trouble, then reached the door and disappeared inside.

Five minutes later, it left the cottage again and returned to him. “No humans inside, Master. Only mice.”

“What did the snake say?” Moody asked.

“There’s no one inside,” Harry answered as he dispelled the snake.

Moody grunted again. “Looks like we’ll get a Curse-Breaker then, and set a trap for the scum. Good work, Potter.”

*****​

South-West of Hereford, Herefordshire, Britain, October 14th, 1998

It didn’t take Moody longer than twenty minutes to return to the cottage with a Curse-Breaker. “Abigail Smith,” the witch introduced herself.

“Harry Potter,” he introduced himself, noticing that her smile was more than slightly crooked.

“Ron Weasley.”

Smith must have noticed Harry’s glance since she added: “Part of my face’s numb. Caught a stray curse ten years ago. It’s why Moody likes to drag me into these secret operations.”

“I picked you because you can keep your mouth shut!” Moody growled. “And certainly not to chit-chat with lads half your age.”

She had to know him very well - she snorted in response. “Yeah, yeah. Now show me this cottage.”

“It’s right there. Don’t disturb the grass.” Moody pointed at the cottage.

The witch walked right up to the wardline, then crouched down, steadying herself with a hand on the tree trunk next to her. She flicked her wand and started to mumble. “Hm. Fairly simple spells. But old ones.”

“Told you that already,” Moody growled.

“I check everything myself. Constant Vigilance, right?” She snorted again.

Moody grunted.

“So, how long will it take you?” Harry asked.

“Afraid you’ll be late for a date, Potter?” Moody asked.

“He should be,” Ron cut in. “Hermione’s got a temper, and she hates when we don’t call ahead if we’re going to be late.”

Harry glared at his friend.

“It’ll take me a couple of hours, at least,” Smith said. “I’ll know more once I’ve finished analysing the ward scheme. Breaching wards without taking them down is a delicate matter. Can’t rush or brute-force it. You have to attune yourself to the wards. Which is,” she added, “quite dangerous, too, even for these rather simple wards, so you better take a few steps back and don’t disturb me.”

Moody scoffed. “You’re too skilled to mess up on something like this.”

“It’s the curse you think you know that kills you,” she retorted. In a more serious voice, she said: “Move back!”

They moved back. And waited. And called Grimmauld Place.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 14th, 1998

“What made you late?” Hermione asked as soon as Kreacher had served dinner.

“Ah...” Harry Potter began, putting down his fork. How best to word that without betraying secrets?

“We found the cottage we’ve been looking for and had to wait for a Curse-Breaker to get us through the wards,” Ron explained.

Harry glanced at Ron, but his friend was busy getting more bread from the basket.

“You didn’t take the wards down, then? Trying to trap the Death Eaters?” Hermione frowned as she cut her entrecôte. “Wouldn’t that require a constant guard on the cottage?”

For someone as challenged in Defence as his best friend, she knew a lot about Auror tactics, Harry thought. But then, she had helped him study for the entrance exam. “We just set up a long-distance alarm charm,” he explained.

“A ‘long-distance alarm charm’? How does that work?” she asked, leaning forward.

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. Moody set it up.”

“He stuck a coin to the underside of the table,” Ron explained. Harry’s friend was really a little too free with such information, Harry thought.

Hermione pondered this as she chewed. “Probably a Protean Charm, or something similar, linked to a detection charm. Sounds a little simple.”

“Moody picked it,” Harry retorted, “so I doubt it’s that simple.”

Hermione sniffed but didn’t try to prove him wrong, for a change. She ate another bite, then said: “Oh, I’ll be in France for a few days.”

Harry blinked. “In France? What for?”

Jeanne answered that. “She’s handling a few family issues for me. I’d do it myself, but I don’t want any rumours about me leaving Sirius or hiding in France to start.”

“Skeeter’s still in Azkaban,” Ron said.

“That only affects the Daily Prophet.” Sirius scoffed. “The Wizengamot rumour mill is as bad as the Hogwarts one.”

“Worse,” Hermione said. “I expect that, a day or two after tomorrow, a rumour about Jeanne firing me for having an affair with Sirius will circulate among the Wizengamot aides.”

“You really should legalise duels,” Jeanne remarked.

That was right, Harry realised - duels were legal in France. And Hermione’s skill in duelling was worse than her skill in Defence. He narrowed his eyes at her. “Promise me that you’ll be very polite during your trip!”

“What?” She stared at him.

“I mean it,” he insisted. “If anyone over there feels insulted, and challenges you to a duel…” He shook his head and checked the clock on the wall. “We should go over the basics of duelling. We still have some time.”

“Before midnight,” Ron added.

“She’ll be fine,” Jeanne said, frowning at Harry. “I’ve told you before - you can’t simply challenge people to a duel; it’s just not done.”

“And I’m not the kind of witch to insult people, anyway,” Hermione told him.

Harry managed to cough instead of blurting out his first response to that statement. She still glared at him. He grinned at her. “Well, if you’re leaving for a few days, then we’ll have to do some Defence training after dinner. Can’t let it lapse, can we?”

She always did better in their lessons when she was angry.

*****​

Bulstrode Manor, Berkshire, Britain, October 15th, 1998

Hermione Granger was a beautiful cat. Well-groomed and always graceful. Proud and skilled. But she was also a cat on a mission. And for that, she had to appear weak and in need of help. Miserable enough for Millicent Bulstrode to take her into her home.

And so she - very reluctantly and with great distaste - rolled over the earth in the woods surrounding Bulstrode Manor until her beautiful fur had collected specks of dirt, and even stray twigs and parts of fallen leaves, as if she were a stray fallen on hard times. Resisting the urge to groom herself was hard, but she managed - she was a cat on a mission. And the sheer wrongness of her appearance - fortunately, her fur was, again, dyed black thanks to a potion so she wouldn’t be recognised - made it easier to play her role. She certainly felt miserable when she approached the manor’s wardline, going to the same spot near the gardens where she had met Bulstrode before, and waited for her mark to appear.

And waited. And waited. Bulstrode was late today, Hermione thought. The witch should have let out her pampered tomcat hours ago! She was starting to get hungry, too. And the sky was getting cloudy.

But the worst thing was that there was nothing to distract her. She had studied the manor’s exterior extensively already. Even the sharp eyes of a cat couldn’t spot anything she hadn’t noticed before: the door to the kitchen, the ivy covering parts of the southern wall - a ready-made route to the roof, from which she could easily reach any windowsill or balcony on the upper floor - and the porch overlooking the garden, with the glass doors - reinforced by spells, of course - leading into a large hall behind it.

There wasn’t even a grasshopper or mouse to distract her, she lamented as she hung her head - and jerked, eyes wide. No!

Yes. Another raindrop hit her head. And another her shoulder. Large, heavy, cold ones. She shook her fur, but more and more icy, watery bombs rained down upon her. Her first instinct was to retreat to the forest, change back and conjure a roof over her head. Or take out her tent. She could always come back once the rain was gone.

But she was on a mission. Bulstrode might let Matheus out once the rain stopped - her sorry excuse for a cat certainly could use the exercise - and even a dull witch like Bulstrode might wonder why Hermione wasn’t wet and miserable shortly after such a rainstorm.

On the other hand, no sane cat would remain in the open in this weather - the ground was becoming wet already! That would mean mud on her paws and fur!

She dashed towards the forest. The trees had lost their leaves, but there was enough undergrowth with foliage left to still offer some shelter against the rain.

Some shelter, she thought half an hour later. Some insufficient, useless parody of shelter. The leaves of the bush under which she was hiding collected the raindrops into little streams of cold water that fell down on her like a miniature waterfall. And each time she moved a little to avoid the icy shower, her paws dug deeper into the mud. She was in hell. In a cold, wet hell for cats.

But she knew one thing: If the dog joked about what she had had to suffer through for this heist, she would claw his nose off!

*****​

Hermione Granger almost missed that the rain had ended. She was thoroughly soaked, cold and it seemed that no matter how she moved, some water was always hitting her face. But she finally noticed the amount of cold water dropping on her had lessened. And when she raised her head to look at the garden in front of her, she noticed that the puddles weren’t being hit by raindrops at all - the rain had stopped!

She shot out from under the bush - whose foliage was still directing its collected water towards her - and into the garden, where she shook herself, then started to get the water out of her fur.

She had barely begun when she heard the door to the manor’s kitchen open, followed by Bulstrode’s loud voice: “What’s the matter, Matheus? It’s stopped raining; don’t you want to go out into the garden?”

Hermione dashed forward to the wardline. If that stupid tomcat decided to stay inside, making her wait even longer in this muddy feline hell, she would claw his eyes out next time she caught him!

But no, for once, luck was with her - the huge, ungainly form of Bulstrode, herding that pampered house cat towards the garden, soon appeared in Hermione’s view. And she in Bulstrode’s.

Hermione put on the best miserable, pitiful expression she could - which didn’t require much of an effort - and miaowed.

“Merlin’s beard! Were you caught in the rain, you poor thing?” Bulstrode exclaimed.

Hermione miaowed again.

“You’ll freeze to death out here! Come on, I’ll take you in!”

Hermione almost purred when she heard the witch. Part one of her mission was accomplished.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, October 15th, 1998

Harry Potter frowned as he looked at the clock on the wall in the break room. It reminded him that he could have gone home early today, thanks to the overtime he did yesterday, but there wasn’t much point in doing so. Hermione was already in Magical France on that errand for Jeanne. At least she would be safe there. He glanced at Ron, but his friend was busy talking to Luna on their mirror. The privacy charm Ron had cast before activating the mirror prevented Harry from overhearing their conversation, but given that Ron had used such a charm, Harry was probably better off not knowing what they were talking about.

Even if it served to remind him that he was still single because Hermione apparently was shyer than he had thought. For all her often blunt honesty when it concerned academics, politics or his life, she refused to say anything about the attraction between them. Maybe he should reconsider his decision…

The door opened, and he had drawn his wand before he recognised the witch entering. He smoothly - more or less - moved his wand before she could realise that it was pointed at her and summoned the teapot. “Hey, Bathilda. Come, sit down!”

“Thanks!” She flashed him a smile and took a seat opposite him, glancing at Ron, who was reholstering his wand, attention already focused on the mirror again.

“He’s talking to his girlfriend at Hogwarts,” Harry explained. “Privately.”

“Ah.” She summoned her own cup from the rack and filled it. “Must be nice to have a mirror like that.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s nicer to have a girlfriend. I mean,” he caught himself, “it wouldn’t be much good without someone you really want to talk to every day, but can’t visit.”

“In other words, a Hogwarts student.” She grinned.

“Or someone in a foreign country,” Harry added.

“It works over such a distance?” She looked more impressed than envious now, he noted.

“I don’t actually know,” Harry admitted. “I’d have to ask Sirius.”

“Ah.” She leaned back, sipping from her cup. “So, how’s working with Mad-Eye? Heard you pulled an all-nighter yesterday.”

“No. Just a couple hours overtime,” Harry corrected her. “Chased a lead, which turned out to be a bust.” Bathilda didn’t need to know about the cottage.

“Tough.” She nodded in apparent sympathy.

“What about you?” Harry asked when she didn’t say anything else.

She shrugged. “The usual. Dawlish’s keeping me busy with all kinds of paperwork - says it’s best to learn that when you don’t need to actually file it. Fewer mistakes and less stress.”

Harry chuckled. “In other words, boring busywork.”

She laughed. “Exactly. But I now know how to correctly request a sailing yacht from Supplies.”

“A sailing yacht?” They had a sailing yacht in storage? He raised his eyebrows at her.

“Yes. Apparently, a hundred years ago, the then Department Head decided that a sailing yacht was exactly what the DMLE needed.”

More like what the Department Head decided they wanted, Harry thought as he shook his head.

“I’m sure I can find something even weirder if I look through all our forms.” Bathilda grinned.

“Wouldn’t surprise me. And that’s not counting the vaults in the Department of Mysteries.” He saw her frown at that and tilted his head slightly. “Something wrong?”

“No.” She snorted, then brushed back a lock of her hair and blew on her tea. “It just reminded me of Gringotts.”

“The vaults?”

“Yes. With all the tension, my family worries about our gold in their vaults. What if they declare war and take it? We’d stomp the little buggers flat, but that wouldn’t get us back our gold if they’d already spent it.”

“Ah.” He nodded and refilled his own cup.

“And we don’t have a vault at home so we can’t take out too much gold; it wouldn’t be safe. Not with that master thief on the loose.” Bathilda pressed her lips together.

She shared Dawlish’s opinion about the burglary in Knockturn Alley, Harry noted. “Tough.” He felt slightly guilty - the Blacks had secure vaults at home. Although he hadn’t thought of transferring the Potter gold there. Maybe he should.

“Yeah. I’ve heard that some of the Old Families offer the use of their manors’ vaults to their lesser relatives. But we aren’t related to an Old Family, so that’s not an option.” She scoffed. “Probably wouldn’t be worth it, anyway.”

“What?” Harry frowned. “If they’re charging money for the use of their vaults, then that would violate the treaty with Gringotts.” And breaking the goblins’ monopoly on banking would certainly be a casus belli.

“They don’t charge gold, but we’d owe them a favour. And they would get to decide when we’d paid them back.” Bathilda sighed.

Especially with their gold held in someone else’s vault. Harry shook his head at the mess, and once more felt slightly guilty about the privileges he had thanks to being Sirius’s nephew.

*****​

Bulstrode Manor, Berkshire, Britain, October 15th, 1998

Harry should take a few lessons from Bulstrode in how to treat a stray, Hermione Granger thought as she finished the bowl of finely cut chicken meat, garnished with some freshly cut herbs from the garden, before sitting down on the soft silken cushion she had been given. The witch certainly knew how to make a cat feel at home.

“There you go!” Bulstrode cooed. “Now you’re looking like a fine cat again!”

Hermione sniffed. Her bedraggled appearance had been planned, not an accident.

“Are you still cold?” Bulstrode drew her wand and Hermione flinched. “Oh, don’t be scared! I’m just checking your health. This is a wand, not some stick. I bet those dirty muggles hit you!”

Bulstrode knew how to treat a cat, but she was still a bigot. Hermione reminded herself that she shouldn’t feel guilty for exploiting the witch’s fondness for cats. She was here for a heist, not to be pampered. That didn’t mean, of course, that she wouldn’t learn that Fur-Cleaning Charm that made baths obsolete at the first opportunity - Crookshanks would adore it; he loathed it when she had to use the Scouring Charm on his fur.

*****​

A nice, long nap on that soft, warm cushion later, Hermione Granger was on the prowl. She had a new territory to explore, and a heist to pull off. Or, at least, a heist to prepare. Tail and head held high, she left Bulstrode’s room. Matheus was in the corridor, half-hidden behind a drape there, and greeted her with a hiss. She growled and took a few steps towards him, which was enough to make him run away as if his tail were on fire. Stupid tomcat.

Bulstrode Manor was large - larger than Grimmauld Place by far - but as Hermione strolled through the corridors and peered in the rooms with open doors she passed, she couldn’t make out any signs of Extension Charms being used. Not many doors were open, though. At least not on the first floor, where her mark and the rest of her family had their rooms.

Downstairs, though, things were different. She already knew her way to the kitchen and investigated the dining room on the way there. A house-elf was setting the table, struggling with the heavy china and silverware. She stopped to check where they would be stored - they were so coming with her once she left this house - and made a mental note before continuing on her way.

As she had expected, the ground floor housed more people. Either guests not worthy of the guest rooms on the first floor, or hired help. She bet on the latter, and since the Bulstrodes had at least one house-elf in their employ, that probably meant guards.

Following the chatter her fine ears picked up from far away, she quickly found the servant’s quarters and peered inside through the gap left by the door. Indeed, the half a dozen wizards and witches sitting around a table, playing cards, certainly didn’t look like house servants. They looked as if they were a class above the kind of thug you found in Knockturn Alley. But they also were, across the band, taller than average, and more muscled. And there was a faint but definite resemblance to the owners of the manor.

It looked like the Bulstrodes liked to keep their security in the - albeit distant - family, Hermione deduced. That didn’t change anything, of course. She snuck inside and looked around. Eight beds in alcoves - the first Extension Charms she spotted - and all looked used. No sign of a kitchen, so they’d be fed by the regular staff. No sign of a schedule or map with patrol routes either, though. She hated it when people were so unorganised.

“Hey! What’s that?” She looked up. One of the guards was pointing his wand at her.

“Stow it, you fool!” another, older guard snapped. “Do you want to tell Millicent you cursed her cat?”

“She’d break you in half,” a third added with a chuckle.

“That’s not her cat,” the first insisted.

“It’s her new cat. The girl found a stray shivering in the rain today and adopted her on the spot,” the older guard explained.

The third snorted. “Must be a stupid cat to not get out of the rain. I bet it’s eating better than we do, though.”

She took a few steps forward and made as if to paw at the wand still aimed at her.

“Hey!” The wand was hastily withdrawn while the other guards laughed and Hermione strolled out of the room. There were more parts of the manor to explore.

*****​

“Another cat! As if one weren’t enough already!”

Bulstrode’s father was huge. Not as huge as Hagrid, but he was easily the second-largest man Hermione Granger had seen to date. He made Bulstrode appear dainty, and his wife, while on the taller side, looked positively petite next to him.

And he didn’t like cats! She stretched in her spot near the door to show that she didn’t care about his opinion.

“I found her in the rain, all hungry and shivering. She must have run away from muggles - her fur was too well-groomed for her to have grown up in the wild.”

The brute grunted. “Nothing good comes from muggles!”

Hermione glared at him.

“She’s a cat, not a mudblood, father!” Bulstrode said, stating the obvious and displaying her bigotry at the same time. Hermione didn’t feel as bad about robbing them blind now. Not that that would have stopped her anyway - not only had they framed her and tried to ruin her family, but she knew what they and their friends were doing to prevent the direly needed reform of Wizarding Britain.

“And she looks cute,” the mother added, “if a little bushy. You’ll have to brush her daily.”

“Black cats bring bad luck,” the father grumbled.

“That’s a muggle superstition, mon chéri,” the mother chided him. Hermione took note of the form of address.

Which settled the discussion. Hermione hoped to hear more interesting information, but the rest of the talk was about Bulstrode’s brother Eric, who was currently on his Grand Tour - for the second year - and apparently reluctant to return home just because - or perhaps because, Hermione added - a number of Death Eaters might be threatening the family.

She stayed anyway and let Bulstrode pick her up and carry her to her room. To keep up the charade, of course - she wasn’t a pampered, spoiled house cat like Matheus.

*****​

Hermione Granger sneaked out of Bulstrode’s room, waited until the guard passing in the corridor had turned the corner leading to the stairs, checked left and right - no sign or whiff of that tomcat - and changed. A moment later, she was standing there, clad in her catsuit, mask on, and stretched, back in her human body for the first time since that morning. As she had observed as a cat, the guard would return in fifteen minutes; ample time to search the first floor for curses and traps, and enter the rooms she hadn’t been able to explore as a cat. Fortunately, there were very few portraits. That would facilitate her mission.

Somewhere on this floor had to be the library.

She activated the detection spells on her mask, disillusioned herself and studied the corridor. No spells on the ground - she expected that - but the windows were secured with strong charms and curses, as far as she could tell from a quick glance. The drapes, though, were free of spells and would make good hiding spots for a cat who wasn’t as inept as Matheus.

Fourteen minutes left. She checked the rooms next to Bulstrode’s. One was larger and filled with Quidditch paraphernalia - all of it Puddlemere United but for last year’s Holyhead Harpies Calendar - and haphazardly arranged books and magazines. That had to be Bulstrode’s brother’s room. The other was a smaller room, furnished and decorated in that impersonal style shared by guest rooms and hotel rooms the world over. No spells on either door, but Bulstrode Jr’s desk was covered with spells. Ineptly cast spells, she quickly realised, probably by the owner himself. It was unlikely to be hiding anything of value, she thought, but if she had time during the heist, she would check it anyway.

Ten minutes left. She sneaked over to the other wing, past the two guards in the centre who were paying more attention to their whispered dispute over Quidditch than to their surroundings. Another guest room, and another and - finally - the manor’s library. To think the Bulstrodes were keeping their books in a room past the guest rooms! Barbarians! Those books would find a better home in her own library! Even though it would take some time to get through the spells guarding them.

Four minutes left. She quickly checked the remaining two rooms - a study and a music room, which surprised her - then changed when she heard footsteps on the stairs nearby. When the guard turned the corner, a clever cat was hidden behind the drapes in the corridors.

It took the guard two minutes to pass through both wings. Rather sloppy, she thought. Not that she was complaining. But enough time for a fleet-footed cat to dash downstairs and hide behind the pillar in the entrance hall, next to that heavily guarded door leading to the basement. She watched the guard descend from the first floor, pass the fireplace - where the Bulstrodes had very recently installed a Thief’s Downfall, which must have cost a fortune - and take up a spot next to the main door. A minute later, the other guard standing there went outside for his own patrol, complaining about the cold as if there were no warming charms to deal with that.

She studied the angles and fields of visions, then nodded. Even as a human, she wouldn’t be visible from the entrance when she stood right behind the pillar. And any marker from the Human-Presence-revealing Spell would also be hidden. Sloppy architecture. But then, not many would be able to reach the pillar unseen. And the guard would only have to stretch his legs a little to spot her.

She changed and activated her detection spells again, then silently hissed. Those were heavy wards - and just on the door leading down to the basement. And she would only be able to study them in increments of ten minutes, between the patrols of the guards at the door. Analysing the spells might take her all night.

Although, she thought as she pointed her wand at the door, Bulstrode would certainly let a sleeping cat sleep.

*****​

Four hours and sixteen interruptions later, a very tired cat padded into the kitchen and approached her water bowl. She changed, vanished the water in the bowl, then pulled out a vial from one of her suit’s enchanted pockets. She crouched down and carefully tipped the vial, filling the bowl with the Hair - or, in this case, Fur - Dyeing Potion.

A minute later, the bowl was licked clean, and a black cat was on her way back to Bulstrode’s room for a very well-deserved nap.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 16th, 1998

Sitting at the kitchen table, Harry Potter was reading the latest issue of the Daily Prophet when he felt four light pricks on his leg. “You’ve been fed,” he said, without looking down.

He felt another four, not so light, pricks. And a slight tugging.

This time he looked down. “Crookshanks, Hermione will be annoyed with me if you gain too much weight in her absence.”

In response, the fat, ugly monster got up on his hind legs, putting both front paws on his thigh, and miaowed. It wasn’t very moving - but all the tomcat’s claws were out, and if Harry pushed him away, he would leave scratches on his thigh and trousers. And Crookshanks wouldn’t stop anyway.

Sighing, Harry gave in. “Alright, let me get up and get you another bowl of food.”

Crookshanks released his leg at once and dashed to his feeding bowl, tail twitching eagerly. It was peculiar, Harry mused as he filled the bowl with more of the gourmet cat food Hermione insisted they bought, that Crookshanks could understand him perfectly when it was about food, but never when it concerned shredded furniture.

The fat cat dug in without acknowledging him, and Harry shook his head. “I wish Hermione were back already, you know?”

The cat didn’t react in any way.

“Not just because she would be taking care of you, of course. I miss her.” Harry bent down. “You also miss her, don’t you?”

Crookshanks didn’t even look up at him.

Snorting, Harry straightened. “Well, at least you’ve never tried to eat Mr Biggles.”

A barking noise drew his attention. Hedwig was staring at him, then turned her head to stare at her bowl.

Harry closed his eyes. “Not you, too. You’ll get too fat to fly if you try to match Crookshanks!”

His jealous owl just barked again.

*****​

Bulstrode Manor, Berkshire, Britain, October 17th, 1998

Hermione Granger had everything worked out. The guards’ schedule, their patrol routes, their locations and even their names. The house-elf quarters. The portraits she’d have to vanish. And her own route and timing. And that there were no ghosts to worry about. All that was left was waiting until Bulstrode’s mother stopped by to check on the witch on her way to bed, and Hermione could start the heist. If only Bulstrode wasn’t reading a stupid robe-ripper! After thirty minutes of listening to the witch gasp and giggle, Hermione was very tempted to spoil the ending for her. Or simply change and stun her.

Finally, the mother made her appearance, inquired after the stupid tomcat, petted her, told Bulstrode not to stay up too long and retired to her own bedroom.

Hermione waited ten more minutes, just in case, then changed and stunned the witch before Bulstrode even noticed her. Hermione checked her watch, stunned Bulstrode again - the family had a giant among their ancestors, and those were resistant to magic, after all - then changed again and sneaked out to wait behind the drapes at the corner, outside the field of view of any of the paintings, until the first patrol passed her.

She couldn’t just stun the guard from behind, alas - they checked in with each other at each corner. She had to time this just right. And this was the wrong guard anyway.

Fifteen minutes later, she spotted another guard approaching. The one who had complained about the food. Perfect! She crouched down, pressing her belly against the carpet and tucking in her paws, until the man had passed her. And as soon as he had tapped the enchanted necklace he wore and told the others where he was, she rose, changing in a smooth motion, and silently stunned him from behind.

She managed to catch him before he fell to the ground with a levitation spell cast on his clothing and then levitated him to the next guest room. The clock was ticking. She quickly cast another Stunner and a full Body-Bind Curse, followed by conjured ropes for good measure - he was a Bulstrode too, if distantly related - then plucked one of his hairs and dashed out of the room. She managed to retrieve and prime the vial of Polyjuice Potion while running, only stopping to pull out a spare robe and change it into the guard’s robes before swallowing the potion - drinking that particular potion while running would only end up with her on the floor in a tangled heap of limbs; she knew that from experience.

Even so, she was just thirty seconds behind the man’s usual time when she reached the stairs leading down to the entrance hall.

And, as she had expected, the other guard hadn’t even noticed the slight delay - he was too busy casting Warming Charms. Another Stunner took him down when he opened the door. She quickly stunned him again, vanished the sleeping portrait overlooking the entrance hall, then pulled the guard outside and bound him - his charms would keep him from freezing.

Two down. And ten minutes left until the next check-in. She rushed to the guards’ quarters.

She cleared her throat, pulled out a box from her pockets and entered. “Hey!” she called out, her new, deep voice sounding strange to her ears.

“Anton?” The oldest guard glared at her. “What are you doing here?”

She frowned at him. “I’m here to share a little gift from the elves.” She held the box up. “A perfectly good cake that Basilus didn’t like.”

“Oh!” One of the guards shot up and reached for the box. “Let’s see what it is!”

‘It’ was a perfectly duplicated chocolate cake that the Bulstrodes had enjoyed after dinner, but the guards didn’t know that. And neither did they know that it was laced with Sleeping Draught.

“Don’t be greedy!” she admonished the man. “There’s enough for everyone.”

“Leave some for the others,” the old guard - Theo - ordered.

“I’ll bring them a slice each on my next patrol,” Hermione said, picking up a slice for herself as two eager men reached for the box. But the guard in charge and the witch on the bed in the alcove to the left didn’t look like they would be eating.

So she faked taking a bite, waited until the two guards with her dropped unconscious, and let herself collapse as well.

“Merlin’s Arse!” the old guard shouted. “Someone poisoned the cake!”

“I’ve got a bezoar!” Hermione heard the witch yell. Perfect.

When someone grabbed her shoulder and turned her around, she just had to point her wand and cast. The witch who had been about to stuff a bezoar down her throat collapsed. She flicked her wand around and her next Stunner caught the old guard in the process of trying to help the other guards.

Six down. Two to go. Four minutes left. She double-stunned and bound all four, conjured a plate, put two slices on it, and went off to deal with the remaining guards on the first floor.

She found them with their wands drawn. “You’re late,” the witch told her.

“The elves gave us some leftover cake,” she replied, holding out the tray.

Ten minutes later, after having also taken care of the house-elves, she was breaking through the wards on the main bedroom. They were strong and well-cast, but not particularly inventive. It took her half an hour to open the door, and thirty seconds to stun the sleeping Basilus Bulstrode and his French wife.

And five minutes to secure the huge wizard to a conjured metal chair with chains even a half-giant wouldn’t be able to break.

Hermione smiled as she pointed her wand at him.

“Ennervate!”

*****​

 

Chapter 42: Redress

Bulstrode Manor, Berkshire, Britain, October 17th, 1998

Basilus Bulstrode froze as soon as he opened his eyes. He wasn’t in his bed. This was his bedroom, he could tell even in the dim lighting that left most of it in shadow, but he wasn’t in his bed; he was sitting on a cold chair - and he couldn’t move; he was bound to it. He tried to break free - he knew how strong he was - but the bindings - chains - didn’t give, and the chair didn’t even creak - it was massive and made from steel. Where was Marie? “Marie?” he yelled, craning his neck to check his bed, but he could only see the corner on his side. What had happened to her? “Marie!”

“She’s stunned.”

What? He whipped his head around and gasped as he saw a figure wearing dark robes and a mask stepping out of the shadows. A Death Eater! The Lestranges had broken into his manor. He was dead! His family was dead! He struggled against the chains again, grunting when the links bit into his skin, drawing blood. He’d not die like a sheep!

The figure cleared their throat. No, her throat - the tight garment she was wearing made that clear. Those weren’t Death Eater robes. And that black, shining mask with the stripes wasn’t a Death Eater mask. He should have realised that right away!

“Hello, Mr Bulstrode,” she said, amusement clearly audible in her tone. “I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you.”

“Who’re you?” he snapped.

She chuckled and shook her head. “If I wanted you to know who I am, would I be wearing a mask?”

He clenched his teeth, glaring at her. No one mocked him! The Bulstrodes were an Old Family! A pureblood family, despite the rumours about their distant ancestors! “What do you want?”

“That’s a better question.”

She reached out, and he flinched, then took control of himself. He wouldn’t show fear. He was Basilus Bulstrode. Head of an Old Family. He had his pride.

Her gloved fingers patted his head. “Good boy.”

“Don’t mock me!” He jerked his head away, and she giggled. He felt a cold shiver run down his spine. Could she be…? No. The figure was wrong. And Bellatrix would never, ever wear such obviously muggle clothes.

“Aw, but it is so tempting! I finally have you at my mercy! And there’s so much to mock! I don’t even know where to start!”

“Who’re you?” She obviously had a grudge against him. This was personal for her.

“The same question again! Did you know that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over but expecting different results?”

“What?” He blinked.

She shook her head and sighed theatrically. “Never mind. Obviously, such a joke is beyond your poor, limited wit.”

He ground his teeth at the insult. “What do you want?” Who was this witch? The clothes would indicate a mudblood, but what mudblood would be able to break into his manor? And why? And where were his guards? His eyes widened when he suddenly understood.

He had been betrayed! His guards must have let this witch in. They were behind this. Those traitors! He snarled. “You’ll pay for this! All of you!”

She cocked her head at him, one hand on her hip. “And why, pray tell, would you say that? I have you at my mercy. I can do anything I want to you!” She reached out again, this time to flick his nose.

“But you don’t have my son! Even if you kill me, he’ll avenge me!” He grinned at her, baring his teeth. To think that he would be happy that Eric had refused to return home when Basilius had told him to! But Eric was safe! If only Millicent had gone on a Grand Tour as well! “You won’t escape justice! Not for this! No matter who’s behind you!” This wasn’t done to an Old Family!

She laughed. “Oh, this is great. You think I’m some pawn, working for someone - maybe a rival family, yes?”

He clenched his teeth. She was working for his distant kin. She had to be.

“But you’re wrong! No one sent me.” She leaned forward and grabbed his hair, forcing his head back, and whispered into his ear. “I’m here for revenge!”

She was surprisingly strong for her size. Was she a bastard of his? Not a mudblood but a half-blood? But he had always been careful. Even during the war. And why would she be so angry at him? “Revenge? Who’re you? What have I done to you?”

She released him and took a step back, tapping her mask with one finger. Then she slowly nodded. “I suppose it’s only fair to tell you why I’m here.” She tilted her head and twirled her wand between her fingers, then pointed it at him. “You tried to ruin my family. You tried to destroy me. You failed.”

He was sweating. Who was this madwoman? He couldn’t think of any Old Family he had wronged like she claimed. Who’d do this? This had to be a plot. “What do you want from me?”

“What do I want?” She laughed and spread her arms. “Everything!”

“What?” He stared at her. Was she going to kill him? And his family? No!

She reached into a pouch on her belt - enchanted, he noted - and pulled out a vial. He stared at it as she stepped up to him once more, shaking it. “And you’ll help me with that.”

Veritaserum! He clenched his teeth and pressed his lips together. He wouldn’t tell her anything!

She laughed in his face. “Do you really think that you can stop me?”

Her wand swished, and he felt his mouth open against his will. “A simple prank spell - the Hanging-Jaw Jinx.”

He tried to curse her, but he could only make incoherent noises as his chair was tilted back and she slowly tipped the vial above his head until he felt three drops hit his tongue.

*****​

Bulstrode Manor, Berkshire, Britain, October 18th, 1998

“...and that concludes our conversation. Thank you for your cooperation!”

Hermione Granger took a bow, even though the wizard chained to the chair in front of her was still under the effects of Veritaserum, and wouldn’t appreciate it. She had waited too long for this moment not to savour it. That was why she had stepped under the Thief’s Downfall - she wanted to confront Mr Bulstrode in her own body, not disguised as a guard. She wanted him to see who had beaten him.

She tapped the side of her mask and signalled the others. “I’m coming out to let you in.”

“What took you so long?”

She huffed. “I had to ensure that I knew how to get you through the wards safely,” she told the dog, shaking her head. Dogs had no patience - and no sense.

She waved her wand, undoing the Sticking Charm on the chair, then cast a Levitation Charm on it. Mr Bulstrode might have a - slight - resistance to magic, thanks to his ancestry, but the chair she had conjured didn’t.

Manoeuvring the chair with its sedated passenger to the ground floor proved a little harder than she had anticipated - the sheer size of the man and his chair made it very unwieldy - but nothing beyond her skills. She soon stepped out of the front door and approached the wardline, the bound wizard trailing behind her.

Sirius and Mr Fletcher were waiting for her at the wardline. Her tutor had his wand - he had been studying the wards. At his nod, she floated the chair and its passenger through the wards.

“Alright, looks like it’ll work.” Mr Fletcher stepped forward and sat on Mr Bulstrode’s lap. “Let’s test it.”

Hermione took a deep breath. If she had made a mistake, if Mr Bulstrode had managed to lie to her… But Mr Fletcher knew all that and trusted her. And he had checked the wards himself. She flicked her wand and directed the chair back to her spot, holding her breath.

Nothing happened. As soon as the chair was clear of the wardline, Mr Fletcher climbed off. “Good work.”

She nodded, smiling happily under her mask as she sent their captive back to fetch Sirius - who, of course, complained about having to sit in a man’s lap.

Dogs. No sense of priorities.

“The entrance to the vault’s back there,” she told them as soon as they entered the entrance hall. “But we’ll need Bulstrode to open the actual vault.” Or spend hours they didn’t have on cracking the defences and protections.

“Alright,” Fletcher said. “Let’s see if your plan works here as well.”

“I still object to my role in this plan,” the dog complained.

She glared at him. “We can switch our roles if you prefer.” They couldn’t, not really. But she knew how he’d react.

He shuddered. “No, thanks.”

She snorted. “Thought so. Here.” She handed him another vial from her pouch and took out one for herself. Mr Fletcher had brought his own.

A sip and a quick Transfiguration later, she was a perfect copy of Bulstrode’s wife, wearing her favourite house robe and looking at a pouting daughter and a snotty elder wizard she didn’t know but Mr Fletcher said was a representative of Gringotts.

Then she vanished the chains and the chair, transfigured Mr Bulstrode’s nightshift into a robe and administered the counter-agent to the Veritaserum - though he seemed to be coming around anyway. As soon as he started to blink, she hit him with a series of Confundus Charms. A half a dozen should be enough to overcome whatever innate resistance his giant blood granted him.

Time to play her role. “Mon chéri? Mon chéri?” she said, imitating Marie’s faint accent.

“Uh…” He blinked. “What?”

“The gold, mon chéri. Mr Fulmar has arrived to receive it. You wouldn’t want Eric to remain imprisoned in Algiers for not paying his fines, would you?”

“What?”

“Eric, our son. He needs you to pay the fines so he’ll be released from prison in Algiers. Remember? We talked about it all of yesterday. You were so angry that you scared Millicent’s cat.” Hermione looked at Sirius.

The disguised wizard nodded. “Yes, Father. It took me an hour to calm him down again.”

“Stupid cat,” Bulstrode mumbled. “Stupid son.”

“Yes,” Hermione said - Bulstrode was certainly right about Matheus, and probably about his son, too - “but Eric needs the gold. And it isn’t that much. He’d be able to pay the fines if he hadn’t been gambling.”

“Fool!” Bulstrode grunted.

“Please, mon chéri.” She pointed at the door and forced herself to smile sweetly at the confunded wizard.

He grunted again but finally started to move. It took him two tries to tap the correct spot on the door, and he almost fell down the stairs behind it, but they managed to arrive safely in the basement.

He ignored the strongbox there, heading towards the back. As Hermione had expected, the actual vault was hidden behind a fake wall which swung around and disappeared as he tapped a brick several times in rapid succession - she noted the sequence.

There it was! The Bulstrode family’s vault! Hermione had to struggle not to cackle in triumph when - eventually, after two failures - their duped victim managed to insert his wand into the right opening while putting his free hand on a spot in the centre of the vault door.

A moment later, the door slowly swung open, revealing the stored riches of the Bulstrodes.

Hermione almost squealed with pleasure at the sight of the mounds of gold inside.

“Hmph. I expected more.” Of course, the dog had to point out that the Blacks were far richer!

“Huh?” Bulstrode turned towards his ‘daughter’.

Hermione stunned him twice, then glared at the dog, who ignored her in favour of poking at his borrowed body. She sighed, then turned back to the vault. They couldn’t enter; the protections wouldn’t let them, only the one who actually opened the vault could.

But the protections wouldn’t stop them from levitating and summoning the gold out of the vault while Bulstrode’s unconscious body served as a door stopper.

*****​

Hermione Granger ran through her mental checklist as she walked along one of the corridors on the first floor. They had emptied out the vault - mostly gold and other easily portable valuables. Not that Shrinking Charms and extended pockets cared much about portability. Mr Fletcher was dismantling the Thief’s Downfall in the entrance hall. She had the library in one of her pockets. And Sirius had gone through Bulstrode’s study, taking all his records.

That left the furniture - and the china and silverware, of course - though the sun was already about to rise. She snorted - there wouldn’t be any visitors until at least nine. And she would hate to do a lackadaisical job for her first revenge heist on the Old Families.

Grinning, she flicked her wand and started to summon and shrink the expensive-looking furniture in the corridor before vanishing the rest. Then she did the same in the entrance hall.

It wouldn’t do to leave the work half-done, after all. Although she did leave the rather graphic letters Eric Bulstrode had hidden in his desk in his room. And she vanished that damn robe-ripper of his sister’s with a vengeance.

“Are we done yet?” the dog complained as she rejoined the others in the entrance hall.

“Almost,” she said, after a glance at Mr Fletcher, to see if he wanted to explain this. “We still need to obliviate Basilus Bulstrode and Matheus.”

“Who is Matheus?” the dog asked.

“Bulstrode’s useless tomcat.” Hermione replied. “I’ll do it after I fake the death of the poor stray cat Bulstrode took in.”

It wouldn’t do to direct any suspicion at cats, after all - she wanted the DMLE to wonder how this heist had been done.

And she wanted the other Old Families to worry if it would be repeated in their homes.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 18th, 1998

Hermione Granger hadn’t used the underground passages leading into Grimmauld Place’s basement often. Once or twice, so she would be able to do it smoothly when needed, but there hadn’t been a reason for her to use them regularly - unlike Mr Fletcher, who couldn’t be seen in the house proper. But tonight - or today, seeing as the sun had risen - she had to sneak into her home like a thief; Harry and Ron were sleeping upstairs, or maybe getting up already, unaware of her presence, or her plans, even though they were trained Aurors.

It was a thief’s dream, and just thinking about it made her smile behind her mask as she followed her tutor through the dark tunnel.

Of course, having robbed the Bulstrodes blind was an even better feeling. She had done it! She had robbed an Old Family’s manor! An Old Family’s manor which had had additional guards because they feared an attack by Death Eaters. But not even the extra security had been enough to keep a thief like her from her prize! Vengeance was hers! In part, at least.

Jeanne wasn’t around when they entered the secret part of the basement. She would be upstairs, running interference. Not that there would be much to fear - neither Harry nor Ron seemed to suspect anything. As far as they knew, Hermione was still in France, and Sirius was going to escort her home today.

But that would happen later. Right now, it was time to sort the loot!

She was smiling widely as she pulled off her mask and started to empty out her enchanted pockets on to the table in the room.

*****​

“I’m going to need another Extension Charm,” Sirius complained as Hermione Granger finished sorting all the loot they had taken from the Bulstrodes. She ignored his whining, of course - he had known from the start that they would clean out the entire manor, so he had to have realised that that would, even using Shrinking Charms, require more room in their secret storage. Instead, she gazed on the loot, precisely divided into gold, valuables, books, valuable (and shrunken) furniture, records with valuable information and worthless things someone, probably the dog, had taken by mistake.

And this was the best opportunity she would get to finally talk about something that had been weighing on her. She cleared her throat. “We’ve taken almost everything the Bulstrodes owned. They have some properties left and the contents of their Gringotts vault, although they withdrew a lot of their gold from there following the tensions with the goblins. They probably have a few outstanding debts owed to them and some businesses,” she added with a look at Sirius. But no insurance; with magic providing so many ways to commit insurance fraud, and almost as many ways to rebuild a house, insurance had never taken off in the magical world.

He nodded. “I’ll have to go over their records in detail, but their businesses won’t save them - not when they lack the gold to run them. They’ll have to sell some of their properties to get cash.”

“Which means,” Mr Fletcher cut in, “they’ll lose the income from those properties. They won’t be broke, but they’ll be too poor to retain the status of an Old Family. Once this gets out, the other Old Families will cut their ties quicker than you can cast a Stinging Hex.”

And that would be a fate worse than death for the Bulstrodes, Hermione thought. They wouldn’t be financially ruined, unlike her family had been, but they would no longer be among the ruling class, even though they might hold on to their Wizengamot seat for a while. But without gold, they wouldn’t be able to keep up with their former peers and would lose their social power and influence.

She nodded. “Good.” Then she took a deep breath. “The heist was a complete success. The plan went off without a hitch.” She ignored Mr Fletcher’s grumbling about the risks she had taken, and Sirius’s nod, and continued: “And now we need to split the loot. Everyone who helped deserves a fair cut.”

“I don’t need the gold,” Sirius said at once.

“I didn’t do much,” Mr Fletcher mumbled. “You took all the risks.”

“The heist would have been impossible without you - and without Jeanne providing an alibi for Sirius and me,” Hermione insisted. She glared at Sirius. “And I would like to use this opportunity to repay the gold you paid for my debts.” He opened his mouth to decline, but she cut him off before he could say so. “Please. Let me pay my debts. I need to do that. And you can use the gold to counter Malfoy.” The Blacks were very, very rich, but more gold never hurt.

“The gold, yes. But the rest of the valuables will need to be fenced,” Mr Fletcher said. “Wouldn’t want to leave a trail of gold leading straight to you.”

“Which will be your task,” Hermione said. “We won’t be able to fence this in Wizarding Britain.” The Wizengamot would be in an uproar. They might cut their ties to the Bulstrodes, but no one robbed an Old Family like that. The loot was too hot to be sold in Wizarding Britain. “Even Sirius’s contacts won’t be safe enough. And that’s another reason why you deserve a fair cut as well.”

They put up a fight, worse than when her mother and her grandmother used to fight about who would be allowed to pay for the groceries, but Hermione knew them too well; they’d get their cut of the loot, and they’d like it!

*****​

Bulstrode Manor, Berkshire, Britain, October 18th, 1998

“What are you doing here? This isn’t related to the Death Eaters!”

“You would think that, wouldn’t you, Dawlish?” Moody scoffed. “We’re dealing with a dark wizard who escaped Azkaban by faking his death, remained undiscovered for almost twenty years and engineered a crisis with Gringotts as a distraction to break his comrades out of Azkaban. You can’t dismiss anything as unrelated until it’s been thoroughly investigated.” He made a show of looking around, even though Harry Potter knew that Moody’s enchanted eye allowed him to see anything around him without moving his head. “And, from what I can see, this robbery could certainly fit him.”

Looking around the empty entrance hall, Harry had to agree with the old Auror. The room had been stripped bare. Everything that wasn’t nailed down had disappeared.

“Did they steal everything?” Ron asked, whistling as he looked at the fireplace. “Even the Floo powder bowl?”

“Stole, or vanished,” Moody said, turning to them. Behind him, Dawlish was visibly grinding his teeth, and Bathilda looked as if she wanted to be anywhere but here. “I don’t think anyone able to pull this off would bother stealing worthless junk. This wasn’t just a robbery, lads. This was a message.”

“For Bulstrode?” Harry asked. That would narrow down the suspects. At least a little.

“For everyone.”

“Not everything is part of a plot, Moody!” Dawlish snarled. He looked around. “The robbers might have simply taken everything to sort out the valuable loot once they were safe.”

Moody scoffed. “You don’t believe that.”

“I’m not dismissing it,” Dawlish replied. “Not until I’ve further investigated this case.” He turned to Bathilda. “Come, let’s talk to the family.”

The tall wizard who had been waiting in the room took that as his cue. “Mr Bulstrode is waiting for you in the living room. If you’ll follow me?”

Dawlish nodded and did so. Moody snorted and stepped up his pace, his peg leg making a cracking sound each time it hit the bare stone floor, until he was walking next to Dawlish. Both seemed to ignore each other.

Harry exchanged a glance and a wry smile with Bathilda as they fell in behind their respective superiors.

The corridors had been stripped bare as well. Everything was gone - carpets, drapes, paintings. They passed open doors showing empty rooms until they reached what was probably the living room. The wizard opened the door and waved them inside. This room was furnished - there were couches, seats and a low table. They were of a rather simple design, though - some even seemed rather crudely made. Conjured, Harry thought.

“Mr Bulstrode. Ma’am. Miss.” Dawlish nodded at the three members of the family present. “I’m Auror Dawlish; this is Auror Meringworth. I think you’re acquainted with Auror Moody, who is here because he thinks this might be related to the fugitives from Azkaban.”

Moody made a noise that could be interpreted as a greeting while Bulstrode and her mother paled.

The huge wizard - Harry now knew from whom Bulstrode got her height and build - gestured at the seats opposite his. “Welcome to my home. Please have a seat.”

As they sat down, Harry tapped his glasses and took a closer look at the furniture. It was conjured, as he had thought.

“Please tell me what happened - everything you know,” Dawlish began.

Mr Bulstrode growled. “I don’t know what happened! I woke up on the floor of my bedroom. Everything was gone! We couldn’t even call the DMLE until one of our guards arrived in the morning to start his shift because there was no Floo powder left!”

Which meant, Harry realised, that their wands had been taken as well, or they could have apparated. But to ask about that… that was an incredibly personal issue for wizards. At least those raised in Wizarding Britain.

Dawlish would know that as well but didn’t raise the point. He nodded. “You woke up first?”

“Yes.” The huge wizard growled. “Millicent was next. Marie didn’t wake up until the guards had woken up.”

“And no one noticed anything?” Dawlish’s Dictaquill was scribbling on a floating parchment as the Auror questioned the wizard.

“No. Everyone had been stunned and no one remembers anything past yesterday evening’s dinner.”

“Obliviated,” Bathilda said, then blushed as Dawlish frowned at her.

“Have you been checked for Obliviation?” Dawlish said.

“There is no need to look at my memories; it’s obvious that we were obliviated of anything we might have seen last night.” Bulstrode obviously didn’t want the Unspeakables poking around in his head.

“Anyone who can pull this off wouldn’t leave any witnesses behind,” Moody said. “Be glad you were just obliviated and not killed; someone had a grudge.”

Dawlish clenched his teeth at the interruption, but didn’t start a scene. “Was anything left behind?”

“No.” Bulstrode shook his head.

Harry wasn’t certain that he believed the wizard. Borgin and Burkes had been robbed in a very similar way, but their illegal artefacts had been left behind for the Aurors to find. Bulstrode would have had enough time to remove such evidence before calling the Aurors.

“There is one thing…” Millicent spoke up. “My cat.”

Harry wasn’t the only one who looked at the cat in her lap.

She blushed. “Not Matheus. I had a new cat. A stray. I found her a few day ago in the rain. She disappeared. And Matheus was stunned.” She sniffled. “Why did they take her, but leave Matheus?”

“Was the cat in your room?” Dawlish asked.

“When I went to bed. But my door was open - my cats are free to roam the house. If she ran into the thieves...” Millicent pressed her lips together

“We found a blood stain in front of the manor,” Dawlish said. “It wasn’t human blood, but we’re still analysing it. Some black fur, too.”

The witch gasped, then started to sniffle. “They killed her?”

Moody turned his head, his eye spinning wildly. “If they entered through the front door that would explain how the cat got out. Or that was staged to make us think that they entered through the front door and killed the cat. Maybe the cat was a decoy for the thieves, and they killed it when they didn’t need it any more.” He looked at Millicent. “We’ll need a picture of that cat!”

Dawlish sighed. “The remains were right at the wardline. There were paw prints as well. It looks like the animal ran straight into the wards.”

Millicent gasped. “Oh, no! She wasn’t keyed to the wards!” She sobbed.

“That’s probably what they want us to think!” Moody muttered.

Dawlish’s expression clearly showed that he thought Moody was being paranoid again. Harry knew that he shouldn’t dismiss anything lightly - but investigating a dead cat?

At least it didn’t look as if this was related to the fugitive Death Eaters.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 18th, 1998

“...ninety-nine, one hundred!” Hermione Granger smiled as she pushed the last stack of Galleons towards Sirius. “That pays off my debt to you!”

Sirius grumbled but accepted his defeat with as much grace as a dog could muster. Which wasn’t, of course, very much, but she ignored his mutterings about ‘obstinate witches’. She had paid off her debts! Her family wasn’t living on charity any more. They didn’t owe everything that they owned to Sirius any more. They were free of that obligation weighing on them. And it had been a heavy burden, no matter how often Sirius had said that they didn’t owe him anything.

But no longer! She sighed and leaned back, basking in her achievement. Now, if only she could tell her parents that they were free of the debt. But she would need a really good excuse for that - she couldn’t tell them that she had robbed one of the families who had framed her.

She shrugged as Sirius sent the Galleons to join the others in his extended chest in the basement with a Charm, then looked at the coin, the diadem and the eleven wands sitting on the table in front of her. She picked up the coin first. It was a Knut - her traditional souvenir of a successful heist. Smiling, she flicked her wand, and transfigured it into another ornament for her bracelet, then fixed it to the spot that she had prepared for this coin years ago. Shaking her wrist, she let it dangle and tinkle as it struck against the other transfigured coins.

“Like a cat playing with string,” Sirius said, grinning.

She pouted at him. This was the visible sign of her progress as a thief, not a toy! She felt too content to teach the dog just how a cat played and what could be used as a toy - like his nose.

Huffing, Hermione looked at the wands they had taken from the Bulstrodes and their guards. These were trophies. If you took a wizard’s wand, you rendered them helpless. Unable to cast spells. Barely more than a muggle. It was one of the worst humiliations a wizard could suffer - especially the Head of an Old Family. Bulstrode would be seething, and others would be laughing at him.

But what to do with the wands? She could mount them on the wall, as literal trophies - some wizards had done that in the past, among them some of the Blacks. But that felt… inelegant. She wasn’t a silly bird collecting trinkets to decorate its nest. She didn’t have to. And the wands were a liability. Unlike gold and jewellery, or furniture, they couldn’t be sold easily or safely. And if someone found them… you might have ‘accidentally’ bought stolen goods, but wands? She shook her head and conjured a stone basin, then dropped the wands inside. A flick of her wand filled the basin with oil. A moment later, oil and wands were burning.

“Merlin’s beard,” she heard Sirius mutter - purebloods were so squeamish about destroying wands. Even Mr Fletcher seemed to be watching the flames with a peculiar expression.

She looked at the diadem. The last of the loot that held a special significance for her. She picked it up and turned it around. Expensive indeed - though, while she was no expert, she was certain it wasn’t as expensive as the Bulstrodes had claimed during her trial. The first and last time she had seen it had been during her trial when she had been falsely accused of having stolen it.

And now she had stolen it. And everything else those liars owned. Poetic justice, in her opinion.

“Are you going to keep it as a trophy?” Mr Fletcher asked.

She shook her head as she dropped the diadem on the table. “I thought about it, but no.” It would only remind her of her trial and expulsion. Of how she and her family had been hurt. She wasn’t that girl any more. And - she looked at her bracelet again - she already had the trophy she wanted. “We can fence it or break it up and fence the parts.”

Mr Fletcher nodded. Sirius was still staring at the burning wands.

And Hermione flicked the coin dangling from her bracelet. One family down, four to go. She still had lots of room left on her bracelet.

*****​

London, Waterloo International, October 18th, 1998

“Here are your tickets. Enjoy your trip, Miss Brown.”

“Thank you.” Hermione Granger took the tickets from the clerk and stepped to the side, pulling her trolley bag behind her as she passed the line.

Mr Fletcher was leaning against a pillar, waiting for her. He pushed off and strode towards her as she drew near him. “All done?”

“Yes.” She looked around, then quickly flashed her wand and cast a privacy charm. “It feels wasteful to use a fake ID for a single trip.”

“It’s not a good one,” he said. “It’ll get you past the controls here, but it wouldn’t withstand closer scrutiny.”

They slowly walked past the first shop in the great hall, a boutique. Hermione glanced at the mirror in the display window and checked her appearance. Black wig, stylish trench coat, slightly dated boots, slightly too short skirt and leggings with a turtleneck - she looked like a girl not quite up to the height of fashion and trying too hard on her trip to Paris.

“You didn’t cast the spell to ask me that.”

She winced, then smiled a little ruefully. Of course, he’d notice - they had discussed the ID before. “You’re right.” She looked at the big clock nearby. Still forty minutes left until her departure. “I wanted to talk about the heist.” She pointed at the nearest café. “My treat?”

“You’ve already forced too much gold on me,” he retorted.

“Your treat then,” she told him. “And I’ll be sure to order the most expensive tea on the menu to soothe your guilty conscience.”

He barked a laugh at that but didn’t contradict her.

Five minutes later, they were drinking their teas. Hermione took a deep breath. “You didn’t offer much criticism.”

He shrugged. “Wasn’t much to say. The plan worked.”

“That hasn’t stopped you before.” She hesitated a moment, then pressed her lips together and took a deep breath. “You were against the heist.” He hadn’t said anything, though.

He flinched. Almost imperceptibly, but she noticed. She kept looking at him while sipping her tea.

Finally, he sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. “I didn’t like the plan.”

She nodded.

“Too dangerous. If you had been spotted during your recon, you’d have been alone, against what, eight guards and the three Bulstrodes?”

This wasn’t the moment to point out that the guards had been Bulstrodes as well. “I took care of them all.”

“You were prepared and caught them by surprise. If anyone had sounded the alarm, or if the poisoned cake hadn’t worked as well as it did…” He shook his head, and she could see that he was clenching his teeth.

“I planned it. I knew they would be split up. I knew they would like the cake - especially if they thought it was originally meant for the Bulstrodes.”

“Too much could have gone wrong,” he muttered. “One guard stepping out at the wrong moment…”

“They would have been isolated as well,” she replied. “And I looked like a guard. I could have fooled them.”

“For how long? Until the stunned guard was found? Until the Aurors arrived?”

“I could have slipped away and changed,” she said, raising her chin.

“And dyed your fur in time?”

“Yes.”

He stared at her. She met his eyes without flinching, lips pressed together.

After a moment, Mr Fletcher sighed. “Yes, you probably could have slipped away. And you probably would have found a way out through the wards as well. Probably.”

She nodded. The heist would have failed, though - even if her cover had held she wouldn’t have been able to try again. They would have doubled up on their security and would have been on their guard. But she had done it.

He sighed again and briefly closed his eyes. “That’s why I didn’t step in. I knew you could do it.”

She smiled at him.

“But I also knew the risk you were taking.” He shook his head. “If anything had gone wrong, I couldn’t have done anything.”

She bit her lower lip and didn’t say that nothing had gone wrong.

“And I’ll be again forced to wait and hope nothing goes wrong in the next heist.”

“We don’t have a plan yet,” she protested. “You don’t know what we’ll have to do.”

He grimaced. “But I know myself.” He reached down and tapped his prosthetic foot. “Used to be, I’d have stunned Runcorn before he could have cast a spell, much less hit me. But I can’t any more. I should have noticed when we robbed that vampire. Black had to save me.”

“He had to save us,” she cut in.

He snorted. “You were still learning. You’ve got better since then. Faster. More skilled. More experienced. And you’re still improving. Me?” He shook his head. “Lucky I only lost a foot and not my life.”

“You’re still the best Curse-Breaker in Britain,” she protested.

“There’s always someone better.” He snorted. “But even if I was, I’m not the best thief any more. Haven’t been for a long time.” He closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. “Hid too long in a bottle.”

She bit her lower lip again. She didn’t want to hear this. Didn’t want to see him denigrate himself. He deserved better. Much better.

“So, I can still crack wards. I can fool the purebloods. But when things go wrong?” He shook his head. “I’m too slow for that.”

“We can plan for that,” she replied.

“And we will,” he said, nodding with a faint smile. “But it means I’ll have to wait and watch while you’re taking the risks.” He shook his head. “Well, you should catch your train.”

She still had fifteen minutes until the train’s departure, as a glance at the station’s clock confirmed. More than enough time even if you weren’t a Weasley. But she nodded. “Yes. See you soon.”

He nodded and hugged her when she stood, and when she checked as she was about to pass through the turnstile, he was still standing there, watching her walk away.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 18th, 1998

Harry Potter couldn’t help relaxing a little after stepping out of the fireplace in the entrance hall. After spending most of the day in Bulstrode Manor, seeing that his home hadn’t been ransacked was reassuring - even though everything had been alright when he had left it just that morning.

“Feels good to see a house that’s not empty of everything,” Ron remarked, echoing his own thoughts as he cleaned the soot off his robes.

“Yes.” Harry nodded. Everything was fine. But after seeing Bulstrode Manor, he didn’t feel as safe at home as he used to. “Let’s do a perimeter check.”

“Already?” Ron asked.

“We don’t know how the thieves broke into Bulstrode Manor.” Breaching the wards on Grimmauld Place would take anyone, even Dumbledore, more than a day, as far as Harry knew. But the same would have been true for the wards on Bulstrode Manor. And no one had noticed anything. Moody’s friend Smith was still analysing the wards, but… “Better safe than sorry,” he said.

“Right.” Ron nodded and cast a Human-presence-revealing Spell. “Let’s check if someone’s hiding close to the wardline.”

“Hello.”

They turned. Jeanne was standing at the top of the stairs. “I thought Sirius would be back with Hermione,” she said as she descended. “Is something wrong?”

“They aren’t back yet?” Harry asked, tensing. Had something happened?

“No, they aren’t.” She smiled. “But they’ll be stopping in Paris, and I don’t think there’s a witch alive who wouldn’t use the opportunity to spend some time shopping for robes in the Quartier Magique.”

Hermione wouldn’t, Harry thought. But she’d go to the bookstores there. Although if anyone in France had insulted her clothes, she might be angry enough to buy new robes as well.

“So, is something wrong?” Jeanne repeated her question.

“We were just going to do a check of the wardline,” Harry said.

She frowned. “I already did one this morning.”

“Yes, but someone robbed the Bulstrodes blind - cleaned out their manor,” Ron said, “so until we know how they managed that without spending a day breaching their wards, we’ll have to be more careful.”

“Oh. The Bulstrodes are the ones with giant blood, yes?” Jeanne asked.

“Well, it’s not something you talk about in their presence, but yes,” Ron said.

The witch scoffed. “There’s nothing wrong with giant blood - Madam Maxime is a half-giant, and she’s the Headmistress of Beauxbatons!”

“That’s the Old Families for you.” Ron shrugged. “Blood purity is stupid.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed. “But let’s do that perimeter check. It won’t take long,” he added, nodding at Jeanne as he walked towards the door.

Outside, he looked around. “Might tell Kreacher to put up more traps,” he said, starting to circle the house.

“Won’t really stop a good thief,” Ron replied.

Everything looked fine, Harry noticed as they walked through the garden. Nothing out of place, no markers floating over the lawn. “Every little thing helps,” he said. “We could get some guard animals. Dogs would smell disillusioned intruders.” And dogs were common guard animals. Unlike, say, snakes.

“Dogs?” Ron chuckled. “Hermione wouldn’t tolerate them. You know what she thinks about dogs or anything that could threaten Crookshanks.”

Harry sighed. As if any dog would dare to attack that monster. But Hermione treated the cat like her baby. “It would just be until we’ve caught the Lestranges, Crouch and those thieves.”

“You think that’ll happen soon?” Ron snorted. “With Dawlish on the case?”

Harry sighed. “Maybe we’ll get the case.”

“We have to catch the Death Eaters first.” Ron flicked his wand, stared at the back wall, then nodded. “And we don’t exactly have a firm lead.”

Which was one more reason to step up security, Harry thought. Even Hermione would have to see reason.

*****​

“Dogs?” Hermione Granger stared at Harry. Dogs in her home? One was bad enough, and he wanted to get more of the stupid beasts?

“They wouldn’t enter the house. We can add a pen outside. They can smell even disillusioned intruders.”

That’s why any thief worth her salt had potions to remove her scent! But she couldn’t tell Harry that or he might wonder. Even though he should know that as well. “And I guess poor Crookshanks would be locked in the house, then?” she said instead.

“It’s only until we’ve caught the Death Eaters and those thieves,” Ron said.

“Thieves?” She cocked her head and acted surprised.

“Someone broke into Bulstrode Manor and cleaned it out. Took everything,” Ron said. “Even emptied out the pantry.”

She frowned. “How did they manage that?” Had the Aurors already figured out how she had done it?

“We don’t know yet. It’s not our case,” Harry said.

“It’s Dawlish’s,” Ron added.

She sniffed. “Dawlish?” She glared at Harry. “You want to keep dogs in the house until Dawlish solves a case? The idiot who thought I was a dark witch who’d cursed you?”

He clenched his teeth. “We can get other guard animals.”

She scoffed. “We don’t need to! We have Crookshanks! His nose is as good as a dog’s. Better, even - he’s half-kneazle.”

“He’s not exactly a guard animal,” Harry retorted.

“He’s a cat; he’ll protect his home.” She looked at Sirius. “Tell him that dogs have no place here!”

Sirius slowly shook his head, though he was grinning. “I don’t think dogs are a good idea, Harry.”

Her friend sighed. “No dogs then. But we have to step up security. More perimeter checks. More traps, too, I think.”

Hermione closed her eyes. She knew what was coming.

“And more Defence training.”

She muttered a curse under her breath.

Harry frowned at her and Ron chuckled.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 19th, 1998

Bulstrode Manor Emptied Out in One Night! Everything Gone!

Harry Potter wasn’t surprised to find that the Bulstrode robbery was the main topic of today’s Daily Prophet. You couldn’t keep that a secret. Not with so many people involved, on the victims’ side as well as in the Corps. It was just too spectacular. And that the article speculated about ties to the Borgin and Burkes robbery wasn’t anything out of the ordinary either.

But the details mentioned in the article went a little beyond the gossip an Auror heard at work. Someone involved in the case must have talked. Extensively, too. He frowned. That shouldn’t happen. Such leaks would hamper the investigation, and Aurors should know that.

“Oh… interesting. An inside job?” Hermione looked up from the article and tilted her head slightly towards him.

“Just speculation,” Harry answered. “No one knows how the thieves got in, yet. The guards were obliviated, as were the Bulstrodes.”

“Yes, the article said so.” She nodded. “So will they be questioned under Veritaserum?”

“The guards? Probably.” They would likely volunteer if only to prove their innocence to Bulstrode.

“What about the Bulstrodes?” she asked.

“Not a chance,” Ron said. “They’re the victims. And the precedent it would set...”

“Maybe the children or the wife wanted more gold than what Bulstrode granted them as their allowance?” Hermione said.

It wasn’t too improbable, Harry thought. Any family member could have let someone through the wards.

Ron shook his head, though. “Even so, admitting that you suspect your wife or children of having conspired against you? That’s not a thing you make public. Not as an Old Family. Bulstrode would be a laughing stock.”

“I’m certain that he already is,” Sirius said. “Unless he had most of his wealth in Gringotts, he’s ruined.”

“I doubt that he’s ruined,” Hermione disagreed. “They must have land and properties.”

“Not enough to maintain their status as an Old Family,” Sirius retorted. “Even if they recovered from the loss of face of having their ancestral manor plundered, they’ll be too poor for their ‘friends’ to consider them their peers.”

“Oh, how sad!” Ron said with a snort. “They might even have to work for a living now!”

Hermione giggled, then suddenly gasped. “They killed a cat?”

Harry exchanged a glance with Ron, who winced. They knew their friend.

Fortunately, it was time to go to work.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, October 19th, 1998

“So, what do you think?” Ron asked as soon as they stepped on to the floor that housed Auror Headquarters. “Inside job?”

Harry Potter frowned. “That would be the most plausible explanation. But the similarities to the Borgin and Burkes robbery don’t fit.”

“One of the Bulstrodes could have hired that thief,” Ron said as they approached their office.

Harry shook his head. “I’ve talked to Bathilda; no one in Knockturn Alley seems to know how to contact whoever did that robbery. That a Bulstrode would have been able to find them seems unlikely.”

“Maybe the thieves contacted them,” Ron said. Shrugging, he added: “Wouldn’t take that much to find out if someone in a family is greedy, or needs more gold than they get.”

“If that’s the case, it’ll come out during the investigation.” Even Dawlish would be able to find that out.

“Of course, if this is another distraction planned by the Death Eaters, then that would explain why no one in Knockturn Alley knows about the thieves,” Ron said.

“Or why no one is talking,” Harry added. “Although such a robbery only makes everyone else tighten up their security, so it won’t exactly help Crouch and the Lestranges.” It would also mean that the Bulstrodes weren’t safe from the Death Eaters, despite the fact that the thieves had left their wards intact.

“Maybe the goblins want to convince people that the vaults in the Old Families’ manors aren’t safe enough?”

They both laughed at that.

Harry shook his head as they entered their office - he had to focus on the Death Eaters. Catching thieves wasn’t his problem.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 23rd, 1998

“I’ve got the location of the Davis Manor,” Hermione Granger said as she put the map on the table. “It’s in Kent.”

“Another urgent research task in the archives for me?” Sirius asked with a sly grin.

She shook her head. “No. I found a reference to the location in an old article in the Daily Prophet about a Spring Dance they held in their manor. Then I went and checked the location,” she said before Mr Fletcher could ask. “And not as a cat,” she added when his expression didn’t change. Sometimes, he was more protective than Harry - and, unlike Harry, he knew what she could actually do!

“Good. The Davises have been offering the use of their vault to their relatives,” Sirius said. “Dear Augusta thought that the Davises were setting a good example by upholding the responsibilities of an Old Family - so she’s been doing the same since the troubles with Gringotts started.”

“I’ve been keepin’ my eyes an’ ears open,” Mr Fletcher told them. “All the Old Families have been hirin’ wands.”

“Despite the suspicion that one of Bulstrode’s guards betrayed them?” Sirius asked.

“That’s been cleared up using Veritaserum,” Hermione pointed out. “Ron said that such a heist would have taken too long to organise for Obliviation to cover everything without leaving traces.”

“And there were no such traces,” Mr Fletcher said, “since they weren’t our accomplices. But everyone will be on the lookout for such a plot.”

Sirius snorted. “Nothing new there - the Blacks often had to deal with such plots. Sometimes even from outside the family.” He chuckled.

“It still means that sneaking in - or sneaking around, should we manage to get inside - will be very difficult,” Mr Fletcher said. “They’ll expect us to try and pick the guards off while they are alone. And they’ll watch the wardline like a Seeker the pitch.”

“I think I have a way around that,” Hermione said. “But it means we’ll have to be content with just cleaning out their vault.”

“Oh?” Mr Fletcher looked at her.

She smiled. “I’ve been looking through our loot from Borgin and Burkes. Do you know what a Vanishing Cabinet is?”

*****​

 

Chapter 43: Interrogations

London, Diagon Alley, October 23rd, 1998

“Manager Sharptooth.”

Dirk Cresswell smiled widely and showed his teeth as he greeted the old goblin. You had to show strength and aggression when dealing with goblins or they would think you were weak. It had been over two hundred years since the last Goblin Rebellion had ended in the Gringotts Treaty, but even the friendliest goblins Dirk had met seemed to consider that treaty an armistice rather than a peace treaty. And, as the Head of the Goblin Liaison Office, he had met a lot of goblins.

“Mr Cresswell.” Sharptooth, seated behind his massive desk - bigger than Fudge’s, and that was saying something - nodded almost imperceptibly. “Have you come to offer restitution for the attacks on Gringotts or are you here to waste both our time, as usual?”

Dirk leaned back in his seat. Dealing with goblins was annoying on the best of days. Dealing with goblins in the middle of the greatest crisis in a hundred years - the mess after The Quibbler had claimed that Fudge was baking goblins into pies was a minor nuisance in comparison - was both tiresome and dangerous. They weren’t just looking for a pretext to start trouble, they actually had been attacked, twice. But he was a representative of the Ministry and knew his duty. So he scoffed. “Restitution for what? Neither the riot nor the Fiendfyre incident actually hurt Gringotts in any way. To call them ‘attacks’ is blowing them out of proportion. Both incidents have been handled by the Ministry, in accordance with our duties as stipulated in the treaty.”

Sharptooth scoffed in turn and sneered at him. “It was only luck that prevented either attack from reaching us. We had to mobilise our guards and evacuate the upper levels. That has cost us gold. The next attack might very well be beyond your Ministry’s feeble power to contain.”

Dirk narrowed his eyes but kept sneering at the goblin. The old bastard was correct - the Ministry was far weaker than a year ago. The Battle of the Ministry, the Diagon Alley Riot, Azkaban - the Ministry had lost both a great number of good people and a lot of face. Even worse, Dumbledore was gone, and with him most of Britain’s influence in the ICW. But you couldn’t show any weakness with goblins. “The Ministry is not responsible for any costs you incurred because you panicked.” He scoffed. “Besides, you’re losing more gold each day you keep the bank closed because you claim to be ‘re-evaluating security’.”

“We cannot keep doing business if we cannot trust the wizards to keep up their end of the deal. With these mysterious thieves still at large, a re-evaluation of our security is necessary to keep the trust of our clients.”

That was new - and promising. Dirk had to suppress his smile. If the goblins admitted to being concerned about the thieves who had robbed Bulstrode Manor and talked about regaining the trust of their clients, then that was a sign that they were more concerned about recovering the business lost to the recent crisis, and weren’t looking for an excuse to break the treaty without bringing in the ICW. That might be the breakthrough he had been hoping and waiting for. Time to encourage it. He nodded. “That’s understandable. But I would expect that to be superfluous since it’s widely known that Gringotts vaults are far safer than any vault in a private manor.”

Sharptooth scoffed. “What the wizards believe they know is often far from the truth. Don’t think that we haven’t noticed how you’ve tried to profit from a crisis started by wizards by undermining our treaty-granted monopoly.”

Dirk would have agreed with Sharptooth - as a muggleborn, he didn’t exactly sympathise with the Old Families and their ploys - but once again, he had to represent the Ministry. “That was merely some families offering a helping hand to their relatives during the crisis. No gold was or is being charged for those services.”

“Not officially, you mean,” the goblin sneered. “But we both know that wasn’t some selfless gesture.”

“Then it would be in the best interests of Gringotts to return to normal service. I am certain that a great many wizards would prefer to use services of which they know the costs in advance, but they cannot afford that if Gringotts might arbitrarily close the bank for whatever reason on any given day.”

“Arbitrarily?” Sharptooth sneered. “We have to increase our security when wizards might attack us on any given day!”

“But you’ve spent several days doing that. Is Gringotts so weak that you need even more time until you feel safe enough to resume normal service?”

The goblin bared his teeth at the implied insult. “Of course not! But, as the sole bank of Wizarding Britain, we take our security seriously.”

“So when can the Ministry expect Gringotts to normalise their business hours?” Dirk asked.

“That time could be cut considerably if we had access to the findings of the Bulstrode Manor investigation,” Sharptooth said.

That didn’t seem like a difficult concession. It also would make sense to involve the pre-eminent experts on magical vaults in the investigation. But, as Dirk knew very well, when the Old Families were involved, things were complicated. “I will pass that on to the Minister, with my recommendation to expedite the request.”

Sharptooth nodded. “Regular, uninterrupted service should soon resume.”

Which meant ‘once we feel like it’, Dirk knew. But he also knew how greedy goblins were. They wouldn’t be able to stomach losing both business and clients for much longer.

He nodded at the goblin and stood to leave.

*****​

London, Middlesex, October 23rd, 1998

Dirk Cresswell sighed and stopped smiling as soon as he stepped out of the fireplace in his home. “Bloody buggering Fudge!” he cursed. “Can’t make a decision without asking his backers first!” He cleaned the soot off his robes and hung them on a hook next to the door. “I had a stressful day, dear,” he announced as he walked towards the living room. “You can’t imagine how stressful…”

“Oh, I think she can, Mr Cresswell.”

He gasped and rushed forward, then froze.

Darlene was sitting in his usual seat, stiff - paralysed, he realised. And next to her, his wand pointing at her, stood a grinning man he recognised from the wanted posters all over the Ministry and Diagon Alley.

Barty Crouch Jr.

The Death Eater smiled at him. “Welcome home, Mr Cresswell. We need to talk.”

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, October 26th, 1998

“Have you heard about Cresswell?” Bathilda asked as soon as Harry Potter and Ron had taken their seats at the ‘rookie table’, as some of the older Aurors had started calling it.

“Cresswell?” Harry dimly remembered the name from the aftermath of the Diagon Alley Riot.

“The Head of the Goblin Liaison Office?” Ron shook his head. “No, what did he do?”

Bathilda leaned forward, apparently eager to share the news - or gossip. “Told off Fudge on Friday. The goblins want to know what we know about the Bulstrode robbery, and Fudge is blocking it. I don’t know what Cresswell told him, but I heard that today Cresswell has been pale and nervous. Might get fired over this.”

“That would be bad.” Ron shook his head. “Percy says he’s the best in that department since the last war. If someone else has to take over, relations with the goblins won’t get better any time soon.”

“And he’s a muggleborn - no relation to an Old Family, so his standing is weaker than that of many others,” Bathilda said, sighing. “Although I don’t know if sharing such information is a good thing. It’s bad enough everyone seems to know as much as we do as soon as we make any progress, but telling the goblins?”

“They’re probably worried about their vaults,” Ron said.

“Well, that’s not a concern for our investigation, is it?” Bathilda shook her head. “We’re not working for Gringotts and helping them to improve their security; we’re investigating a crime!”

Harry nodded. “It’s just another example of politics messing with our investigations.”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed, “but if we have to choose between sharing information we shouldn’t and war with the goblins, I know what I’d rather do.”

When he put it like that, Harry couldn’t disagree with the sentiment. “But if we do that they’ll demand more a week later. Goblins always push if they think you’re weak.” Even Hagrid didn’t have a good opinion of goblins, and he was a wizard who thought man-eating spiders the size of a lorry were good pets. “Better to take a stand before we compromise our rules and laws.”

“Well, that’s why we have the Goblin Liaison Office,” Ron said, grinning. “So we can tell the buggers off without causing a war.”

It wasn’t actually funny, especially if you were among those who’d have to fight if it came to war, but Harry laughed with the others anyway - that was part of being an Auror, after all. “Speaking of bad jokes,” he said, “what’s Nott doing?”

Bathilda looked at him. “Why do you want to know that? Can’t you let things go?”

He frowned. “It’s not me keeping this feud going. But with the Death Eaters still at large, and now those thieves and the goblins, I’d rather know what Nott is up to before he pulls something stupid at the worst possible moment. Like rerouting a Floo connection before an emergency.”

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” Ron added.

“He wouldn’t do that!” Bathilda protested.

“Can’t be sure,” Ron replied. “He’s been constantly looking to cause trouble for us. And he’s not the brightest.”

Bathilda pressed her lips together. “He’s now working in Filing.”

“Great.” Ron scoffed. “So he can sabotage us by misfiling things and blaming us.”

“I’d like to see him try that with Moody,” Harry said.

“I think he’s stupid enough to do it,” Ron replied.

“His funeral, then.” Harry shrugged.

“Theo wouldn’t do that!” Bathilda insisted. “He gripes about you, but he wouldn’t sabotage you.”

“He’d better not,” Harry said.

*****​

Soho, London, October 26th, 1998

“Moody had a point about the muggle lists,” Ron said as he and Harry Potter walked away from the stand, their fish and chips in hand. “This is great!”

Harry made a noise of agreement as he munched on a chip. He pointed at a nearby bench, and they sat down. “I’ve got a problem,” he said after eating half of his meal.

“Hm?” Ron turned his head towards him as he swallowed.

“To be more precise, I’ve got a solution, but I don’t know how to implement it. You know, guard animals. We could use snakes. They have excellent senses - they could smell intruders and hear them walk over the lawn.”

Ron nodded. “And you can talk to them and order them around.”

“Yes.” Harry sighed. “But if I want to populate the garden at Grimmauld Place with snakes, they’d need warming charms in winter or they’ll go to sleep.” And it was getting colder. “And there’s another problem.”

“Hermione,” Ron said. “She’d blow up.”

“Not exactly. I could tell her about me being a Parselmouth.” She’d understand - she hadn’t ripped his head off for that slip about the ointment, after all. Another sign that she liked him. “But it’s the other pets. Crookshanks and Hedwig. They’d try to eat them.”

“Tell ’em not to.” Ron finished his meal.

“Tell that furry monster anything?” Harry snorted. Crookshanks would do what he wanted. “And if he gets bitten, it’ll be my fault.”

“Tough.” Ron shrugged and threw the greasy newspaper in the rubbish bin next to the bench. “What about if you put them in cages?”

“That might work,” Harry said. “But then they couldn’t attack intruders. And I don’t know how else they could alert us if they find someone.” Maybe a bell, or something? But that would likely lead to many false alarms. Or some rattlesnakes? But you couldn’t exactly buy them in pet shops, or so he thought. And if a rattlesnake escaped the grounds it would probably cause issues with the neighbours.

“They wouldn’t add much to our security then,” Ron said. “Looks like you can’t use your dark talent to keep us all a little bit safer!” he added with a grin.

Harry huffed. It had been a good idea.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 26th, 1998

“So, Borgin and Burkes had a Vanishing Cabinet,” Hermione Granger said, pointing at the ornate cabinet she had put down in the middle of the room in Sirius’s basement. “But there was only one - and they come in pairs. Whatever - or whoever - you put into one cabinet appears in the other once you close the door.”

“Which means one cabinet isn’t very useful for whatever you have planned,” Sirius interrupted her.

She rolled her eyes at the dog. “Yes. However, the cabinet still works - so the other cabinet still exists. Somewhere.”

“Are you certain? ‘Vanishing Cabinet’ seems to imply something else,” he said.

She refrained from glaring at him. “Yes, I’m certain. I’ve researched them extensively.” All the books she had found in her recently enlarged library that covered them, at least. She cleared her throat. “The easiest way to find the cabinet’s partner would be to go through it ourselves.”

“That would also be the most dangerous,” Mr Fletcher pointed out. “You could come out anywhere.”

Jeanne sniffed but didn’t comment. Hermione nodded. “In theory, yes. But the cabinet isn’t particularly resistant to the elements, so the environment cannot be too hostile. If it were underwater, then that would have had effects on its partner. The same would happen if it were placed in a vacuum.” All of the others were looking at her. She should have realised that none of them had ever watched Doctor Who. She cleared her throat. “The real danger is that the partner cabinet of this one is damaged.” That sounded better than ‘broken’.

“Damaged?” Sirius frowned at her.

“It doesn’t work as it should. Sometimes, things remain in this cabinet instead of vanishing,” she explained.

“And they might simply vanish otherwise?” Mr Fletcher asked.

“That is possible. But,” she raised a finger before either man could say anything, “the fact that it works intermittently, and not in a consistent fashion, supports the assumption that it works at least some of the time correctly - and, therefore, can be restored to working correctly and consistently with a little effort.”

“I’m not keen on trusting my life to such an assumption,” Sirius said. “Those are not good odds.”

“You don’t have to,” she replied. “We can use simple items to find the malfunctioning cabinet, and then recover it. I doubt that a non-working cabinet would be in a location with heavy security.”

“That’s another assumption,” Mr Fletcher said, “but a logical one.”

Not all wizards were logical, Hermione knew. But if anyone had cared about the other cabinet, they would have tried to track down its partner - and Borgin and Burkes would have been a logical place to check for anyone on such a search. “In any case, the problem is creating items that we can locate with magic so that we can find the other cabinet.” It would be easy if electronics worked inside wards - but the cabinet was almost certainly inside a warded area.

“There are spells that parents use to track children,” Sirius said. “But they have a limited range, and need a connection between the caster and the target.”

“Never heard of them,” Mr Fletcher said.

Jeanne looked interested - of course, she was expecting.

“Well, since the spells require blood, they are also illegal,” Sirius said. “That didn’t stop my mother, of course.”

That wasn’t exactly a recommendation. “We’d have to adapt such a spell,” Hermione pointed out. “Cabinets don’t have any blood, after all.” And she doubted that blood magic would work with wood and resin.

“We aren’t spellcrafters,” Mr Fletcher replied. “And anyone who would work for gold would likely grow suspicious once we use the thing for the heist.”

“We could obliviate them,” Sirius said.

Mr Fletcher snorted. “Anyone able to craft such a spell in the time we need it will be prepared for that - it would too easy for clients to skip payment that way.”

“I don’t know any spellcrafter I would trust with our secret,” Jeanne said.

Hermione sighed. “I was afraid of that. It seems we’ll have to find out who owned this cabinet before it was sold to Borgin and Burkes and see if that leads us to the other cabinet.” She had really hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

“Well, we have all their records,” Sirius said. “We can check them.”

She rolled her eyes. “I have checked the records.” As if she wouldn’t have followed up on her idea already. “Burkes bought the cabinet from someone he called ‘M.M.’. They were a frequent client until two years ago.”

“‘M.M.’?” Mr Fletcher narrowed his eyes. “There’s a thief called ‘Mad Mulligan’, usually hangs around in Knockturn Alley; last I heard he was sent to Azkaban. That would have been around two years ago.”

Hermione took a deep breath. “Let’s hope he was released before the massacre there, then.”

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, October 26th, 1998

“I’ve got a new task for you, lads!” Moody announced as soon as Harry Potter and Ron had reported back from their lunch break. “Do you know Cresswell?”

“Head of the Goblin Liaison Office,” Harry said before Ron could speak up. “Never met him, though.”

“That’s him. He was pale and trembling this morning - that’s not his usual behaviour,” Moody said.

“Heard he had a row with Fudge,” Ron replied, “and might get fired.”

The old Auror scoffed. “Anyone who can talk to goblins every week without flinching won’t be scared by Fudge. No, this is something else.”

“He might be sick.” Harry didn’t know if Cresswell was someone who would drag themselves to work despite being ill, but it was a possibility.

Moody snorted. “Sick? Twice Crouch’s struck at Gringotts. And now Cresswell is sick in the middle of his negotiations with the buggers? That’s not a coincidence. Constant Vigilance!”

Harry didn’t flinch at the sudden, loud admonishment. After a few years, you got used to Moody’s quirks. “So, what do we do? Talk to him?” They couldn’t interrogate the Head of the Goblin Liaison Office for being sick, could they?

Moody shook his head, his scarred face forming what passed for a grin. “No, lads. That would tip off whoever’s behind this. You’ll investigate him covertly. I want to know everything he does. I even want to know what dreams he has!” He glared at them, his artificial eye spinning madly. “And don’t tell anyone. You can’t trust anybody.”

Harry glanced at Ron. His friend had a carefully neutral expression. This was probably just Moody’s paranoia. Ah, well - it wasn’t as if they had anything more urgent to do, what with their investigation being stalled for the moment. Moody was still working out a possible deal that he could offer Skeeter for her cooperation. And they still had no good leads - the trap in the hunting cottage hadn’t been triggered yet.

“Alright, boss,” he said. “We’ll investigate and shadow him.”

*****​

Shadowing Dirk Cresswell was a lot more boring than Harry Potter had expected. After Harry had used the man’s break to exchange his office door with a conjured copy lacking the original’s protections against Harry’s enchanted glasses, all he had to do was stand outside Cresswell’s office and watch him from under his Cloak of Invisibility. And observing a man dealing with paperwork was even more boring than doing the paperwork yourself. The only breaks in the monotony happened whenever Cresswell sent off a memo. But, after the first two, silently summoning the little paper aeroplanes and checking their content before setting them loose again became routine as well. Although he noticed that Cresswell did tremble, noticeably - and his handwriting showed it, too.

None of the memos looked suspicious, though - just reminders of meetings. The most interesting was the request to share information with the goblins, or rather, the request to grant that request, sent in triplicate to Fudge, Bones and Scrimgeour.

No one visited Cresswell’s office during the afternoon - although that was probably because no one wanted to risk being associated with him until it was clear whether or not Fudge would fire him.

And Cresswell didn’t finish work on time. The man kept shuffling parchment for an hour longer. Harry hoped that Ron had called Grimmauld Place; he wasn’t in the mood for another lecture about being punctual from Hermione - the witch knew his schedule better than he did and seemed to take any deviation as a personal affront.

But finally, the man got up, locked his office and headed to the Atrium, shadowed by Harry until he vanished through the fireplace - to ‘Cresswell’s Home’. An altogether unproductive afternoon, Harry thought.

“Bloody useless task,” he said as he entered his office and sat down heavily in his seat.

“Observing Cresswell?” Ron asked.

“Yes,” Harry answered. “Guy is more boring than Binns!” He scoffed. “Tomorrow, you can stand outside his office and fall asleep.”

“You’re the one with the Cloak of Invisibility and the enchanted glasses, mate,” Ron said, chuckling.

“I’ll loan them to you,” Harry told him.

“Thanks, but I’ll have to decline.”

Harry huffed. Perhaps he should mention to Moody that Ron needed some more experience in shadowing, too? “So, what about your task?”

“Oh, you might be interested to hear that Darlene Cresswell missed the Ministry’s Matrons’ monthly Sunday tea,” Ron said. “She sounded rather distracted, too, according to my information, when she was on the Floo.”

“Ministry’s Matrons?” Harry hadn’t heard that term.

“Percy’s nickname for Mum’s friends - most of them are married to Dad’s colleagues or work at the Ministry themselves. Meet once a month for tea and gossip.”

“You told your mum about our investigation?” Harry stared at him. Ron was more cavalier about secrecy, but this…

“No. I simply called her to talk about dinner at The Burrow this week and mentioned that I had heard Dirk Cresswell looked ill today.” Ron grinned and patted a scroll of parchment. “I got a rundown of the Cresswells’ life in return.”

“Lucky,” Harry spat.

Ron tapped his temple. “Just using my head.” He sighed. “Anyway, it looks like both of them might have been sick.”

“It might be contagious,” Harry said. It likely was, if both Cresswells had caught it. “We should check with St Mungo’s. Cresswell was trembling rather strongly today. It would likely be serious enough for a visit.”

“Already checked. I asked the nurse in charge to visit them, then acted as if I had misunderstood them when she told me they weren’t patients.” Ron sounded smug. “Neither has visited St Mungo’s.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “That does look odd,” he said. “Not to seek help… Maybe we should cast a few spells on him when he returns tomorrow.”

Ron nodded. “Yes. Before Mum visits them - she mentioned she might.” He picked up a memo from his desk. “Also, the results came in - the remains from Bulstrode Manor were a cat’s.”

It looked like Moody had been paranoid, then. Even if he might be onto something with Cresswell.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, October 27th, 1998

More time spent standing around hidden under his Cloak of Invisibility! And this time, Harry Potter wasn’t even watching his target. Instead, he was waiting for Cresswell to arrive at the Ministry. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait for too long - Cresswell usually came to work early and this morning was no exception. As soon as Harry saw the man step out of the fireplace, he tapped the magic mirror in his pocket.

A moment later, Ron stepped out of the next fireplace, stumbling forwards a little for effect so that he almost crashed into Cresswell. “I’m sorry! Long night… Oh, Mr Cresswell! Good morning. Is your wife feeling better? Mum mentioned that she was ill.”

Cresswell blinked. He was still a little pale but didn’t tremble as much as yesterday. “Pardon?”

While he was looking at Ron, Harry levelled his wand at the man and cast his first spell. No illnesses.

Ron laughed, acting embarrassed. “Ah, sorry again! I’m Ron Weasley. My mum is a friend of your wife’s.”

“I see. Arthur’s son.” Cresswell looked more relaxed now.

Harry cast another, more complex diagnosis spell. It was a little tricky under the cloak, but he managed it. Definitely no illnesses.

“Sixth son, to be precise,” Ron said. “We’re a handful.”

“I can imagine.” Cresswell nodded. “I’ve got two myself, both at Hogwarts.”

Harry cast his next spell. And had to suppress the urge to hiss when he saw the result.

“I think I remember one of them. Gryffindor, right?” Ron asked.

“Yes.”

“Best house!” Ron said, grinning.

Harry cast the spell again, just to ensure he hadn’t made a mistake. He hadn’t.

“Of course!” Cresswell laughed.

And Harry wondered why someone who had been put under the Torture Curse wouldn’t have called the DMLE or St Mungo’s.

*****

“Obliviated and tortured?” Harry Potter blinked at Moody’s statement.

“Aye.” The old Auror was grinning. “I knew something was suspicious.” He grew serious again. “Both him and his wife.”

Harry had expected that, but to have it confirmed… He winced.

“If Mum hears about this…” Ron shook his head.

“She won’t,” Moody growled. “No one can know about this!”

“If the Cresswells were tortured, does that mean they didn’t have access to Veritaserum?” Ron asked.

“Perhaps,” Moody said. “Or they simply couldn’t control themselves. Bellatrix Lestrange loves the Torture Curse, and this looks like her style.” He scoffed. “More important, though, is that we know they’re still interested in Gringotts. Unless this is another distraction, of course. But it’s not as if we have a better lead.”

“So what do we do?” Harry asked.

“We’ll have to investigate Gringotts, of course. Crouch is a crafty bugger; he’ll be planning another attack already.” Moody snorted. “Not that the goblins don’t deserve it, but we can’t afford a war with them. So even if it’s just another distraction, we have to stop it.”

“So his next distraction will succeed again?” Harry asked.

“Only if we don’t catch him first,” Moody replied. “The first two distractions were simple - straight attacks. But if he went after Cresswell for information, then he’s planning something more subtle. Something he needs insider information for. That’s a chance for us.”

“We don’t know much about Gringotts, though,” Ron said.

“Aye. Which is why we’ll be using the Bulstrode robbery as a cover to investigate Gringotts.” Moody chuckled. “I’ll just have to inform Dawlish that we’ve found a connection to our case, but that it’s a secret. He’ll love that!”

Harry wasn’t certain if he should be more concerned about the fact that he was apparently going to spy on the goblins, or that he would have to do so while working with an Auror who resented him and his team.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 27th, 1998

Hermione Granger shouldn’t be here. She should be out on the roofs of Knockturn Alley, tracking down Mad Mulligan. Helping Mr Fletcher track him down, at least. Even though he had told her that he didn’t need her help with finding him, she certainly could use the experience. She should be on the prowl, on the hunt. She shouldn’t be sitting in Grimmauld Place’s living room with a book in her lap and Crookshanks sleeping on her feet.

And it was all Harry and Ron’s fault. Their new, more regular schedules really complicated her own plans. She glanced at Ron. Her friend was sitting in his usual chair, closer to the windows, and talking to Luna through their enchanted mirrors. She didn’t need to eavesdrop to know that, behind Ron’s privacy charm, they were exchanging ‘sweet nothings’, as her mum would call it - Ron’s expression told her enough. That slightly silly smile, the hint of a blush - yes, he was flirting. As usual. Probably keeping Luna from doing her homework, too.

She sighed. Honestly, he should simply sneak into Hogwarts and meet her properly. It couldn’t be too hard to get in through a secret passage or a side entrance. Harry could even lend him his Cloak.

She was of a mind to tell him so, but that might give Harry and him ideas about her. Ideas she didn’t want them to have. Even if Ron really should sneak into Hogwarts, if only so he was out of her hair.

Although that would still leave Harry. If he had a girlfriend… she pressed her lips together. No. It would facilitate her heists, but she didn’t need him to have one. She was a professional thief; she would adjust and adapt. There was no need to saddle her best friend with some silly, clingy hussy who was only after his fame, gold or both.

She glanced at him as he sat, reading, on the couch. And found him glancing at her just as she looked at him. She forced herself to smile and meet his eyes, instead of looking away like a little girl caught staring. And she hadn’t done anything wrong, either! “What are you reading?”

He blinked, then smiled and held up his book: “Gringotts: A History.”

Oh. She narrowed her eyes. That was a strange choice for her friend. It wasn’t as if he’d only read Quidditch books and magazines (and books about magical animals), like another friend of theirs, but goblins? “Are you working on a case involving goblins?” she asked.

“Ah…” He cleared his throat. “Not exactly.”

She shook her head. Of course he was - he wouldn’t be behaving so evasively otherwise. She stood, apologised to Crookshanks for dislodging him from her foot and disturbing his nap, and then walked over to Harry. “I’ve read that book recently,” she said as she sat down next to him. “What are you looking for?” He probably wouldn’t be interested in the goblins’ security, but it wasn’t as if she had skipped the chapters covering politics.

It turned out he was interested in the goblins’ security. That was interesting - and inconvenient, since she’d have to play ignorant again.

On the other hand, since she was already familiar with the content, she could enjoy the experience of reading a book with her best friend - while sitting so close to him that she only needed to slightly shift her weight to lean into his side and rest her head on his shoulder.

Only to get a better angle to read the rest of the page, of course.

*****​

London, Knockturn Alley, October 28th, 1998

“There. Mad Mulligan lives in the back flat on the fifth floor,” Mr Fletcher said as he pointed ahead to the house on the corner.

Hermione Granger, wearing a dark hooded cloak, like Mr Fletcher, which hid her mask and suit, studied the building. It was only three floors high - but then, most of the doss-houses in Knockturn Alley made heavy use of Extension Charms to cram more flats inside their decrepit structures. The outside of the building made The Burrow look solid; the inside probably made Kowloon Walled City look spacious.

“How did you find him?” she asked.

“Bought a few drinks in the local dives,” he answered. “Mad Mulligan is well-known, but not well-liked.”

She nodded. She could do that too, should she have to track down such a wizard herself. “Why is he called that?” She doubted that the man played golf.

“Twice broke into the same house in Diagon Alley and was arrested each time,” Mr Fletcher explained.

Hermione shook her head. That sounded like their quarry was both stubborn and stupid. An embarrassment to any professional thief. “Well, I guess that makes it likely that he didn’t rob a well-guarded place for the Vanishing Cabinet.”

“Might’ve found it in some rubbish,” Mr Fletcher said. “A single cabinet isn’t valuable.”

Hermione hoped that that wasn’t the case - it would make trying to find the original owner both more difficult and more conspicuous. “Do you expect any trouble inside the house?” she asked, glancing at him. Such houses were often claimed by gangs of ruffians - or worse - as their territory.

Mr Fletcher shook his head. “No. The house belongs to the Notts.”

She nodded. No local thug would dare disturb an Old Family’s business. Preying on tenants was one thing, but trying to claim the house as their own? The consequences varied, but it usually ended badly for any ruffians that cocky.

They would still have to be careful, of course. “Let’s go,” she said, starting to walk towards the doss-house.

Up close, it looked worse. Not quite condemned, but close. Magic would help with structural issues, of course, but it said a lot about the Notts - and the tenants - that none had bothered to clean up the entrance and front of the house. On the other hand, she amended as she saw some hulking figures lurking in the alley next to it, if the house looked less decrepit it would probably attract attention none of the tenants wanted.

They entered, and, as expected, the interior went as high as ten floors, two flats per floor. At this time of the day - late morning - it looked deserted. As planned.

They climbed the creaking stairs, scaring a ratty-looking dog away from the third floor, and soon stood in front of Mulligan’s door on the fifth floor. She tapped her mask, activating the spells on it, and fought the urge to sigh. The spells protecting the flat - they could barely be called wards - were pathetic. No self-respecting thief would live like that!

A few flicks of her wand and they were inside without alerting anyone. The flat’s interior matched the building - sparsely furnished with damaged furniture and some mouldy-looking wallpapers, both covered with dust, painted a depressing picture. Hermione wondered if the thief was too lazy or too inept to conjure better furniture and clean up.

Mr Fletcher gestured at a half-open door. She nodded and moved forward, hearing snoring. Shaking her head, she pushed the door open and aimed her wand at the figure on the bed while she glanced around to check that no one else was in the room. She saw no one, and no floating marker indicated a disillusioned presence.

“That’s him,” Mr Fletcher said. “Drunk off his arse,” he added with a nod at the three empty bottles near the bed.

Hermione sighed. That might complicate the interrogation but wasn’t unexpected. She removed the man’s wand with a quick, silent Summoning Charm, then aimed at his drooling face. “Aguamenti!”

The stream of water woke up the thug - she wouldn’t call the sorry excuse for a criminal a thief - and soaked his bed. He spluttered, trying to shield his face with his hands as Hermione hosed him down.

She ended the spell and addressed him. “Mad Mulligan.”

“What?” He squinted at her, then paled. “Merlin’s arse, no! I didn’t know! I didn’t mean to steal from you!”

Hermione was tempted to close her eyes and sigh at this pathetic display. “Then you better answer our questions.”

He nodded rapidly, sending drops of water flying from his face and hair. With his hair plastered to his head and his twitchy nose, he looked like a large, wet rat. She resisted the urge to hex him on principle. “Three years ago, you sold a cabinet to Borgin and Burkes. Where did you get that cabinet?”

“What?”

The rat was asking for it. She cast a Stinging Hex at his thigh, and he squealed as if she had stuck him with a knife. “You sold a magical cabinet to Borgin and Burkes. Where did you get it?”

“But Burkes said it was rubbish, worthless!”

She hexed him again and then once more. He squealed like a mouse. But he started talking.

“From that house in Godric’s Hollow… the shed. It looked valuable… almost broke my back carrying it outside.”

“The Levitation Charm is a first year spell,” she hissed.

“What?”

She reined in her temper and ignored Mr Fletcher’s chuckling. “Which house?”

“Dunno. Some white one.”

It took a few more Stinging Hexes until they had a sufficiently detailed description.

“That’s all I know… please!” he whimpered.

“We should put you out of your misery,” she told him.

“No! Please! I didn’t know!”

She shut him up with a Memory Charm. Pathetic rat.

*****​

North Sea, Azkaban, October 28th, 1998

“Merlin’s beard,” Harry Potter heard Ron mutter as they stepped out of the fireplace in Azkaban and found themselves staring down the wands of the Hit-Wizards on guard. “Don’t curse us, even though we’re Aurors!”

None of the Hit-Wizards laughed. “Go through the Thief’s Downfall, and don’t touch your wands!” the witch in charge snarled.

Harry rolled his eyes as he walked through the contraption and let the liquid wash over him. Ron did likewise. The Hit-Wizards should have been this alert before Crouch infiltrated the prison. Though he doubted that the Death Eater would try the same trick a second time.

“Can we draw our wands now?” Ron asked in a rather petulant tone.

The Hit-Wizards stared at them, and, for a moment, Harry thought they would call for someone to check their identities - Ron wasn’t as bad as Fred and George, but he could be very annoying when he tried. But then the older Hit-Wizard nodded.

Harry cleaned and dried himself with two charms, then stashed his wand again.

The witch kept frowning at him. Harry blamed Ron for that. “What is your business in Azkaban?” she asked. “We weren’t informed of another investigation.”

“We’re here to visit a prisoner,” Harry explained. “Private business.”

The witch’s frown deepened. “No funny business. I don’t want an escape attempt on my watch.”

“We won’t do anything but talk,” Harry assured her. He wasn’t certain whether she was afraid of an actual breakout or that they planned to hurt the prisoner and blame it on an escape attempt.

“Just a polite, private talk,” Ron added with a grin.

“And who do you want to visit?”

“Raphael Markdotter.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s one of the wizards who attacked you.”

Harry nodded. “The case’s closed. I just want to talk to him - he was my first arrest.”

She didn’t believe him, he could tell, but there wasn’t much she could do. She snorted and looked at the youngest Hit-Wizard. “Humphrey, lead them to Markdotter. And check if he wants to see visitors.”

The Hit-Wizard jerked his arm, as if he wanted to salute but stopped at the last moment. “Yes, Ma’am.” Turning to Harry and Ron, he added: “Follow me, sir.”

A few minutes later, they were standing in front of Markdotter’s cell. “You’ve got visitors here. Want to see them?” their guide yelled through the door.

“Who is it?”

“Two Aurors on private business.”

A moment passed. Then the thug answered. “Alright. But better hang around, so they don’t have to wait when they want to leave.”

The Hit-Wizard frowned, probably miffed that it would look like he was following the thug’s orders when he stayed, but opened the door.

“Hello, Mr Markdotter,” Harry said, smiling. “I’m Auror Potter; this is Auror Weasley.”

The thug paled slightly. “The Boy-Who-Lived. Who’d have thought?”

Harry shrugged as the door closed behind him, then made a point of looking around. The cell looked new. Freshly cleaned and repaired, he guessed. He stepped to the barred window and peered out while Markdotter turned his head to keep track of him.

“I already told everything I saw during the breakout,” Markdotter said. “Which wasn’t much.”

“We’re not here about the breakout,” Ron said, conjuring a seat for himself and a chair for the thug. “We’re here to talk about your past.” He sat. “Namely, your past business as a wand for hire.” Ron gestured at the chair, and the thug sat down after a moment’s hesitation.

“That case’s closed. I’m doing my time,” Markdotter said. He was glancing back and forth between Harry and Ron.

“The case against you is closed,” Ron said. “But we still don’t know who hired you.”

“I don’t know. The bloke used Polyjuice Potion. I told that under Veritaserum!”

Ron nodded, still smiling. “Yes. But I don’t think that this was the first time you were hired by that person. Went a bit too smooth, didn’t it? No questions, no long negotiations. They knew you.”

“So? I don’t know them.”

Harry stepped behind the thug as Ron leaned forward. “But you know the jobs you’ve done like that one. And we want to know them. And we want your memories.”

Markdotter drew a breath through clenched teeth. “I ain’t no rat.”

He put up a brave front, but he was sweating, Harry saw. He cleared his throat and slowly walked around the man. “You know that Ron and I fought and killed the Dark Lord.”

Markdotter slowly nodded.

Harry bared his teeth at him. “That means we’re the prime targets for the Death Eaters who escaped. And for the Death Eater who freed them.” He scoffed. “I think it’s possible that he was the one who hired you.” Harry didn’t, actually - Crouch would have attacked them, given the opportunity. Probably used the thugs as a distraction and scapegoats. But Markdotter wouldn’t know that. “That would make you an accomplice to the man behind the breakout.”

“You weren’t hurt during all that fighting. Looks a little suspicious, doesn’t it?” Ron added. “And now you’re not cooperating.”

“You’ve got two choices. You can tell us what we want to know. Copy your memories for us. And we’ll be gone, with no one the wiser,” Harry said.

“Or we can ask Moody to talk to you.” Ron smiled.

“Mad-Eye?” Markdotter said, paling even more.

Harry nodded.

Markdotter talked.

*****​

Godric’s Hollow, Cornwall, Britain, October 28th, 1998

The Barntuckles lived in a modest house on the outskirts of Godric’s Hollow. Former farmhouse, Hermione Granger thought - she recognised the style, but the fields around the house weren’t cultivated, and there was no sign of any livestock, although there was an old barn next to the house. Well, no sign other than a lazy, overweight dog sleeping in the sun on the lawn. Sirius probably approved, she thought with a glance at the wizard next to her.

After adjusting the fake Auror badge on her red robes and tucking a strand of her currently straight, blonde hair behind her ear, she knocked on the door. After half a minute, it was opened, and an old wizard in house robes squinted at them. “Yes?”

“Mr Barntuckle?” Hermione asked.

“Yes?”

“I’m Auror Smith; this is my partner, Auror Wesson.” She pointed at the disguised Sirius. “We’re investigating a robbery, and we would like to ask you a few questions.”

“A robbery?”

Hermione hoped that the wizard’s memory was better than this first impression implied. “Yes. May we come in?”

“Oh, of course!”

The house was bigger inside than outside, but not extremely so, and the furniture was old and well-repaired, but didn’t look very expensive. They sat at the large, heavy dining table and refused Mr Barntuckle’s offer of pumpkin juice and scones. Hermione came straight to the point before Sirius could make idle conversation, probably about the dog outside. “Mr Barntuckle, we found a list of stolen goods, and one of the items on it was a Vanishing Cabinet taken from Godric’s Hollow. Did you ever own such a cabinet?”

“Oh…” He blinked, then nodded. “Yes, yes, we did. A pair even!”

Perfect. She leaned forward. “What happened to the cabinets?”

“Oh… that was… fifty years ago? Or something.” He blinked again.

Fifty years? Hermione suppressed a wince. The cabinet could be anywhere!

Mr Barntuckle went on. “Marcus and I - Marcus is my brother, you see. Married a Prussian witch and now lives in Berlin. Writes me every week, though, he does. And sends me pictures of my grand-nieces!”

She forced herself to keep smiling. “What did you and your brother do?”

“Oh. We had a plan, you see. We wanted to use the cabinets to come and go from Hogwarts as we pleased. One here, in the barn, another in Hogwarts, hidden somewhere. We could have visited our parents whenever we wanted.”

“What a great idea!” Sirius exclaimed. “And you could have smuggled in all kinds of things!”

“Oh, yes. We had plans,” Mark Barntuckle said, nodding. “Marcus knew a shop where we could buy firewhisky without trouble, you know.”

“What happened?” Hermione interrupted. “You had plans, but nothing came of it?”

“Oh, we broke the cabinet. We managed to get it to the Forbidden Forest with our flying carpet - they weren’t banned back then, you know?”

“Yes, I know,” Hermione said with a forced smile.

“Yes, anyway, that was before school began. And then, in the first week, we fetched the thing. Only, it was so heavy, I had trouble with it, and Marcus tried a Levitation Charm, which went awry, and we dropped it. A few times. Cracked the frame. Never worked right afterwards, so we left it there, hidden on the first floor.”

“And is it still there?” Hermione asked.

“I gather… we never tried getting it back. No point when it’s broken, you know? And we told our parents that it had been stolen.” He chuckled. “And then, years later, the one in the barn really was stolen. Kind of fits, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Hermione lied.

“Where did you hide it?” Sirius asked. “I’ve done a few pranks myself at Hogwarts, and I know the first floor well. Maybe in the alcove behind the silent knight’s portrait? There’s a secret passage, you know?”

“Oh, is there? We never knew! Did you find the one linking the History classroom and the courtyard?”

“Yes, we did!”

Hermione fought the urge to hex both men as they started to reminisce about their time at Hogwarts.

*****​

“You didn’t have to obliviate him, you know,” the dog remarked when they finally - after spending far too long listening to old stories - left the house.

“Yes I did,” she retorted. “You practically told him who you were with all your stories!”

“He probably wouldn’t have remembered us anyway.”

She glanced at him. He looked rather morose, for a change. Of course - he had lost a lot of his memories, but due to Azkaban, not to old age. She swallowed her sharp retort and shrugged instead. “Better safe than sorry.”

He grunted.

“Well, at least you’ll get to relive your past glories when we sneak in and recover the cabinet,” she commented.

“You’re right!” He perked up. “We should use the opportunity to play a prank on Remus! Or McGonagall!”

“No, we shouldn’t,” she said through clenched teeth. Maybe she should have obliviated both of them?

*****​

London, Diagon Alley, October 28th, 1998

Harry Potter didn’t bother nodding at the glaring guards as he entered Gringotts. They wouldn’t have appreciated it, anyway. Instead, he glanced around, taking in the layout. They had installed Thief’s Downfalls at the main entrance since his last visit, but apart from an increased number of guards, he didn’t notice any other changes as he stood in line.

Well, the line was shorter than last time, too. It didn’t take him long to reach a teller. “Yes?” The goblin sneered at him.

“I’d like to access my vault,” Harry said, showing his key. “Number 687, Potter.”

The goblin scoffed and hit the bell on the counter. “Follow Gripclaw.”

The service hadn’t grown any friendlier, Harry noted as he walked behind the other goblin towards the tunnels leading to the vaults. But not any worse, either. No added security at that entrance - no, the door to the stairs he had seen on earlier visits was now barred.

Neither he nor the goblin spoke on the cart ride, but Harry noted that the cart slowed down before passing another new Thief’s Downfall, and there was a new alcove right at that spot, with guards inside. And some dogs, or animals that looked like dogs.

That robbery must have really spooked the goblins for them to go to these lengths, he thought. He’d have to tell Moody tomorrow - the old Auror was still browbeating Dawlish into sharing information.

When they arrived in front of Harry’s vault, he also noticed that the goblin didn’t walk away, but stayed and watched as the door swung open. “Do you mind?” he snapped.

Gripclaw growled but stepped aside, and Harry entered his vault. He had taken most of his gold to Grimmauld Place after the riot, but there was still a decent sum left. Certainly enough to grab a little spending money to keep up appearances. Maybe he should have a browse in Quality Quidditch Supplies. Or perhaps surprise Hermione with a new book… He could claim he spotted a new book she might like while buying the latest European Quidditch Almanach.

*****​

Hogwarts, October 29th, 1998

“You know, this is just like old times,” Sirius said - not for the first time. “Sneaking through a secret passage into Hogwarts after midnight, using the map to check for patrols, up to no good…”

“And getting caught if you don’t focus and stop talking,” Hermione Granger whispered. “We’re almost there.”

“There’s even a worrywart who can’t stop nagging,” the dog grumbled. “Remus would be proud.”

She wouldn’t hex him. Not in the middle of a heist. She was a professional thief. Not some student out of bounds for a lark.

“Of course, if Remus had been a witch, some things would have been quite different.”

After the heist, though… Hermione clenched her teeth.

Finally, they reached the end of the tunnel, and she felt around for the lever to open the secret door. There! “Is the hallway clear?” she whispered.

“Wait a second… yes. There’s a prefect patrol on the second floor, but they won’t bother us.”

“Unless their route leads down to the first floor,” she corrected him.

“Oh, I don’t think so. They’ve been ‘inspecting’ a broom cupboard for five minutes now. Close together,” he said, and she didn't have to look at him to know he was smirking.

Huffing, she pulled the lever, and the wall in front of her swung to the side.

“The cabinet’s in the alcove next to the former Defence classroom,” the dog said - as if she would have forgotten that. She had studied the maps and knew the way. She was a professional thief, not some prankster!

She wanted to change and sneak ahead as a cat for added stealth, but the dog would copy her, and Padfoot was anything but stealthy. So she quickly made her way on two feet to the classroom, then snuck into the alcove. There was the cabinet, right where Barntuckle had told them.

Now all they had to do was to replace it with the duplicate they made, levitate the original into the secret tunnel and leave.

“Oh no!”

That was the last thing she wanted to hear from the dog. “What?”

“Mrs Norris is coming towards us. I can stun her, but Filch’s got a sixth sense about her - never worked when we did it at school.”

Filch’s pet cat? Hermione had a score to settle with that beast. She hadn’t forgotten her first year!

“Leave her to me. Get the cabinet to the tunnel,” she said and changed.

It was time to teach that snitch that proper cats didn’t act as if they were guard dogs!

*****​

Five minutes later, she strolled into the secret tunnel with her head held high and her tail raised. Mrs Norris wouldn’t dare prowl the hallways for her owner for a while!

*****​

 

Chapter 44: Subterfuge

London, Ministry of Magic, October 30th, 1998

Another day, another dozen case files to sift through. On average. Case files to examine, mark the missing forms and sheets and then send them back to the stupid Aurors who couldn’t be bothered to do their paperwork correctly. Or checking whether the stupid Auror looking into the archived files had mistakenly replaced half the sheets in the file with material concerning their current case. Or finding half of someone’s breakfast or lunch spread over the pages of a file.

Theodore Nott, Auror, had seen it all in his time in ‘FiIing’. More than once he had wondered how the Ministry managed to keep going if this was representative of the average competency of its employees. It wasn’t as if it were difficult to handle files correctly - the forms were easy to understand. All it took was care. Diligent working. Adherence to proper procedure.

Something Theo had come to know wasn’t really common among his co-workers in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. When he saw things like the file he was currently inspecting - which was missing all the even numbered pages - he couldn’t help wondering how they had passed their Potions N.E.W.T.s when Snape had been teaching. His old Head of House wouldn’t have tolerated such sloppiness.

He marked the file as incomplete and dropped it in the basket on his desk that would return it to the Auror who had sent it. Once the office mail got around to it, at any rate.

“Hi, Theo.”

He looked up. “Bathilda? What are you doing here?” He rarely got any visitors here - other than some Aurors who thought that by asking in person, they would get to skip filling out the proper forms to request the files they wanted. But Bathilda wasn’t one of those Aurors - she was one of the few who correctly filed her cases.

The witch held up a file. “I don’t need this any more, and thought I’d deliver it myself rather than let the mail handle it - and ask you if you’ve taken your break already.”

Ah. Theo smiled. Bathilda was such a Hufflepuff - hard working, friendly and considerate. If only all his co-workers were like her, his workload would be cut in half, at least. “No, I haven’t taken my break yet.” He pointed at another file in the ‘out’ basked, where the envelope was visibly discoloured. “Seeing someone’s lunch in that file put me off. But a cuppa sounds good.” He stood, then hesitated. “Potter’s not taking his break as well, is he?”

Bathilda frowned at him. “No, he isn’t. Moody has him and Ron investigating something.”

“Ah.” Good.

They walked towards the break room.

“What’s your problem with Harry, anyway?” Bathilda asked. “And why don’t you have the same issues with Ron?”

“Both of them hate me,” Theo said. “Potter’s the leader, though.” If it were just Weasley, Theo wouldn’t have any trouble with the lout. Weasley’s father and brother worked in the Ministry, but they were dirt poor and lacked the backing of an Old Family, so Theo could have put Weasley in his place easily. But Potter… Bloody Potter.

“You do everything to aggravate them, though,” Bathilda commented as they reached the break room.

“I don’t!” He huffed. He was only defending himself. “This began long before we started at the Ministry.”

“Theo!” She glared at him. “We’re not at Hogwarts any more! No one cares who won the House Cup!”

The bloody Gryffindors certainly still cared. Bloody cheaters! “It’s not about the House Cup. Or anything that happened at Hogwarts.” He shook his head as they sat down at their usual table.

“Then what’s the problem? What makes you three attack each other every time you meet?”

Theo sighed and summoned a cup and the teapot to gain some time. Bathilda wasn’t from an Old Family, so this would be difficult to explain. “Potter’s only part of the problem. He’s a tool.”

“What?” She stared at him.

Of course, she wouldn’t be aware of the politics - she wasn’t connected, and she hadn’t been in the Department long enough. “He is the Boy-Who-Lived.” And the arrogant sod wouldn’t let you forget it. “The most famous wizard in Britain. At Hogwarts, he could do not wrong - Dumbledore always took his side.”

“We’re not at Hogwarts any more!”

“No, but it’s the same thing here. Instead of Dumbledore protecting him, and using him for his own plans, this time it’s Black.” Theo snorted. “Black’s trying to destroy the Wizengamot. He’s spending gold like crazy to get enough idiots on his side that he can pass whatever laws he wants. He’s a revolutionary. My father was in the same year at Hogwarts, and he told me all about him and his views.” Which were terrifying. The fool would destroy a thousand years of tradition and order in his hatred of the Old Families. “And Potter’s Black’s tool to deal with those who won’t be bought. You’ve heard him talk about Malfoy and the others, haven’t you? Bones herself had to tell him that he couldn’t wage his private war against them, but he’s doing it anyway. For Black.”

Bathilda didn’t look like she believed him.

He tried again. “He started at the same time as we did, but while we’re working with experienced Aurors, he gets paired with Weasley at the first opportunity, and they’re set loose. No oversight. No controls. First patrol, they curse half a dozen ruffians - and right afterwards, Mad-Eye picks them for his special group.” He scoffed. “Don’t you see? Black’s pulling strings. As soon as there’s an excuse, Potter gets promoted. Until no one can stop him any more when he goes after Malfoy and the others who oppose Black’s plans.”

“Bones wouldn’t let him break the law!” Bathilda protested.

“Bones is the Head of the DMLE. If she ever wants to become Minister, she’ll need support.” Even as a member of an Old Family. “And Black can offer her that support.” He leaned back and finished his cup. “Bones may talk tough, but in the end, she wants power.”

“And you want to stop Black? By yourself?” Bathilda frowned at him.

“I can’t stop him. But I can try my best to stop Potter from running roughshod over the Department and pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes.” He certainly hadn’t planned on doing that. All he had wanted was to spend some years in the Ministry and network until he would inherit his father’s seat. As the scion of an Old Family, Theo would have been promoted quickly, too. But Potter had to ruin everything.

“And why do you care? The Notts aren’t friends with the Malfoys.”

So she did know something about politics. Theo made a mental note not to underestimate her. Dawlish had probably started teaching her the ropes. “I care because I don’t want to lose everything we’ve built over generations to one man’s irrational hatred.” Black was the Head of an Old Family. The richest family, too - and the most feared. He had no need to destroy the Ministry and the Wizengamot.

“Do you think Black wants to ruin your family?”

Theo scoffed. “He wants to ruin all the Old Families. Which will destroy the entire country.”

The mess the Aurors made of their paperwork was proof of that.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, October 30st, 1998

“...and, therefore, I think it’s of utmost importance that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement should focus their efforts on recruiting more Hit-Wizards and Aurors. Even though, as my esteemed colleague Madam Longbottom observed, new recruits won’t be able to do very much, they can still serve in low-priority areas, allowing the more experienced Aurors to focus on catching those vile criminals who threaten the very soul of Wizarding Britain.”

Malfoy certainly laid it on thick, Hermione Granger thought. She certainly would never describe the Old Families as ‘the very soul of Wizarding Britain’ - but she knew the majority of the Wizengamot certainly would agree with Malfoy. Just as she knew that they would agree with Malfoy’s proposal. The Bulstrode heist had spooked them more than they wanted to admit - until now, they trusted their wards to protect them, at least long enough for the Aurors to arrive. Even against Crouch and the Lestranges.

But that all that had changed. As had Bulstrode’s status. She glanced at the man. He was sitting in his seat, surrounded by the other members of the Wizengamot, yet no one was talking to him or even pretending to pay attention to him. Even though everyone was talking about him.

So much for blood and breeding being what distinguished the Old Families! This proved, to anyone with eyes to see the truth, that gold was the only thing that mattered to the leaders of Wizarding Britain. She wondered when Bulstrode would abandon his seat, sick of being isolated and ostracised by his former peers. Although he was a stubborn wizard and a proud one. He might stick it out till the end. But his heir wouldn’t be confirmed in the Wizengamot, though they would find some excuse other than being too poor for an honoured member of the Wizengamot.

Sirius raised his wand. He would support the proposal as well, of course. Anything else would be suspicious. She smiled - it wasn’t as if it would truly hinder their subsequent heists. New recruits or experienced Aurors - none of them would catch her. Not even Harry.

She would have her revenge!

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, October 31st, 1998

Hermione Granger glared at the Vanishing Cabinet. She had repaired the damaged frame. She had analysed the spells on it. She had a working example standing right there, next to it. Repairing it should be easy. Just duplicate the spells and restore the connection.

And yet, so far, her efforts hadn’t borne fruit. The cabinet still wasn’t working reliably. It wasn’t even working regularly - half the time, nothing happened at all and the rest of the time, the items she was using to test the cabinet either disappeared to somewhere, or, once, came out… changed. She had vanished those.

Sighing, she sat down and closed her eyes. She could do this. She just needed to duplicate the spells. Which required her to learn the spells. Spells that weren’t in the Hogwarts curriculum.

“Hermione?”

She looked up. Jeanne was standing in the doorway.

“You look annoyed.”

Hermione snorted. “I’m frustrated.” She pointed her wand at the cabinet, resisting the sudden urge to cast a hex at it. “It’s not cooperating.” She sighed. “Or rather, I don’t know the spells needed to repair it. I know their effects, and I can identify them easily, but...”

“...but that’s not enough to cast them,” Jeanne finished for her as she joined her on the floor, sitting down cross-legged.

“I can reverse-engineer them.” Probably. “It would take a long time, though.”

“Reverse-engineer?” Jeanne cocked her head at her.

“Recreate the spell.”

“Ah. Recrafting. We did that in Arithmancy.” Jeanne smiled. “I learned a special transfiguration spell for robes that way. The teacher wasn’t amused, but it has come in very handy at times,” she added with a naughty grin.

Hermione hadn’t gone that far. Mr Fletcher had taught her the basic principles, which had been enough for her Arithmancy N.E.W.T.s. But she had focused on wards and Curse-Breaking - spells and techniques a thief needed - and not on spellcrafting. Learning enough to master this would probably take her longer than it would take to find and learn the necessary spells from other sources.

Or she could swallow her pride and ask Jeanne to help. Which was what her friend was obviously expecting, judging by her expression. She didn’t like it, but it was far better than wasting time. “Could you help me with this?”

“Of course.” Jeanne beamed at her and flicked her wand. “Let me take a look at the spells…”

*****​

“I think it’s a variation of the Switching Spell,” Jeanne said as she finished her analysis. “It doesn’t need a target to swap, though. That’s where the Protean Charm comes in.”

Hermione Granger had come to the same conclusion. “So can you recraft the spell?”

“I think so.” Jeanne craned her neck and stretched. “But I’ll start tomorrow. Tonight’s Samhain.”

“Halloween,” Hermione corrected her.

The French witch snorted. “Whatever the name, it’s a traditional celebration. We’ll have a feast at the Weasleys, or so Sirius said.” She frowned. “But it looks like Harry and Ron will be out all night.”

Hermione nodded. Once more, Harry’s sense of duty was as annoying as it was appealing. “It’s all Moody’s fault.”

*****​

Forest of Dean, Gloucestershire, Britain, October 31st, 1998

Harry Potter frowned when he spotted movement in the small clearing below him. He ran his wand along the frame of his glasses and activated the spells on them to zoom in and add more brightness. Yes, someone was moving there. About a dozen people. Thirteen, to be exact, forming a circle holding candles.

He sighed and tapped his badge. “Potter speaking: There are people on site, Forest of Dean. I’m hovering above them. They haven’t spotted me, and they look like muggles. Thirteen of them, holding candles.”

“Moody speaking: That is exactly what Crouch would want you to think! Constant Vigilance! Observe them until Weasley and I join you.”

Harry rolled his eyes. That was the fifth ‘potential ritual site’ Moody had them check out. Two had been empty and two had been full of muggles celebrating Halloween. The people below didn’t look like they were having a party - unless it was a ‘toga party’; Sirius had mentioned them once - but Harry was certain they were muggles. No wand in sight nor any wards or ritual circles. Just candles and bedsheets.

Harry doubted that even Crouch would go that far. And even if he did - why would he waste a few hours before the real ritual? The ceremony happening below Harry was as magical as the BBC test card - no sign of any spells. And the singing didn’t change that either. If Crouch wanted to deceive the DMLE, he would have had to know which location they were checking at which time - and Moody hadn’t told anyone. Not even Harry and Ron.

“Moody speaking: We’re flying towards you now, Potter. Form the north.”

“Potter speaking: Understood.” Harry sighed and wondered when they would be dropping the formalities - it wasn’t as if anyone else could overhear them right now.

A few minutes later, two disillusioned wizards pulled up next to him - he could tell from their floating markers.

“They’re chanting!” Moody growled.

“In Gaelic,” Harry said. “Seamus used to sing like that when he got drunk.”

Ron chuckled. “Oh, yes.”

“Cut the chatter. There’s more to magic than Hogwarts,” Moody growled. “You can’t know what Crouch might have found in twelve years.”

“Apart from blood magic,” Harry replied.

Moody scoffed. “Potter, check for anyone observing them. Weasley, you and me will stun the lot and check for magic before obliviating them.”

“Isn’t that a little harsh?” Ron asked. “It’s not as if they’re harming anyone.”

“It’s the Day of the Dead, Weasley. Some of these sites are still powerful enough to be dangerous. And those idiots are trying a ritual. Wouldn’t be the first time someone dug up a working ritual.”

Harry didn’t think muggles could do any magic, even with a working ritual, but there was no point in arguing. “Yes.” He guided his broom down to the forest’s canopy so the ground would be in range of his Human-presence-revealing Spell and started a search pattern.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, November 2st, 1998

“...and while Harry was flying circles, we stunned them all. Didn’t find anything dangerous or magical,” Ron finished the tale.

“And I didn’t find anyone either,” Harry Potter said as he refilled his cup. “Spent the whole night chasing muggles away from ritual sites.”

Bathilda shook her head. “No party or feast for you, then?”

Harry shook his head, mirroring Ron. “No.”

“I don’t mind,” Ron said. “Luna’s at Hogwarts anyway. But Hermione wasn’t happy with Harry.”

Harry glared at his friend. “Just wait until next year.”

“So the rumours are true?” Bathilda leaned forward. “You and your godfather’s secretary?”

Harry sighed. “It’s complicated.” And having to work on Halloween certainly didn’t help make it any easier.

“Ah.”

Fortunately, Bathilda didn’t ask for more details. She was a very nice witch, in Harry’s opinion. Too nice - she still hadn’t realised what a scumbag Nott was.

“Very complicated,” Ron said.

Harry glared at him, but his friend didn’t add his usual ‘it can only be solved if Harry asks her out’ line.

“Ah.” Bathilda nodded again, then took a sip of her tea. “Say, I was wondering…”

Harry narrowed his eyes. Bathilda was nice, but she also liked gossip.

“...what do you think of the Wizengamot?”

“It’s nothing more than a tool for the Old Families to run Wizarding Britain as their personal fiefdom,” Harry quoted Hermione. He shook his head. “It’s in dire need of reform, the first task of which would be democratisation. As long as the seats are inherited by the Heads of the Old Families, we won’t ever get rid of the corruption in the Ministry.”

“They have the gold, the seats and the relatives in the Ministry,” Ron added. “If you want to advance, you need a patron. If not for Dumbledore, Dad and Percy would have been fired long ago - or assigned to dead-end posts.”

“That’s the worst thing,” Harry said. “Even if you want to change things, you have to play the game. You need friends in the Wizengamot or you’ll never get promoted past the lower ranks. And in the Wizengamot, you need friends in the Ministry who’ll keep you informed, at the least.” He snorted. “And fighting corruption with corrupt methods is a bad idea.” Like fucking for virginity, as Sirius had once put it - a quote from Harry’s mum.

“But if everyone has friends…”

“...then everyone in the DMLE isn’t enforcing the law, but doing favours for their friends,” Harry interrupted her. “It doesn’t even out. There’s no accountability with inherited seats. Wizengamot members get away with anything, even with crimes, as long as they have enough friends who’ll vote to acquit them in a trial.” He nodded. “We need reforms or the whole system will crash and burn - and sooner than they think. It would already have happened, if Dumbledore hadn’t been so patient.”

“What do you mean?”

Harry scoffed. “What do you think would have happened if Dumbledore had decided to get rid of the Wizengamot? Who would have been able to stop him?”

“He could have just started cursing people in the middle of a session,” Ron added. “No more Wizengamot.”

“But Dumbledore’s dead,” Bathilda said.

“Yes. And he was able to keep the Wizengamot honest. More or less. But since his death the Old Families have grown bolder - and greedier,” Ron told her.

Harry nodded. “And that‘s not a good thing for people who are supposed to both make our laws and judge our cases.”

Bathilda looked shocked. Once more Harry thought that she was a little too nice - or naive - for the Ministry.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, November 2st, 1998

“You’re getting better.”

Hermione Granger snorted at Harry’s words as she mended and cleaned her robes - they had gotten both torn and dirty during their ‘training session’ had created - then beamed at him. “Does that mean I can stop getting regularly hexed by you?” Before he could answer, she went on: “Let me guess: I’m still not good enough.”

Harry’s smile slipped, and he sighed. “I don’t think anyone is good enough. Not when we’re facing Crouch and the Lestranges.”

She was tempted to answer with a flirty remark, but his expression made her drop the idea. “What’s wrong?” she asked instead as she stood and walked over to the bench in the room, where he was sitting.

“I’m just a little frustrated at our lack of progress,” he said. “I mean, the lack of progress in hunting the Death Eaters down, not yours. Not that there is a lack of progress on your part, I mean,” he quickly added.

She had to giggle at that as she sat down next to him. “I knew what you meant.” With a mock-scowl, she went on: “At least I hope I know what you meant.”

He laughed. “Sorry.”

“Why are you apologising, unless you were lying to me?” She asked, then patted his shoulder when she saw him at a loss for words. “Sorry. I’m a little frustrated myself.”

“Oh?” He cocked his head. “What’s wrong?”

She couldn’t tell him that she resented the fact that she couldn’t do much to repair the Vanishing Cabinet. Nor that she hated the fact that Jeanne could repair it instead - even though she knew that was petty and arrogant. So she lied. “Malfoy’s making more friends in the Wizengamot with his proposals to boost the Auror Corps, and there’s not much Sirius can do about it, unless he wants to be painted as a Death Eater sympathiser.”

“What? Sirius? That’s ridiculous!” Harry exclaimed.

“I know, but the Wizengamot’s whipped up to a frenzy about the Bulstrode robbery and Malfoy’s trying to portray himself as their saviour.” Hermione shook her head. “They’re too afraid to see through his ploy.”

Harry leaned back on the bench. “Well, I can understand that. The fear, I mean. We still don’t know how they slipped through the wards. If Crouch finds out how to do it - or hires them - and they do it to our home…”

Hermione refrained from laughing at that idea. “But didn’t you say that the Death Eaters couldn’t get through Azkaban’s wards and had to sneak in?”

“Yes. But that’s how the thieves did it at Bulstrode Manor, too.”

Had they connected the robbery to the cat? She forced herself not to tense up. “I thought you didn’t know how they did it?”

“Well, not exactly. But Moody’s convinced they somehow snuck past the Thief’s Downfall, not the wards. The human factor is the weakest link in security, or so he claims.” Harry shrugged. “And that’s how Crouch infiltrated Azkaban.”

So they didn’t know. She slowly nodded. “Well, we’re not about to get as sloppy here as the guards in Azkaban were.”

“You can’t underestimate him. He’s one of the most dangerous dark wizards in Britain.”

And she was one of the best thieves in Britain. Even if the Death Eater managed to get past the wards in Grimmauld Place, he wouldn’t catch her. “I certainly won’t. And I don’t think anyone else in our home would, either.” Sirius certainly wouldn’t underestimate the Death Eaters - Jeanne and herself would see to it. “But I’m also not going to live in fear of him.”

“Not fear. Just… caution.”

She sniffed. “Well, I guess if I have to trust Dawlish to catch those thieves, I should be a little more cautious. Or a lot.”

Harry chuckled, then shook his head. “Well, he’s not the best Auror, but far from the worst.”

“Now I’m worried. And afraid,” she said, shaking her head. Good news for a thief, but even better news for the Death Eaters.

“Well, he’s got a good partner, at least. Bathilda - Bathilda Meringworth - is a good Auror. Hardworking, smart and very nice. She was in Hufflepuff, a year above us. She started with Ron and me this year.”

“I think you mentioned her before,” Hermione said. But certainly not as flatteringly - she would have remembered that. “But will hard work be enough with Dawlish in charge?”

He chuckled. “She tries to play peacemaker when Ron and I butt heads with Nott, too, so she’s used to nigh-impossible tasks. She’s even a little too nice for an Auror - or naive.”

Hermione nodded. And made a mental note to take a closer look at this oh-so-nice witch. Just in case she was trying to manipulate Harry.

*****​

Kent, Longbottom Manor, November 3rd, 1998

“What do you think?”

Hermione Granger tapped her mask to reset the zoom to normal before answering Mr Fletcher’s question. “Mrs Longbottom doesn’t seem to distrust her hired guards, unlike other Old Families after the Bulstrode Heist. There are two double patrols. With dogs.” If Hermione didn’t know how little Neville’s grandmother thought of muggles, then she would have suspected the involvement of a muggle security firm. “I think it’s a safe bet that they’ll be on the lookout for disillusioned intruders with Human-presence-revealing Spells as well, and won’t rely on the dogs.” As if dogs were of any use against a professional thief. Stupid beasts.

Mr Fletcher chuckled. “Unless she hired the dregs of her family.”

“There’ll be at least another patrol, probably two, inside the manor. And the same number of guards ready to react to an alarm,” Hermione went on. “Not counting Mrs Longbottom and Neville.”

“And whoever they have invited to stay at the manor.”

She nodded even though he couldn’t see her, just the marker floating above her head. “They’ll be jumpy too - the Lestranges tortured Neville’s parents into insanity at the end of the last war. To know they are still in hiding, getting ready to strike…” She wouldn’t have known any of that but for one of the articles in the Prophet following the breakout.

“They won’t try to stun an intruder,” Mr Fletcher said.

“They won’t catch us.”

“Don’t be so certain.” She knew he was frowning. He had been when they had been planning this. “Your plan relies on them catching you.”

“Not me, just the attempt,” she responded. “And I’ll have you watching my back.”

He sighed but didn’t try to change her mind any more.

She could understand him, of course. She didn’t like doing this either - and not because of the risk to herself, should any of the patrolling wizards and witches actually spot her. But it was necessary, to prevent an even higher risk.

She drew her wand. “So, let’s go out of sight and start digging.” Or vanishing, to be precise.

*****​

Kent, Longbottom Manor, November 4th, 1998

Harry Potter stared at the tunnel, or what was left of it. Neville’s guards had torn up part of it and caused the rest to cave in, revealing how far it had run - from the second-closest forest to the wardline at Longbottom Manor.

“I noticed that the earth had started to sink when I checked our gardens. I almost dismissed it as a fluke, but…” Neville shrugged. “Better safe than sorry, right?”

“Definitely,” Ron agreed.

“Why didn’t you call the Aurors?” Harry asked.

Neville chuckled. “I didn’t want to look foolish if it had been my imagination. And Gran agreed. So we had Michael and his wands check it out. They started to vanish the earth there - and discovered the tunnel.”

“And the thieves.”

Neville sighed. “They saw black robes and thought it was the Death Eaters. And they panicked, even though the thieves ran.”

Harry huffed. They had been lucky that this tunnel had been dug by thieves, not Death Eaters. If the Lestranges had been in the tunnel, half of Neville’s guards would have been killed or maimed. Those outside the wardline. “I’ll need the memories of the guards.”

“Their memories?” Neville stared at him.

“Copies. For Sirius’s Pensieve.”

“Ah.” Harry’s friend nodded. “I’ll tell them to give them to you.”

“Is that how they got through Bulstrode’s wards?” Neville asked. “Dug a tunnel to the wardline, deep enough to avoid notice?”

“It’s a possibility. We’ll have to check the area there,” Harry said. “But if they’re smart they’ll have filled up any tunnels after they left the manor.” He doubted that that was how the thieves had gotten through the wards, though he couldn’t tell why he felt that way.

“That won’t help,” Neville told him. “You’ll still be able to tell from the earth.”

“Ah.” Harry nodded. “You should tell that to the Auror team working on that case.”

“I thought you and Ron were working on it.”

Ron laughed. “No. We’re hunting the Death Eaters. We only responded to the call here because someone called it a Death Eater attack.”

Harry nodded. “Bathilda, the witch over there with your grandmother, is working on this case. You’ll have to tell her.”

Neville frowned. “I’ll have to go over it again?”

Harry laughed. “And a few times more, I think, once we catch the thieves.”

“At least you won’t have to write it down,” Ron said. “Dictaquills aren’t good with forms.”

“Huh?”

“Just the usual Ministry paperwork. Can’t just file a Dictaquill scroll - have to write a proper report using the correct forms.” Harry scoffed. If it were important to use the forms, they wouldn’t have let Nott anywhere near Filing. That spoiled wizard didn’t know anything about Auror procedures.

“Ah.” Neville nodded. “Like the Wizengamot. They speak normally during sessions, but the record is full of flowery words.”

Ron scoffed. “If we did that Bones would call it ‘falsifying evidence’.”

Harry shrugged as he checked if Bathilda was still busy with Neville’s gran. It didn’t look like she’d be free of whatever lecture or advice Mrs Longbottom was giving her any time soon. He turned his attention back to Neville. “So, how have you been doing since Hogwarts?”

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, November 4th, 1998

“I don’t know if I should envy or pity Neville,” Ron said, balancing his chair on its two back legs.

“Hm?” Harry Potter looked up from his report and frowned. “Are you taking a break already?”

“No, I’m doing balance training. If Moody asks, that is,” Ron answered with a grin before leaning forward and letting his chair rest on four legs again. “But to answer your other question: I knew Neville had taken his seat in the Wizengamot, but I didn’t know that he still let his gran do the work.”

“He said that he let her check his speeches,” Harry said.

“Yes, he did. Just like Hermione checks Sirius’s speeches.” Ron chuckled.

Harry frowned. “It’s not like that.”

“You’re right. She writes the speeches, and Sirius condenses them into something that won’t drive the Wizengamot away or put them to sleep.”

Harry’s frown turned into a glare. “She’s just thorough. Her essays for Sirius cover everything important.”

“And every detail she could think of,” Ron added. “And both important things and details are wasted on the Wizengamot anyway. The members only care about their own coffers.”

“Most of the members,” Harry corrected him.

“A few exceptions excluded, then.” Ron laughed. “You just acted like her.”

“What?”

“She’d have corrected me as well, even though she knew what I meant - and that I was right.”

“Well, we are Aurors. We’re supposed to look at every detail - and write it all down in our report,” Harry responded. “Like the report you’re supposed to be finishing.”

Ron shook his head. “And once again, you sound like her.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “If we’re late because of you lazing around, I’ll tell her it’s your fault.”

Ron shook his head. “She still hasn’t said anything?”

“We need to finish our report.” Harry went back to writing.

Ron sighed. “I could ask Luna to, you know, sound her out next weekend.”

Harry looked up again. “I didn’t know there was a Hogsmeade weekend this week.” Had they changed the schedule? After centuries?

“It’s not. But Luna knows the secret passage to Honeydukes,” Ron said.

“Ah.” Harry nodded.

“She really likes chocolate.”

Harry nodded again, grinning.

“So... do you want me to ask Luna to ask Hermione to ask you out?” Ron asked again.

He was serious? Harry shook his head. “We’re not at Hogwarts any more.” Luna was a sweet girl. A good friend. But he’d rather not see her trying to play cupid. Especially not with him.

He wasn’t desperate. He’d ask her himself instead. Subtly.

*****​

London, Grimmauld Place, November 4th, 1998

Hermione Granger moved her wand and her catsuit, floating in the air in front of her as if worn by an invisible mannequin, rotated about itself. She studied it with a critical eye, but she couldn’t detect even a hint of dirt. The enchantment to keep it from picking up dust and other material that might be traced to a crime location was working perfectly. She still cast a cleaning charm of course. Just to be sure. Only dogs liked to be dirty, after all.

“Did you pad that thing? It looks quite a bit larger in the chest area.”

Thinking of dogs… She rolled her eyes before storing the catsuit in her trunk and turning to face Sirius. “I ensured that the mysterious master thief of whom the Longbottom guards were allowed to catch a glimpse would have a different figure than myself,” she corrected him. She hadn’t liked that, but it had been a necessary, even crucial part of the plan.

“So you did pad it!” Sirius chuckled. “You know, you can use Transfiguration for that.”

“I would rather not mess up my balance by adding unneeded fat to my body.” Not to mention that such transfigurations shouldn’t be done by amateurs. Even if the stories she had read when looking into the issue might have been exaggerated to keep teenage witches with body issues from maiming themselves, it certainly was neither safe nor easy. Her figure was perfectly fine, anyway. Lithe and graceful, like a cat. Not lumpy like a cow.

Sirius grimaced. “Only you would describe it like that, I think.”

She snorted. “I’m simply precise instead of obsessed with appearances.”

The dog seemed to find that amusing for some reason since he laughed before nodding towards the door. “Jeanne and Fletcher are waiting. Harry called - he won’t be late, but he wants to use the Pensieve after dinner. He was at Longbottom Manor today.”

“Oh.” That was unexpected. Harry and Ron were among the best Aurors - but they were hunting the Death Eaters, not the mysterious thieves preying on the Old Families.

“He didn’t want to tell me much, but he wants to use the Pensieve to ensure that this wasn’t a Death Eater attack,” Sirius said as he opened the door for her.

“A Death Eater attack?” She almost hissed at the thought. “Did they think I was Bellatrix Lestrange?”

Mr Fletcher, sitting at the ‘planning table’, which doubled as the ‘loot sorting table’ after a heist, chuckled. “A witch wearing black clothes and a mask - who else could that be?”

She huffed. “I ensured that they would catch a glimpse! How could anyone mistake my catsuit and mask for Death Eater regalia?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have padded your chest,” the dog said. She glared at him, but he ignored her.

“Easily,” Mr Fletcher responded, ignoring the dog’s remark. “They were nervous and focused on casting curses, not on watching who they fought.”

She sniffed. “If they think that this was a Death Eater attack then we failed. I failed. I should have let them get a better look.”

“Don’t be an idiot. You took too many risks as it was,” Mr Fletcher snapped. “I almost had a heart attack when the tunnel blew up.”

She frowned. “We need to be seen as going after all of the Old Families, or even the DMLE will be able to connect the dots eventually.”

“Let’s wait until Harry and Ron finish their investigation of the incident before we talk about another attempt at misdirection,” Jeanne said.

“We can always rob another family or two,” Sirius said. “I have a few names in mind.”

“The more heists we do before Malfoy, the more prepared he’ll be for us,” Hermione retorted. And the closer her unofficial deadline - Jeanne giving birth - would be. “Every trick we use will only work once.”

“Are you running out of ideas already?” Sirius said.

“Hardly.” Even though she hadn’t yet found a good plan to not only clean out the Davises’ vault but also strip their manor bare. At least not a plan Mr Fletcher wouldn’t reject as too dangerous.

But she did indeed have a few ideas.

*****​

London, Grimmauld Place, November 4th, 1998

There was the hollow. It was barely visible - a small depression in the ground. For anyone to notice it, they had to be intimately familiar with the grounds of Longbottom Manor.

“Alright, I’ll vanish the earth, you be ready with your wands in case this is more than a mole,” Richard Longbottom - very distantly related to the Longbottoms - said. His tone left no doubt that he doubted that this was an impending attack.

“If it’s a mole, then we’ll have to call Lovegood and tell him we’ve found one of his crazy animals.” Melissa Byers laughed.

“It could be a Voracious Mole. They really exist - cousin of mine was almost maimed by one in Kenya,” Lesley Hawkins cut in.

“What’s a Voracious Mole?” Melissa asked.

“Imagine a cross between a mole and a vole,” Lesley answered. “Give it fangs and sharpen the digging claws. And then enlarge it until it’s the size of a wizard. Although if it were a Voracious Mole, it would have already undermined us to attack us from below.”

Melissa cursed, and everyone aimed their wand at the ground.

“Vole or mole or Death Eater - we’re not getting paid to speculate,” Richard announced. “Get ready!”

A moment later, the Earth started to disappear as Richard cast a series of Vanishing Charms.

“How bloody deep do we have to dig?” Lesley asked once the hole was past ten feet.

“Until I stop,” Richard snapped. “Now keep your mouth shut!”

And then, about thirty feet deep, the earth vanished and revealed a tunnel. And a black-clad figure with a wand.

“Death Eater!” Lesley yelled, jumping back.

“Merlin’s beard!” Melissa started to cast a curse but she wasn’t quick enough. The figure jumped back, their wand came up, and the hole was suddenly filled with green smoke that rose upwards.

“Poison cloud! Bubble-Head Charm!” Melissa screamed.

“No, it’s acid!” someone yelled.

And then there was a blast in the hole, and the lawn started to form a more distinct depression.

Harry Potter withdrew his head from the Pensieve and looked at Ron. “You’re right. The thief is a witch. Athletic. And quick. Good reflexes. And she kept her wits - scared the Longbottom guards with a quick conjuration and made her escape.”

“With a good figure too - though that could be padding,” Ron added.

Harry nodded. “It’s possible.” Though he doubted that anyone would wear such tight clothes and then pad them. “And she might be a muggleborn or half-blood - she’s wearing a leather catsuit.”

“Or a pureblood who wants you to think she’s a muggleborn,” Ron said. “Can’t assume anything.”

“Right. So we don’t really know much about the thief.” Harry sighed. “At least we can tell Neville that the intruder is very unlikely to be Bellatrix in disguise. I don’t think she would use Polyjuice Potion. That would throw off her sense of balance. And I really don’t think that she would wear muggle clothes. Not according to what Sirius told us.” And the figure wasn’t tall or buxom enough for Bellatrix.

“So: the thief is an athletic, quick-footed and quick-thinking witch. And probably hot. Do you think Dawlish will investigate the Harpies after he reads our report?”

Harry laughed. “Gwenog Jones would bash his skull in with her bat if he bothered her.”

But he resolved to check Ron’s report before handing it in. Sometimes, Ron showed both Luna’s and the twins’ influence a little too much, and Harry didn’t want the rest of the Aurors to think of him as a randy teenager lusting after a thief.

*****​

Hogsmeade, November 7th, 1998

Luna was on her sixth coffee and chocolate scone in less than an hour - Hermione Granger had kept count. “No wonder the waiter isn’t batting an eye at your school robes, even though today isn’t a Hogsmeade weekend,” she commented.

“What are you talking about?” Luna asked, frowning at Hermione, a forkful of cake frozen halfway to her mouth. “These clearly aren’t school robes - do you see any Hogwarts colours or badges anywhere? It’s a perfect disguise!”

“The waiter greeted you by name, Luna,” Hermione pointed out. “And he asked how Ravenclaw is doing in the Cup.”

“Well, of course, he would greet me by name; otherwise he’d be rude. And he asked because he, too, was in Ravenclaw.” Luna shook her head.

“And you told him how many points the house currently has.”

“Well, if I hadn’t, I’d have been rude. And selfish.” Luna nodded and then proceeded to finish her cake.

Hermione sighed and looked around to see whether there were any other students in Madam Puddifoot’s teashop. A few of the patrons did look rather young, but they didn’t appear to be nervous, which she would have expected had they snuck out of Hogwarts.

On the other hand, this might be normal for Hogsmeade - she had only visited the village during Hogsmeade weekends, after all. And to sneak into Hogwarts, but she hadn’t lingered in the village on those occasions. And she certainly hadn’t visited any teashops.

She glanced at Harry and Ron. “At least you two aren’t wearing your Auror robes.”

“I already have a girlfriend,” Ron said between taking bites of his cake, “I don’t need to impress other witches with my dashing robes.”

“You better not try to impress other witches!” Luna said, frowning at him.

“Of course not!”

She nodded emphatically. “It would be cruel to make them think you were available!”

Ron nodded with a rather sappy expression. Hermione turned to look at Harry, expecting him to share her wry amusement at their friends’ open affection, but Harry wasn’t smiling - instead, he looked pensive as he stared out of the window. “Harry?”

“Huh? Yes?” He seemed startled.

“Are you thinking about your case again?” That would be more than a little hypocritical of him after dragging her to Hogsmeade to ‘forget about work for a day’.

“No, no. Not my case.”

“Another case then?” she joked. “Still thinking about that thief?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I actually wanted to ask Luna about something, but it’s kind of private.”

Both Ron and Luna perked up at that, Hermione noticed. “Really?” Luna asked, putting her fork down. “Something you talked about with Ron?” Harry stared at her, and she quickly added: “You talk to him all the time, after all.”

“Yes.” He cast a privacy charm - he wasn’t mumbling the incantation any more, Hermione noticed. “I was wondering if you had any idea about which creatures would make good guard animals.”

Weirdly, Ron rolled his eyes while Luna’s face lit up. “Oh, yes! Lots! Daddy taught me all about animals!” She nodded several times. “You want to protect your family vaults from that thief, don’t you? I suggest getting a dragon. No one would dare approach your vault, then. They don’t let anyone close to what they consider theirs, so even if the thief uses Polyjuice Potion to look like you they won’t be able to steal your gold!”

“She,” Harry said. “It’s a witch.”

“Oh, right, Ron told me. You’ve spent hours memorising her figure,” Luna said.

Hermione told herself that it had been a very good decision to pad her suit.

Harry coughed. “I had to be certain that she wasn’t Bellatrix Lestrange. But you were talking about guard animals. Dragons are illegal in Britain.”

“Are you certain?” Luna frowned.

“Yes.” Harry nodded.

“Even for Aurors?”

“Even for Aurors. Especially for Aurors,” Harry confirmed.

“Bah.” Luna pouted and turned to Ron. “I was looking forward to visiting your brother in Romania, but if we can’t get a dragon, it takes a lot of the fun out of the trip. It’s like visiting Honeydukes but not being allowed to buy anything.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows at Ron, but her friend just shrugged. “We could get a Chimaera instead? That doesn’t count as a dragon, I think.”

“I wanted a dragon,” Luna said.

“Anyway, what other guard animals would you suggest?” Harry asked.

“Oh… given that the thieves like to tunnel, I would suggest a Voracious Mole. They can dig underground and intercept any tunnelling attempts.” Luna smiled. “They eat a lot of meat, so you’d need to cast the Duplication Charm a lot.”

“I think those are a little too big. I merely want guard animals that can detect intruders.”

Hermione knew that she wasn’t the best at Care of Magical Creatures, but had everyone except for herself heard about these animals? She’d have to read up on them.

“You want Shrieking Snakes then!” Luna beamed. “If they sense prey or threats or mates nearby, they scream so loudly, people have gone deaf when they were in the vicinity. They also use that to hunt.”

Harry actually seemed to be considering it! Hermione glared at him. “Think of Hedwig and Crookshanks - they would go deaf from all the screaming!”

“Only until the Shrieking Snakes ate them,” Luna pointed out helpfully. “They prey on such animals.”

“No animals that will attack a cat!” Hermione stated as firmly as she could. “And none that would attack a dog either,” she added.

Which, as it turned out, pretty much excluded most of Luna’s suggestions. And Hermione vetoed most of the rest - there would be no rats in her home, forked tails or not! Nor any Fire Penguins - in her opinion, the lawn didn’t need a lava pit.

She wouldn’t mind a pack of Kneazles, but Harry said that would remind him too much of Mrs Figg’s house - his old babysitter.

Honestly, he should get over such petty issues when his safety was at stake!

*****​

London, Diagon Alley, November 9th, 1998

“So you’ve finally decided to share your information with us.” The goblin - Manager Sharptooth - had a sneer that was worse than Malfoy’s, in Harry Potter’s opinion. It had more and sharper teeth, for one. And Malfoy had never managed to look at you as if he wanted to kill and eat you, and only wasn’t doing it because he thought you’d taste awful.

It didn’t impress Moody, though. The old Auror shrugged. “Sharing is a good word. We’re not giving it away.”

“What? Those are your vaults we’re guarding!” The goblin rose from his seat, but that actually made him look even smaller.

“Yeah, yeah. I ain’t got much gold myself, and Potter and Weasley here are using the Black vaults.” Moody snorted. “But we’re not here because of the thieves.”

“What? I was told that you would be giving us a copy of your file!”

Moody held up a folder. “Yes. We brought it with us. Including a report on the attempted robbery of Longbottom Manor.”

The goblin’s hand jerked as if he wanted to reach out and grab the folder - despite the fact that he would have to climb across his desk to do that. “What do you want?”

“We want to know everything you know about the Lestranges and the Crouches. Vault contents, records, sightings - everything.” Moody leaned forward.

“We can’t give out such information about our customers. It would be a breach of the treaty!”

“They aren’t your customers. They are your enemies. They’re planning something.” Moody grinned. “Are you certain you want to see them succeed?”

“We only have your word for that.” Sharptooth scoffed. “And wizards lie all the time in war.”

“This is not a war. This is a hunt for criminals - something you should be familiar with.” Moody leaned forward, and his grin grew wider. “They kidnapped Cresswell, you know? Interrogated and tortured him and his wife, then obliviated them to hide the whole thing. Now, I wonder why they would do that if they weren’t planning an attack on Gringotts.” He straightened. “Of course, it’s your prerogative to protect the secrets of such valuable customers. But I think we’d do better working together to catch both the thieves and the Lestranges.” He stood. “So let us know when you’re willing to share information. You know how to reach me.”

Without waiting for an answer, Moody stood and left the manager’s office, Harry and Ron following him. The guards in the corridor outside didn’t bat an eye, but Harry could see that they had gripped their halberds a little tighter.

“Nasty little buggers,” Moody grumbled as soon as they had left the bank. “Don’t know how Cresswell can stand dealing with them. I’d rather talk nicely to thugs in Knockturn Alley.”

“Do you think they’ll share their information?” Ron asked.

“Hard to say. They don’t think like we do. They love gold and war far too much. It took a dozen bloody defeats before they finally realised that they couldn’t win against us. And they still hate our guts while most of us have forgotten about the rebellions.” Moody shook his head. “Bloody fools.”

Harry didn’t know if he meant wizards or goblins. “So we have to hope that they love gold more than war?”

Moody chuckled. “You could say that, yes.”

“They picked gold over fighting when they made the treaty, didn’t they?” Ron said.

“No.” Moody shook his head. “They picked making a treaty and getting gold over getting slaughtered. And, from what I understand, it still was a near thing. Goblins are a bloodthirsty bunch with barely more sense than a werewolf under the full moon.”

“And we let them hold our gold.” Ron shook his head.

Moody shrugged. “They don’t hold the gold of the Old Families, do they?” He chuckled. “Just like it was the common people who died in the rebellions.”

“Why are we working for them again?” Ron asked.

“What’s the alternative?” Moody asked. “Democracy? As long as the Old Families have their gold and their relatives everywhere in the Ministry, they’d still rule the country, democracy or no democracy.”

Harry clenched his teeth. Moody was wrong. You could change the system. Reform the Wizengamot and the Ministry.

But this wasn’t the time or pace for such a discussion.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, November 13th, 1998

Hermione Granger was a little frustrated when she returned home from the Ministry. Another pointless Wizengamot session where the members of the Wizengamot lied through their teeth about the good of the country as they did all they could to protect their own interests at its expense - and at the expense of everything and everyone else. Not unlike muggle politicians, as her parents would say when another scandal made the news.

“Hello, Hermione! Did you have a bad day at the Ministry?”

Jeanne sounded far too happy for Hermione’s taste. Chipper, even. Must be the hormones - although she thought it was a little early for the mood swings to have started. “Just the usual Wizengamot business. Sirius went to talk with Doge, but he said that wouldn’t take longer than an hour.” And Hermione hadn’t felt like yet again playing the dutiful muggleborn secretary, even with Doge.

“A bad day, then,” Jeanne said, nodding. “But I have good news! I finished repairing the cabinet!”

Now that was good news indeed! Hermione’s hug almost lifted the other witch off her feet.

*****​

 

Chapter 45: Vanishing Act

London, Diagon Alley, November 18th, 1998

“Ewan, are you sure that we can trust the Davis Manor’s vaults?”

Ewan Davis suppressed a sigh as he turned to face his wife. They had gone over this before, but Natalia wouldn’t drop the issue. “Of course we can. They’re certainly safer than our own home.” Diagon Alley was regularly patrolled, but that didn’t keep out all the thieves.

“If the family cared about us they’d pay to have our wards strengthened,” Natalia said with a frown.

He loved his wife, but she was Prussian. She didn’t understand the Old Families; not really. Not even after twenty years of marriage. “The cost of installing secure wards on every home would be far beyond even their means. It’s much easier and more logical for Eric to let everyone use the manor vaults to store their valuables.”

She snorted. “‘Eric’. As if he were a friend.”

“He’s family,” Ewan said, a little more sharply than he had intended. Old Families had obligations towards those related to them by blood. And unlike a few other Heads of Old Families, Eric Davis not only understood that but also honoured his commitments. That was how Britain worked, after all.

“So are the Meringworths across the Alley,” Natalia retorted, pointing at the window. “But you wouldn’t trust them with our valuables, would you?”

“I trust Eric and the wards on the manor.”

Natalia scoffed. “He’s a bloody Junker looking down on us. And those vaunted wards didn’t protect the Bulstrodes, did they?”

She had a point there. “What’s the alternative? Trust all our valuables to the goblins?” He scoffed. “They’re just waiting for an opportunity to betray us.”

She frowned, crossing her arms. “At least don’t take everything to the manor!”

“I’m not,” he assured her. “Half our gold is still in Gringotts.” He patted the trunk next to his feet. “But I can’t leave this wood in our shop.” Arcane Gum Tree from Australia, several centuries old. A whole tree’s worth, stored in an extended trunk. It was probably stolen - the wizard who had sold it to Ewan had looked more than a little shady, and the price had been far too cheap for something that rare. But no Auror would be able to find it hidden in a trunk in the Davis vaults. Some things just weren’t done, and searching the manor vault of an Old Family was one of them.

That was how Britain worked, after all.

*****​

Lincolnshire, Davis Manor, November 18th, 1998

“Ewan! Welcome to the manor. It’s been too long.”

“Eric. Thank you for receiving me.” Ewan respectfully bowed despite the very friendly greeting. Eric was the Head of the Davis family; he could be as familiar as he wanted with his relatives. Ewan, though, couldn’t. Not with the Old Family.

“Of course! You mentioned you needed to store some valuables?” Eric gestured towards the entrance to the basement. Which, Ewan noticed, was guarded by two tall, muscular wizards. They hadn’t been there when he’d visited the last time.

Eric must have noticed his glance since he chuckled. “I’ve hired a few more guards. Just in case that thief is foolish enough to attempt to rob us.”

Ewan wasn’t an expert, but the two wizards looked Scandinavian. He didn’t recognise them - and, thanks to his carvings being a traditional wedding gift, Ewan was familiar with the majority of his extended family on the British side. He didn’t think Eric would hire strangers, no matter their reputation. Not stationed in his very home. But the Old Family had blood ties to Scandinavia. Blood ties which were not spoken of much in polite company, given the far too favourable attitude of Scandinavians towards werewolves.

As Eric led him towards the entrance - there wouldn’t be a detour to the living room for tea and a chat; they weren’t that closely related - Ewan noticed that both men sported facial scars. Rather notable ones. He suppressed a shudder. If those were werewolves…

Eric must be taking the security of the manor vaults very seriously to dare to hire such cursed beasts as guards. Even though they were rumoured to have a wolf’s sense of smell and would scare off most sane intruders.

“Sven, Jan.” Eric nodded at them as he tapped his wand on the door between the two guards. The larger - Sven - grunted what could have been a greeting. For trolls.

Ewan reminded himself that, according to Kettleburn, werewolves were just normal wizards most of the time. That they couldn’t spread their curse when they weren’t transformed. It had been two weeks since the full moon, too - they were harmless. Or as harmless as wands for hire could be.

It didn’t help. He almost shuddered when he stepped past the beasts. One bite, and he, too, would be cursed. A dark creature. A monster. He shook his head as soon as the door closed behind him and took a deep breath.

Eric glanced at him but didn’t comment. He didn’t have to. Ewan wouldn’t say anything. He, too, was aware of his obligations to the Head of the Old Family. And of what he owed Eric for being allowed to use the manor vaults.

*****​

Diagon Alley, November 18th, 1998

“He’s back.”

Hermione Granger nodded. Ewan Davis had returned, then. “Through the Floo Network?” she asked, even though she knew that Mr Fletcher would have said if that weren’t the case.

“Yes. And no, I can’t tell if he still has the trunk or not.” The wizard snorted.

She snorted at the rebuke. They knew from listening to Davis’s discussion with his wife that he had taken the trunk with him, and intended to store it in the Davis Manor’s vault. There was no reason to assume that he hadn’t done so. And he would certainly tell his wife if he hadn’t. But she couldn’t help worrying. This was crucial for their next heist. It would be very embarrassing if they stepped out of the cabinet they had hidden inside Davis’s extended trunk last night, only to discover, upon opening the trunk’s lid, that they were inside another vault. Or a secret stash somewhere.

“The plan’s sound,” Mr Fletcher went on, as if he had read her thoughts. “The best cons rely on the mark’s own greed.”

It wasn’t quite a con, but Hermione agreed. In theory. “I’m not worried about that,” she lied.

“You still tryin’ to find a way to loot the manor?” He turned away from the window of the flat they had occupied in the house across from Davis’s shop. “Bein’ too greedy isn’t a good thing.”

“We were lucky to find the cabinet,” she retorted. “It would be a waste if we didn’t even try to get the most out of it.” And she really wanted to humiliate the Davises by looting their manor to the bedrock. Not to mention she wanted their library!

“Jeanne might be able to create another one,” he said.

“That might take several months - or longer. And we won’t be able to use the same trick twice, anyway. Not without waiting too long between heists.”

“If we waited even longer, we could have several cabinets, stored in different manor vaults. And then loot all of them in one night.” He grinned at her.

That was a very tempting idea. Hermione imagined the Aurors’ reaction to such a feat. She shook her head. “It would take too long.”

“Patience is a virtue for a thief,” he replied.

She wasn’t impatient. She had good reasons for discarding the idea. “By the time we were ready, the Gringotts crisis will likely have been resolved. And setting up such a complicated heist when most people no longer distrust Gringotts, and without the public pressure on the Old Families to help their relatives, would be too difficult.”

He grunted, which she took as acknowledgment of her point.

“However, I have an idea that should allow us to loot not just the vault, but the manor as well.” She grinned as she saw him narrow his eyes. “But I’ll need to study Fiendfyre for it.”

“What?” He stared at her.

“I won’t be casting it. But I need to know what it looks like,” she quickly said.

“What exactly are you planning?”

“Applied Chemistry,” she replied with a grin.

*****​

Knoydart Peninsula, Scotland, Britain, November 18th, 1998

“This is highly illegal,” Sirius said.

“So is stealing,” Hermione Granger replied. “Didn’t stop you. And the Wizengamot would certainly punish robbing Bulstrode Manor far more harshly than a little dabbling in the Dark Arts.”

“It’s not just a little dabbling,” he retorted. “Fiendfyre is among the worst curses known to wizardkind. It burns everything and can barely be controlled even by experienced wizards.”

Hermione made a point of looking around the desolate landscape around them. “There’s nothing to burn here.” Nothing that would be missed, anyway. And it was on the coast, too.

He scoffed. “I’m not certain I should indulge your pyromaniac tendencies.”

She was impressed the dog actually knew the term. But she was less impressed with his procrastinating. “I’m not trying to learn to cast Fiendfyre,” she told him. “I just need to know what it looks like.” After all, the likes of Davis would be familiar with Fiendfyre. And she needed to see the cursed fire with her own eyes to duplicate it convincingly. She didn’t trust Sirius’s memories for this.

He stared at her. “You set fire to a lot of houses.”

“Only when it was needed to hide our traces,” she retorted. And they wouldn’t need to hide that there had been a heist now. Quite the contrary, in fact. “Now please, cast it. I’ll be ready to apparate as soon as you say so,” she added.

He glared at her once more, then pointed his wand at a piece of flotsam a hundred yards away.

A moment later, green fire erupted there - cursed flames as tall as Hermione. The driftwood was consumed in seconds, crumbling to ashes as the flames grew. And moved as if they were alive, reaching out, recoiling from the seashore - and spreading through the meagre grass on the beach.

Spreading towards them like a predator pouncing on its prey. The flames looked like animals made of fire, too. And they were growing even taller. Like a tidal wave made of cursed fire.

“Merlin’s arse! I can’t control it! Apparate!”

Hermione could feel the heat on her skin and saw Sirius reaching for her arm right before she managed to apparate back to the wizard tent they had set up in the Highlands.

For a terrible moment, she feared that Sirius hadn’t made it, but he appeared a second after she did, none the worse for wear.

Both of them were shaking, though.

“I think examining the memories of that in the Pensieve will be sufficient for my study of Fiendfyre,” she said, trying to sound calmer than she felt.

Sirius nodded. “Yes, that sounds sensible.” She saw him press his lips together. Probably to keep himself from cursing at her.

She certainly felt like cursing at herself for her foolishness. That had been too close. Far too close.

But it meant that her plan was very likely to succeed.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, November 19th, 1998

Harry Potter glanced at Hermione over the edge of today’s Daily Prophet, freshly delivered by owl post. She seemed to be in a good mood - or, at least, in a better mood than she had been yesterday evening. Something had happened between her and Sirius - Harry had been able to tell as much just from the tension between them during dinner, but neither of them had told him anything more than that they had had ‘a slight argument’ over their work.

Slight, indeed. He almost snorted at the thought - they had been walking on eggshells around each other for the entire evening. They must have had a spectacular row. Something so embarrassing that both of them wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened.

He could easily imagine that, of course - Hermione and Sirius could both be very stubborn when they thought they were right. Stubborn and passionate. And the current situation in the Wizengamot wasn’t helping, with Malfoy playing the saviour of the Old Families - and more or less subtly criticising the DMLE’s lack of progress at catching either the Death Eaters or the thieves despite all the support he’d organised.

Harry clenched his teeth. It wasn’t as if they weren’t doing all they could - as long as the Death Eaters stayed hidden and inactive, no one could find them. After all, Crouch had managed to hide like that for a decade. No, they had to catch the Death Eaters when they struck at Gringotts. Or at Malfoy.

He closed his eyes. He shouldn’t get angry over this. They would catch the Death Eaters. And the thieves. It was only a question of time. He had other things to worry about, anyway.

He glanced at Hermione again. She was frowning at an article in The Times while eating a croissant. Perhaps he should wait a little longer… No! He had spent more than enough time waiting for the perfect moment, and it had never arrived. He would still prefer to be alone with her for it - he didn’t want an audience, just in case she turned him down or someone thought they should make fun of the whole thing. Their Defence training sessions would be ideal, if not for the fact that Hermione was usually annoyed before, and during, them and quite sarcastic afterwards. And he couldn’t ask her out while he was doing his best to hex or grapple with her. Or talking about her performance.

On the other hand, he had to be subtle, anyway. He couldn’t scare her off by directly asking her on a date - whatever was holding her back from taking the first step and asking him out obviously wasn’t going to disappear by itself, so he had to take the initiative without being too blatant about it. And that would actually be helped if he asked her casually over dinner. Or, in this case, breakfast.

Nothing fancy, of course. Just a casual outing or something. Something they both would enjoy. Or something Hermione would enjoy and Harry could at least pretend to enjoy. Like a visit to Flourish and Blotts. He could invite her to Fortescue’s Ice-Cream Parlour afterwards, on the way back. A natural, casual invitation. Nothing like asking her to dinner. Or to a movie. That would remind her of Paul-the-ex-Boyfriend, and that was the last thing Harry wanted.

Fortunately, he had found the perfect pretext. He suppressed the urge to clear his throat and lowered his newspaper. She wasn’t frowning any more. And Ron was talking to Luna over the mirror. Sirius and Jeanne were discussing some article in the Tribune Magique in French. Good enough. Anyway, he was a Gryffindor. “Hey, Hermione.”

She looked up from her own newspaper. “Yes?”

“I was thinking of checking over lunch if the new edition of ‘Quidditch Through the Ages’ has arrived at Flourish and Blotts. Do you want me to pick up a book for you?”

Her eyes lit up as she beamed at him. Yes! Now she would ask to come along, and they could eat lunch on the way, at that fish and chips shop in muggle London…

“Oh, that’s perfect!” she said. “Can you check if the new ‘Hogwarts: A History’ has arrived? I’ve been waiting for them to finish the new edition for a year, but, apparently, they always take that long for a new edition after there’s a new Headmaster.” She frowned. “Well, I hope they used the time to include everything important. Oh, can you get me a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages as well? And I noticed that we’re missing ‘Blood and Power’, one of the standard works on wizarding genealogy, from the library; I think Sirius’s parents removed it because it contradicted their blood bigotry. If you could get a copy of the latest edition?”

Harry couldn’t do anything but nod and force himself to smile as she turned to Sirius and told him how much gold he’d have to spend. That could have gone better.

At least Ron wasn’t sniggering. Yet.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, November 19th, 1998

Ron didn’t say anything until they had reached their office. As soon as the door closed behind them, though, he chuckled. “Mate, that was… not very smooth.”

“What?” Harry Potter frowned at him. “I just asked if there was a book I could pick up for her at Flourish and Blotts.”

“Yeah, sure you did.” Ron shook his head as he sat down at his desk. “Should have let Luna ask her.”

Harry clenched his teeth and glared at Ron, then sighed and sat down himself. “I was just trying to be subtle.”

His friend snorted. “Merlin’s beard, why would you do that?”

“I didn’t want to come on too strongly,” Harry said. And he didn’t want anyone to notice what he was doing. So they wouldn’t laugh at him. “I didn’t want to act like Paul.”

“What did Paul do?” Ron frowned.

He was a smug snob, for one. “I don’t know exactly what he did. But he hurt her when they broke up.” Harry shrugged. “I don’t want to push her if she’s not ready for another relationship yet.”

Ron was still frowning. “So your grand plan is to spend more time with her?”

Harry nodded. “Yes.”

“Haven’t you been doing that already?”

Harry pressed his lips together. “Not like that. I want it to be more…”

“More like a date?” Ron asked.

“Yes.”

“But you don’t want to ask her out.” Ron shook his head.

“No.” Harry had told him that a few times now.

“I don’t know if that’s a good plan or a pointless plan.” Ron snorted. “You plan to keep doing what you’ve been doing for the past few months, just a little more, in the hope that she’ll make the first move?”

When he put it like that it did sound a little too… subtle. Or timid, if he weren’t a Gryffindor. “I just don’t want to push her,” Harry told him once more.

“Mate, I think you should just ask her out. Waiting for her to make the first move isn’t working. Ask her out and get it over with so you either can move in or move on,” Ron said. “That worked for you before, didn’t it?”

“‘Move in or move on’?” Harry asked with raised eyebrows.

Ron rolled his eyes at him. “You know what I mean. You didn’t act like this with your other girlfriends.”

“Well, they were different,” Harry said.

“How? They were interested in you?”

He glared at Ron. Hermione was interested in him. He was sure of that. He hadn’t misread the signals. Something was holding her back, though. But he didn’t want to talk about it. Not now. Not here. “Don’t you have work to do?” he asked.

Ron snorted. “Well, you sound like her, at least.”

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, November 19th, 1998

Hermione Granger pressed her lips together when she saw Jeanne headed her way in the Black library. Her friend had that expression on her face that she knew far too well. Sighing, she said, “I know. Harry wanted me to go with him to Flourish and Blotts.” That should take the wind out of Jeanne’s sails.

But the other witch wasn’t so easily dissuaded from her course of action. “And yet, you acted as if you didn’t notice,” she commented as she took a seat across from Hermione.

“I don’t want to lead him on,” Hermione told her. “I don’t want to lie to him.”

“You wouldn’t be lying. You like him, don’t you?” Jeanne tilted her head slightly to the side.

“That’s not the issue. I can’t have a relationship with him.” Not with her secret.

“So tell him that you’ve noticed and that you’re not interested.”

That was exactly what she should be doing. Let Harry move on. He’d find someone else. Someone like… Hermione clenched her teeth. She didn’t want him to find someone else.

Jeanne smiled and shook her head. “You don’t want that, either.”

Hermione huffed and didn’t bother responding.

“So, which do you prefer? Letting him go or lying about your work?”

“I don’t know!” Hermione spat. “If it were just me, I’d have told him long ago.” But it wasn’t just her secret. It was Mr Fletcher’s, Sirius’s and Jeanne’s.

“Don’t do either, then. Just go along next time. After all, he didn’t ask you out on a date.” Jeanne smirked.

She was right, of course. But…

“Or don’t you want to spend time with him?” Jeanne leaned forward slightly as she asked.

“Yes.” She wanted to be with him. Spend more time with him. But that would… She closed her eyes and muttered a curse under her breath.

“Just be yourself, then.” Jeanne stood and patted her shoulder on her way to the door.

“That’s how they usually tell you to behave on a date,” Hermione whispered before she forced herself to focus on her task again.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, November 20th, 1998

The cursed flames flowed towards her, tendrils of cursed fire reaching out to anything combustible on the beach, instantly reducing the driftwood and scarce vegetation to ashes as they leapt ahead of the main body of the flames. Unnaturally fast - a tidal wave of fire - the heat reached her well in advance of the flames, and she could see how they moved - more like animals or monsters than a natural fire driven by the wind.

Hermione Granger pulled her head back out of the Pensieve, taking a deep breath with her eyes closed. Watching the Fiendfyre racing towards her got easier each time she did it, but it never seemed to stop being disturbing. She sat in the armchair she had conjured earlier and rubbed the bridge of her nose, memorising once more the appearance and behaviour of the cursed flames. And the feeling of seeing them race towards her.

She shuddered before she picked up the bowl next to her and added a few more pinches of copper to the powder. That should adjust the colour enough. She put it down in front of her and pushed it to the centre of the room. A flick of her wand ignited the powder, and green flames started to rise. The colour matched her memories. But the flames didn’t move like Fiendfyre. Not yet.

She cast a Flame-Freezing Charm - just to be safe - then swished her wand in a circle, casting a Flame-Moving Charm. The flames started to move in accordance with her wand movements. Not unlike a snake responding to a snake charmer. That was better, but not good enough. The spell might still be useful, though. But not for what she had hoped to use it.

She ended the spell and extinguished the fire. A cleaning charm later, the bowl was empty. Once more she concentrated, then flicked her wand, conjuring powder inside the bowl. It burned in the same shade of green as her original mixture.

She repeated the process a few times, to be sure that she had it down pat. Now came the difficult part.

She left the room and went downstairs, into the secret basement, where she had prepared a fireproof chamber. Two spells later, a green fire was burning in the centre of the solid stone floor. She pointed her wand at the top of the fire and conjured more powder. The flames seemed to leap upward, burning the powder before it touched the bowl below - and for a second, forming a new, seemingly floating, core of fire.

Hermione nodded. That was working as expected. But it was still far more of a proof of concept than anything she could use for the heist. She needed more of those ‘powder clouds’ - many more, and in various shapes.

Fortunately, she was much better at Conjuration than at modifying existing spells.

*****​

“Hermione? It’s almost time for dinn… Merlin’s balls!”

Hermione Granger clenched her teeth when the distraction caused her to miss her timing and the cascading fires to burn out half-way. She turned to glare at the dog standing - and gaping - in the doorway to the basement’s training room. “What?”

“That looked like Fiendfyre!”

“It’s supposed to,” she retorted. That was the whole point of her plan - and he knew it. She certainly wouldn’t be daft enough to actually cast Fiendfyre.

He shook his head. “I didn’t expect it to work that well. Could have fooled me.”

She wasn’t sure if she should glare at him for underestimating her or be pleased that she had succeeded. So she scoffed. “It’s not finished yet. I need to be able to conjure far more powder, and in specific shapes. Otherwise, it’ll look like a rather tiny Fiendfyre.” And that wouldn’t frighten people enough.

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” he said, shrugging.

“I don’t have much time left,” she replied. “The longer we wait, the greater the chance that Ewan Davis will take back the wood to use it.”

“He won’t do that for at least another week. Not after Fletcher spooked him with rumours of an investigation,” Sirius said.

“I would prefer not to cut it that close, though,” she said. And she wanted to do it on a night when Harry and Ron were on the graveyard shift. Which limited her options.

She would be rather busy for the next few days. Especially if she also wanted to spend more time with Harry.

*****​

London, Diagon Alley, November 23rd, 1998

Walking through Diagon Alley, Harry Potter had trouble refraining from grinning like a fool. Hermione had asked him to come to Quality Quidditch Supplies as she wanted his advice about a new broom that she was thinking about buying. And Ron had thought Harry’s plan wouldn’t work! Hah! This was exactly what he had been hoping to achieve - a casual outing between friends, doing things they both enjoyed! And Hermione had made the first move!

He glanced at her as they passed Flourish and Blotts. She didn’t stop to browse their displays, although - as he had expected - she looked at the books as they walked past. “See anything you like?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. If Hogwarts: A History had come out, they’d have put it right at the entrance.” She frowned. “If they wait until next year with the new edition, I’ll be very annoyed. Waiting one year is barely acceptable, but two years? They should have been preparing the new edition for years!”

“You could get Sirius to pass a law requiring that,” Harry joked.

She snorted. “I might very well do that; the delay of such an essential book is criminal!” Both of them laughed at that. Although she sighed a moment later. “It’s actually possible that the book’s delay is not entirely due to negligence or lack of planning ahead,” she said.

“What do you mean?” Harry frowned.

“I think a certain Wizengamot member might prefer it if an eagerly awaited book detailing the life and deeds of a wizard who regularly opposed him in the Wizengamot wasn’t published. Especially since many of those issues are still a concern.”

“Ah.” She might have a point there, but… “Isn’t there a saying to never attribute to malice what is likely stupidity?”

She pursed her lips with that slightly pouty expression that made her look adorable, in his opinion, before frowning at him. “What would Moody say?”

“He’s paranoid,” Harry replied. Her frown deepened. He sighed. “He would likely agree with you - he always suspects the worst.”

She nodded. “It’s too bad such a thing isn’t illegal, or we could set Moody on Malfoy. Not that he’d get punished even if it were illegal,” she added with a scowl.

He shrugged. “Sooner or later he’ll pay for what he’s done. His luck will run out.”

Hermione scoffed. “Until his gold runs out he’ll be able to buy his way out of any trouble.”

“Only until you and Sirius manage to reform the Wizengamot,” Harry retorted.

She was still scowling, though. “Even then the Ministry will still be riddled with corrupt officials. People who have been doing favours for the Old Families for so long, they might not even realise that they are doing so. It’ll take years to drain the cesspool.”

That was a depressing thought. Especially for their casual outing. Fortunately, they had now reached Quality Quidditch Supplies, and Harry jumped at the chance to change the subject. “So which broom do you want?” He caught her glancing at him with a guarded expression. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

“You sounded like Sirius when he’s about to buy something for Jeanne,” she told him.

“Oh.” Harry cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“‘Like that’?” She had turned away from the entrance to the shop to face him.

“I’m not planning to buy you a broom,” Harry explained. He knew better than to try and impress her like that.

“Good.” She nodded, although he thought it was a little curtly. “I was thinking of buying a Nimbus 2000. A used one - they are good brooms, and since they’ve been outclassed by the Nimbus 2001 and the Firebolt for several years now, they should be cheap.”

Harry nodded. “But as you said - they are outclassed not just by the Firebolt, but also by the Nimbus 2001. They are old and slow.”

“You managed to outfly Malfoy when he had a Nimbus 2001 in second year.”

“Because he can’t fly worth a damn,” Harry retorted as he pushed the door open for her. And because Harry could fly very well. Hermione wasn’t bad, but she wouldn’t be able to push a Nimbus 2000 very far.

“Well, I’m not going to play professional Quidditch or race anyone,” she said as she entered the shop. “It’s just for fun.”

“The matches at The Burrow can get rather competitive,” Harry pointed out as they made their way to the back, where the used broom section was located. The clerk behind the counter started towards them, but Harry waved him off. Hermione wanted his advice, not the clerk’s.

She scoffed. “That’s still fun. I’m not going to spend a fortune on a broom if I’m not using it professionally.” She took a look at the price tags for a used Nimbus 2001, and Harry could see her press her lips together. “Certainly not that much.”

Harry managed not to blurt out that it wasn’t that much gold. That wouldn’t have been well received by his friend. Hermione was as prickly about her finances as Ron had been about his family’s until Arthur’s promotion. “Well, once the Firebolt II is released the prices will fall as every team in the league ditches their old brooms. You’ll be able to get a Nimbus 2001 for the price of a Nimbus 2000.”

“But that might not happen this year, and I would like a new broom this year.”

Harry knew what he would buy her for Christmas this year. He just needed to keep her from wasting her gold on an inferior broom. “Even if they delay the release, brooms will still get cheaper after Christmas. And you can wait another month, can’t you? At least, that’s my professional advice.”

She narrowed her eyes at him but nodded. “I guess so. It’s a little cold for flying anyway, even with Warming Charms.”

“Yes.” Harry shuddered at the memories of Wood’s winter training. “So… where do you want to eat lunch?” There. Nothing like asking her to a date.

Hermione pursed her lips again. “Not the Leaky Cauldron. I don’t know many other pubs around here, though.”

Harry was about to mention his favourite muggle fish and chip shop - the one with those nice, small tables in front - when the door opened behind him, and he turned around, hand going to his wand out of reflex. Just in case.

“Harry?”

It was just Bathilda. He relaxed. “Hi, Bathilda. What are you doing here? Hermione, this is Bathilda Meringworth; we started at the Ministry together. Bathilda, this is Hermione Granger, my best friend.”

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

Harry couldn’t help noticing that both hesitated a moment before shaking hands. What had Dawlish told Bathilda about Hermione?

*****​

London, Diagon Alley, November 23rd, 1998

Hermione Granger didn’t like Meringworth, and it wasn’t only because the stupid witch was intruding on her outing with Harry. The rookie Auror didn’t really bother hiding that she thought Hermione was a criminal. Which was actually correct, but Meringworth couldn’t know that Hermione had become a professional thief after being framed as a child. The witch had to be basing her preconceptions on Hermione’s trial and Dawlish’s delusions. Which, in Hermione’s eyes, made her a bigot.

“So, why are you here? Looking for a new broom?” Harry asked, instead of sending the witch on her way.

Meringworth sighed. “Bulstrode owned a Firebolt, and the thieves might try to sell it before the next model comes out and prices fall. John, I mean Dawlish, and I are checking if any shops have been offered a used Firebolt.”

Hermione snorted. As if a professional thief would make such a blunder! The kind of thief who would be so stupid and greedy as to try and sell Bulstrode’s Firebolt - and to Quality Quidditch Supplies, in the middle of Diagon Alley, to boot! - would never have managed to steal it in the first place!

Meringworth turned towards her. “Do you disagree, Miss Granger?”

Hermione met the witch’s eyes with a polite smile. “Yes, actually, I do. I don’t think this is the kind of shop to buy used brooms from questionable sources.”

Meringworth’s smile was more than a little condescending. “You would be surprised how often stolen goods are bought by innocent shop owners.”

Innocent? Hermione almost snorted again. “I don’t think anyone buying a used Firebolt from a thief could be considered innocent. Those are high-end brooms and very rare.”

“You sound as if you know a lot about fencing stolen goods, Miss Granger,” Meringworth retorted.

Did she just go there? She did. Hermione sneered at the Auror. “I don’t think so. I’ve just got a little more common sense than the average Ministry employee. Not that that takes much - my cat has more common sense than the average Ministry employee.” Hermione’s smile left no doubt that she considered Meringworth among those people. She leaned forward. “Did you know that some Aurors were so unintelligent as to think I was a dark witch who had cursed Harry when he had been attacked by Voldemort? Cretins - or following the orders of their masters in the Wizengamot. Or both.”

“If you had been innocent, you could have testified under Veritaserum!” Meringworth spat back. She had definitely been listening to Dawlish.

“See? That’s the naive mindset I’m talking about. You know everything you need to, but you’ve failed to connect the dots or you’d realise how stupid what you just said actually is.”

“What do you mean?” Meringworth narrowed her eyes. The stupid witch didn’t like being called out on her idiocy, then.

Harry cleared his throat, probably worried about the direction this was taking, but Hermione ignored him. She had this in hand. “I was framed because I’m Harry’s best friend - Voldemort’s spies in the Wizengamot were hoping to find out what we did to their master in our first year. If I had been questioned under Veritaserum, Dumbledore’s plans would have been ruined!” Because Harry and Ron would have been in prison with her for drugging Malfoy’s son, but that was a minor detail that didn’t need to be shared.

“What?” The witch looked surprised. So she was merely stupid, and not actively working for their enemies, Hermione noted.

She sniffed. “Ask Harry if you don’t believe me. He knows what we did.” She turned her head to look at her friend; he had better confirm her claim.

Harry nodded, if a little hesitantly. “Yes. I can’t go into details, but if Hermione had been questioned under Veritaserum, then Dumbledore’s plan to defeat Voldemort would likely have been ruined.”

Meringworth gasped. “But… why didn’t he say something? You were expelled from Hogwarts!”

Hermione scoffed. “What could he have said? He couldn’t prove anything without revealing to Voldemort what he had done so far. And the Wizengamot wasn’t exactly trustworthy.” Still wasn’t, in her opinion.

“That’s terrible! But you were pardoned after the Dark Lord’s defeat...” Meringworth blinked.

“Yes, pardoned. Not exonerated. Malfoy knew what he was doing,” Hermione spat.

Harry nodded. “Yes.”

“But you can still get exonerated!” Meringworth exclaimed.

“By this Wizengamot?” Hermione scoffed. “I’m just a mudblood to them.” She noted that the other witch flinched at the slur. “They would use the opportunity to damage Sirius’s standing in the Wizengamot by spreading more rumours about me sleeping with Sirius, Harry or both.” And the witch flinched again.

“I’m so sorry… I didn’t know!” Meringworth blurted out. “No one knows! Even John told me that you were a thief!” She shook her head, and, for a moment, it looked as if the witch would start crying. “I’ll have to tell him he was wrong!”

“Good luck with that,” Hermione said, snorting.

Harry frowned at her as he took a step forward to put his hand on Meringworth’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault. It’s how things work in the Ministry. It’s why things need to change. So that what happened to Hermione won’t happen to anyone else.”

And Meringworth nodded. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated herself as she turned to Hermione, “I thought you were a criminal.”

Hermione was about to point out that that was the result of trusting Dawlish, but the expression on Harry’s face stopped her. Her friend was smiling at the stupid Auror as if she were the innocent victim here. Well, originally innocent. So Hermione smiled and simply said: “It wasn’t your fault.” And clenched her teeth when Harry kept his hand on the other witch’s shoulder, consoling her for her appalling lack of common sense and critical thinking.

Hermione really didn’t like Meringworth. Not at all.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, November 24th, 1998

“Sneaking back into my own home… something’s wrong here,” the dog muttered as Hermione Granger opened the door leading into the secret area of Grimmauld Place’s basement.

She snorted. “We only have to do this because Harry and Ron don’t know about our plans and think we’re in France. Again.” They wouldn’t be able to use that excuse too often, she knew, even with Jeanne providing an alibi for them in France thanks to Obliviation and Polyjuice Potion.

“And that won’t change,” he quickly said as they entered the basement. “Harry would be devastated if he knew what we were doing.”

She couldn’t dispute that. But the longer they kept this up, the worse it would be once they told him. She shook her head. She had to focus on the heist tonight, not on her personal issues.

Mr Fletcher was already waiting for them. “Hermione. Black.” He nodded. “I’ve placed an order for a Basilisk leather holster at Davis’s Wand Holsters. Davis told me that he’ll fetch the materials from Davis Manor tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”

“I sure hope that’ll work. I don’t fancy waiting hours in the vault,” Sirius complained.

“I don’t fancy spending too much time in your company either,” Mr Fletcher shot back, “so you can rest assured that I wouldn’t be doing this unless I trusted that it would work. At least my part in it,” he added with a glance at Hermione.

She refrained from huffing; Mr Fletcher remained sceptical of her plan to loot the manor - or at least significant parts of it. She would prove him wrong. “Let’s get ready then,” she said, heading to the changing room.

It didn’t take her long to put on her - still padded in a few locations - leather suit, and she spent a minute checking herself in the mirror to ensure that her appearance was perfect; it wouldn’t do to ruin her diversion at Longbottom Manor by being sloppy.

Everything checked out, though, and she rejoined the two wizards in the main room. Both were already masked and staring at the Vanishing Cabinet. “I took a few items from Borgin and Burkes’s stock,” Hermione told them. “Just in case.”

“Which items?” Mr Fletcher asked.

Sirius frowned. “None of the dark ones, I hope.”

“We left those for the Aurors,” she reminded him. Well, a few questionable, but not really dark, ones they had taken with them. Like the Hand of Glory that she now held up.

Mr Fletcher scoffed. “We won’t have to worry about light giving us away on this heist.”

She grinned. “I know, but there was something else in the shop’s inventory that should add some functionality to it.” She passed a small bag to him.

He took a look at it, then frowned. “Did you test this?”

“Of course!” As if she wouldn’t try out her ideas before implementing them in the field.

“Won’t help Black or me.”

“It’s just in case something goes wrong,” she said.

He grunted. “We can still just loot the vault. Get away clear. No risk.”

Hermione frowned. That would feel like a failure after what they did to Bulstrode. “If my plan fails we can still easily leave. We’ll just fill the entrance with conjured rock and use the cabinet.” Not that her plan would fail. Only a fool wouldn’t run from Fiendfyre.

Sirius clapped his hands. “Any other dried appendages you want to show off, or can we start this?”

She had a few more things in her enchanted pocket, but she nodded. “Let’s clean out a vault, gentlemen!”

She ignored both Mr Fletcher’s snort and the dog’s scoff as she opened the cabinet and stepped inside.

Hermione held her breath as she closed the door. Travelling through a Vanishing Cabinet was the smoothest form of magical transportation she had experienced so far. Unlike Apparition, which felt like you were being squeezed through a rubber tube far too small for a human body, or a Portkey, which dragged you along as if you had a hook behind your navel, you didn’t feel anything. Not even the slight disorientation travelling through the Floo Network caused.

She hated it.

She released her breath, then opened the door. The spells on her mask let her see through the darkness that greeted her, but the smell of wood already told her that she was in Davis’s enchanted trunk, as expected.

She still checked, of course, for traps and ambushes, before heading back into the cabinet to inform the others. A minute later, Sirius and Mr Fletcher joined her in the trunk, which was now illuminated by a floating light.

“Let’s start with the wood,” Sirius said. “My great-uncle risked his life for it, after all.”

“You said that he simply had a muggle deliver it from Australia,” Hermione pointed out.

“Exactly. If my great-grandfather had found out, he’d have been killed for that.”

Hermione assumed that he was joking, but given the history of the Black family, she couldn’t be certain. It didn’t matter anyway - they wouldn’t leave anything of value in the vault or this trunk. “Pack it away”, she said. “I’ll prepare the cabinet for our exit.” Anything of value included the cabinet, after all.

She placed a few packages on the ground next to it while Sirius summoned the wood into one of the trunks they had brought with them and Mr Fletcher checked the trunk’s lid.

“Dark outside,” he reported. “No humans according to my spell.”

“It would be tacky to keep humans in the vault,” Sirius said. “You have dungeons for that.”

She rolled her eyes at the low humour. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?” She slipped past the dog and climbed the stairs leading to the top, where Mr Fletcher was waiting. She checked the lid for curses and other spells and caught his approving nod. As if she would forget what he had drilled into her. Then she pushed and moved the lid to the side before sending up another floating light.

When she saw the dozens of trunks, chests and boxes, all lined up - somewhat haphazardly, she couldn’t help noticing - in the long room, she grinned widely. Perfect!

“It’s not quite the Black vault, but it’s certainly impressive.” Of course, the dog had to try to ruin the moment.

She glared at him. “Don’t gawk! We’re on a schedule.” They had a few hours at most until the morning. And they had a lot to do. She tapped her mask and activated the detection spells on it. “I’ll mark the boxes that are safe to move,” she said, kneeling down next to the closest strongbox.

“I’ll check the wards on the door,” Mr Fletcher announced.

Which left the dog to do the heavy lifting.

*****​

Lincolnshire, Davis Manor, November 25th, 1998

It took them five hours, but Sirius was floating the last strongbox down into the extended trunk by the time morning approached. Hermione Granger sat down on the ground and leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes. The defences on the boxes hadn’t been particularly powerful or complicated, but the sheer number of them she had had to deal with… She sighed.

“You look exhausted.”

She narrowed her eyes at Mr Fletcher. “I’m fine. Just taking a break before we proceed with the next part.”

“We’ve cleaned them out already; whatever they have in the manor doesn’t matter much any more,” Mr Fletcher said. He nodded towards the trunk. “You saw the family’s strongboxes.”

The only ones whose defences she hadn’t fully cracked - just enough to transport them safely. “Yes.”

“This is enough to finish them. Losing their vault’s contents - and all the goods their relatives entrusted to them - they won’t recover from that.” He shook his head.

“They could refuse to compensate the others for their loss,” she pointed out.

“The loss of face that would cause would still destroy them as an Old Family.”

She pressed her lips together. She knew that already. But she wanted to do more. She didn’t just want to rob them of their gold - she wanted to humiliate them. And she wanted their books. “They might have things in their bedrooms. And there’s the library.”

“We won’t have too much time.”

“We won’t need that much time. The fake Fiendfyre will give us enough time to get the bedrooms and the library.” She snorted. “Besides, we’re on a heist; you don’t argue during the heist.”

He clenched his teeth; she could see him doing it. But he sighed and turned away. “Better rest then. I’ll wake you when they’re opening the vault.”

*****​

“The wards are reacting, get up!”

Hermione Granger gasped and jumped up. She had dozed off! She glared at the two wizards - of course, the dog was snickering behind his skull mask - and moved to stand next to the vault door, her wand drawn. “Ready!” And she was - she had conjured the powder beforehand.

Not even half a minute later, the door started to open. She bit her lower lip. This was it. Through the widening gap, she heard two wizards talking.

“...and he wants a Basilisk-hide holster. Can you imagine that?”

“No. Dragon leather has its uses, but Basilisk hide?” Someone was snickering.

“Pure spectacle, not that anyone will believe him when he boasts about it. But I’ll be compensated well, Eric, and that’s all that matters.”

“Indeed. Now, where’s your chest again?”

“It’s in the back I thi…”

The gap was wide enough now. Hermione moved, swinging around the corner. She was just a fraction of a second slower than Sirius, who came from the other side.

Struck by two Confundus Charms, the two men staggered and blinked.

“Traitors to the Dark Lord!” Sirius’s changed and amplified voice filled the room. “Burn in hell!”

The two wizards screamed and turned to flee even before the green fire sprang up at the vault’s entrance. Hermione waited for a moment, to give them more time to get clear, then started to conjure batches of powder in the air above the flames - and in the direction of the stairs. The fire devoured them, leaping forward, driving the two men up the stairs in a spell-enhanced panic. Hermione followed, trusting Mr Fletcher and Sirius to use Flame-Freezing Charms to keep the flames from burning her as she ascended.

And, of course, to keep the fire from burning the manor down for real as soon as they reached the ground floor. Unlike the stairs to the vault, those rooms contained lots of combustible material.

“Fiendfyre!”

“Death Eaters!”

“Tracey! Tamara! Run!”

“Merlin’s balls!”

“Fiendfyre!”

“Run!”

Her plan was working! She grinned as she heard the screams and yells above her. Some particularly brave guards might decide to face Death Eaters, but no one would try to face Fiendfyre.

By the time she reached the ground floor - the stairs opened into the entrance hall - it was empty of Davises. She conjured more powder - a lot more - to fill the entire hall with flames and set the curtains of the large windows ablaze. It had to look convincing from the outside, after all.

Then it was time to start looting.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, November 24th, 1998

“Potter! Weasley! Death Eater attack on Davis Manor!”

Harry Potter dropped his quill when he heard Moody’s yell and jumped up.

“An attack? In the morning?” Ron exclaimed as he rounded their desk on the way to the door. “Are they mad?”

“Of course they are!” Harry yelled pushing open the door of their office. Outside, Aurors were gathering in the entrance area. Most looked nervous, even afraid. Moody looked eager. “Potter, Weasley! We’ll go ahead and take a look!”

“What? Moody, you can’t just go off on your own!” Dawlish yelled.

“Of course I can!” Moody called over his shoulder as he rushed towards the Apparition area of the floor.

Harry sprinted after him. “What do we know?” he asked as soon as he reached the old Auror.

“Davis arrived in the Ministry with his family. Said Death Eaters were burning his manor down.” Moody snorted.

“How did they escape? The Davises,” Harry asked.

“Through the Floo connection,” Moody told them.

“What?” Ron sounded as surprised as Harry felt. “They didn’t block it?”

“Must be a trap,” Harry said.

“Aye. Which is why we wouldn’t use the Floo Network even if the connection hadn’t now been blocked. We’ll apparate to Boston and then fly to reconnoitre the area.”

“Great,” Ron muttered. “Can’t we let Dawlish rush in and trigger the ambush?”

Moody chuckled, but Harry glared at his friend. “Certainly not! He’d drag Bathilda with him.”

And the witch was far too nice to pay for Dawlish’s stupidity.

*****​

Lincolnshire, Davis Manor, November 25th, 1998

“Merlin’s balls!”

Ron was correct, in Harry Potter’s opinion. Green flames - he recognised the colour from that awful day in Diagon Alley - were visible behind the windows. It looked as if the entire manor was filled with cursed fire. Any moment now, the roof would collapse… He blinked. Why hadn’t the roof collapsed already? None of the buildings in Diagon Alley had lasted that long against Fiendfyre. Unless the Davises had somehow managed to protect their manor against the cursed flames, that meant…

“It’s fake,” Moody grunted. “That’s not Fiendfyre.”

Ron cursed again.

“Another distraction?” Harry Potter asked, leaning forward on his Firebolt.

“Yes. But for whom?” Moody scoffed. “I’ll need to get through the wards to use my eye. Watch the manor! I’ll fetch Davis to let us inside.”

Without waiting for an answer, Moody disappeared.

“Great,” Ron said, “What if there are Death Eaters waiting for us, and when we enter, thinking this is a mere distraction, they hit us with the real Fiendfyre?”

“Lure the Corps into a trap?” Harry could see that. Crouch was certainly twisted and cunning enough for such a plan. “That’s why Moody wants to pass through the wards and use his eye.”

“And us with him.” Ron snorted. “Lucky us.”

“They won’t be able to catch us in an ambush outside the manor.” At least Harry hoped so. He kept his eyes on the manor. Was that movement inside the fire?

“Bloody hell!”

“What?” Harry looked at Ron.

“The rest of the Corps is arriving, and Moody’s not here yet.” Ron pointed ahead, and Harry saw at least two dozen broom riders flying towards them.

“I’ll tell Dawlish,” he muttered.

Fortunately, it wasn’t Dawlish who was in charge, but Shacklebolt. By the time Moody returned with Tracey Davis in tow, the manor was surrounded and covered in Anti-Apparition and Anti-Portkey Jinxes.

“Kingsley, me and the lads will go in and check if it’s trap. The lass kindly volunteered to let us through the wards,” Moody announced.

Davis nodded. “They cursed father. He’s at St Mungo’s.” She pushed her chin up, though she looked more nervous than angry to Harry. “They can’t be allowed to escape!”

“They won’t,” Shacklebolt said.

“If they’re still inside,” Moody added. “It’s taken us a while to reach the manor.”

“Do you think they are Death Eaters or thieves?” Shacklebolt asked as they descended to the ground.

“Either Death Eaters posing as thieves posing as Death Eaters, or thieves posing as Death Eaters,” Moody answered. “We’ll know soon enough.”

Davis looked even more nervous as she stepped up to the wardline, but she flicked her wand and then touched Moody, Ron and Harry without faltering. Harry felt a slight tingle wash over him.

“Done,” the witch said.

“Let’s go, lads!” Moody took a step forward, passing through.

Harry followed him, holding his breath as he stepped through the wards, his wand out and aimed at the manor. He tapped his glasses, too, but the enchantment on them wasn’t powerful enough to see through the manor’s walls. And they weren’t in range for his Human-presence-revealing Spell either.

“The fire’s fake - the interior isn’t burning,” Moody announced. “But it’s rather empty.” Behind them, Davis gasped. “Two wizards in the entrance hall, one of them at the window - he’s seen us. The other one at the stairs to the vault. And one witch upstairs, looting the library. Let’s get them!” Moody bellowed and started towards the manor’s front.

Harry hoped that Davis had the presence of mind to let more Aurors through the wards as he and Ron followed Moody. Three versus three weren’t ideal odds.

“They’re moving! Potter, enter through the southern balcony. Get the witch upstairs - she’s moving to the main stairs! Weasley, with me - we’ll catch them at the vault!” Moody yelled.

Harry pulled out his broom, unshrinking it as his friend and the old Auror reached the main entrance. A moment later, he was in the air and flying towards the balcony. A flick of his wand blew a hole in the glass doors, and, a moment later, he was inside.

And there was the witch! He sent a Stunner at her, but she dropped to the floor, and the spell missed. His follow-up Stunner splashed against a wall that appeared in the middle of the hallway. He vanished it before he crashed into it as he flew on. The witch would be fleeing towards… he almost missed the floating marker moving in the other direction as he shot forward. The thief hadn’t run away - she had pressed on!

He pulled the Firebolt’s shaft up and rolled, executing a perfect Immelmann turn, and cast as soon as he could see the marker again. He missed, though - and almost crashed into another conjured wall.

This time he jumped off instead of flying onwards, vanished the wall and sent two Stunners at the floor right behind it. No marker there - she was almost at the corner. He sprinted, casting more Stunners at the corner, boxing her in as he closed. Her marker moved back - was she going for the windows?

No - the marker moved against the wall, and then flew up - was she jumping off the wall towards the corner? His hastily cast Stunner missed, and the marker disappeared around the corner.

Harry threw himself forward, rounding the corner seconds later, his wand pointed straight ahead - and he stared at the empty hallway leading to the stairs. Just how fast was this witch? Then he caught the tell-tale flashes of spells ahead. Moody and Ron must be fighting in the entrance hall!

Cursing, he rushed forward. If he reached the top of the stairs he could still cut her off… his eyes widened when the entire area ahead of him was suddenly covered in darkness. He activated the spells on his glasses, but the darkness remained.

“Harry! Watch out! They’ve got the entrance hall covered in darkness!” Ron’s voice sounded from Harry’s badge.

He tapped it to answer. “I can see it. The witch disappeared there.”

“All of them are down the stairs… and now in the vault. Can’t see them there,” Moody said. “Stay put. The darkness will be fading in a minute.”

The old Auror was correct - the darkness disappeared, as he had said it would. But when they reached the entrance to the vault a minute and a half later, all they found was the burning remains of several trunks and boxes.

The thieves had disappeared.

*****​