Orders 6

This was going to be so easy, maybe almost boringly easy.

He was here, right here, in her grasp, so trusting, so naïve, so… perfect. Perfectly stupid.

He hadn't even so much as peaked inside her trunk, hadn't asked very many questions, hadn't seen the potion elements and wouldn't think anything of them, if he had—he wouldn't ever suspect her capable of such treachery, and by the time it was done, all he would know was how he couldn't imagine not obeying her voice.

And oh, what that voice would make him do. . .

When Colby let himself back into his apartment, Hermione was checking on the laundry in the dryer at the back of the small kitchen. He smiled at her and headed for the kitchen table, one arm full of files and the other weighed down with white plastic bags. He plunked down the bags on the scarred oval surface, then took the files into the living room and laid them on the small table next to his tattered old recliner. When he came back to the kitchen, his niece was trying to restart the dryer, frowning a little when the machine wouldn't cooperate. Grinning and shaking his head, Colby strode over and nudged her aside, then leaned over, put his hands on the sides of the machine, lifted it about an inch and a half, and then dropped it back into place. Hermione gasped and jumped, her eyes huge, and Colby chuckled. "Does that all the time. The drum tends to get caught, and if it can't turn, the clothes just bunch up and the air can't get between them. You know," he said, "I'm pretty sure I have some sweats around here that you can wear if you want to get comfortable while this thing decides to cooperate. Or I can call my neighbor downstairs—I think her granddaughter is about your age and might have something you can borrow."

"Oh! Oh, no, that's quite all right, thanks—I'm not all that uncomfortable like this, really. I have to wear a skirt under my robes at school, so really, this is normal for me."

"Robes?" Colby raised an eyebrow as he started to pull a rotisserie chicken, a bag of salad, and a small pan of cornbread from the grocery bags. "You actually have to wear robes at school? Where do you go, Oxford?" When the teenager didn't respond right away, he glanced sideways at her and noticed that she looked vaguely shocked. "Hey," he said, "I was only teasing. Where I'm from, we were doing good to afford shoes that fit; we didn't even think about uniforms for school."

She glanced up at him and put on a smile. "No, no, sorry, that's fine—I just wasn't . . . I didn't mean to bring up school again, that's all."

Colby's eyes stayed on her for a few moments longer than strictly necessary before he evidently decided to let it go. She was a little amazed, actually, at how much he seemed to let go or ignore or just not see, and she wondered whether she might've taken as keenness what was really just a slow mental processor. That would be just fine with her, or at least that's what she told herself—she really hadn't meant to bring up school, so at least she hadn't been dishonest, but really, why was she having trouble just keeping her mouth shut? Words had power, she'd always believed that, and more so after the debacle with Tom Riddle's diary . . . and her words had the power just now to destroy not just her comfort, but a great deal more. Colby was a nice enough guy, but she didn't want or need him asking questions for which she didn't have suitably dull answers.

Colby's voice broke into her thoughts. "Sorry, the eating around here really isn't fancy—tell you the truth, I'm usually not home much to eat, so there's not a whole lot on hand here. If you'll tell me what you like, we'll see what we can work out about eating better while you're here."

However slow he might be, he was sweet, she'd give him that. "Oh, no, this is good—I really don't do much cooking myself, and I don't need anything fancy. Most days I could get by on toast and pumpkin juice." Hermione jumped in and started finding and pulling down dishes, doing her best to swallow her hitched breaths at the stretching and hoping that he wouldn't make a big deal of what she'd said—especially since she didn't want to explain that, before today, she'd also never tried to do her own laundry, and she'd knocked her wand into the washer by mistake and then nearly got stuck head-down in the basket trying to retrieve it. She really hated to admit it to herself, but she missed the house-elves, and the ability to wave her wand and take care of mundane tasks herself, and pretty much everything else about the magical world. She wondered how the boys were faring . . .

She didn't see Colby mouthing 'pumpkin juice' to himself.

After a quiet lunch, Colby stuck the dishes in the dishwasher while Hermione stowed the leftovers in the fridge, and then she followed him into the living room. He headed over to his chair, sat down, and smiled back at her. "I'm just gonna work on some reports and stuff; you're welcome to be in here to watch tv or read or whatever. Believe me—you won't disturb me. I could rattle off this kind of stuff in the middle of a mortar attack. Have, actually."

His casual statement had her glancing over at his photographs, and she nearly asked about them, but decided that she wasn't ready for that yet—she felt like she was holding herself together pretty well, but she didn't quite trust herself for a conversation about battles yet. "Oh, thanks, really, but I think, if you don't mind, I think I'll go see if my clothes are dry." At his nod, Hermione turned and headed back toward the laundry nook.

"Oh, and kiddo, you might try taking a hot bath—might help those ribs some."

The teenager froze at his quiet, knowing words, but didn't trust herself to turn or speak, so she just nodded. Evidently, she needed to work a bit harder on her stiff upper lip.

Hot water, vanilla bath salts, and a long soak with a book on the history of alchemy had, in fact, done some good for her sore ribs and sternum, and an essay comparing Celtic and South American runes, as well as a small batch of powder from her potions kit, had helped to re-center her mind on the issues at hand. She hoped that the work would help her remember how important it was to keep her lives separate.

Hermione had just come out to the kitchen, intent on mixing Colby a little of her special tea, when someone knocked on the door. The girl hastily slipped a packet between the mug rack and the splash guard and turned just in time to see the man rise from his chair, the movement smooth and practiced, his right hand behind him. He waved her back into the kitchen before opening the door to find . . .

. . . a tall, blonde woman standing in the one-armed embrace of a small man with curly hair the color of sand (actually, most of him was the color of sand) and cheerful hazel eyes.

Colby blinked. "Megan? Professor Fleinhardt?" His right hand floated down to his side, and Hermione caught just a glimpse of something gray between his partially-tucked green polo and the waistband of his jeans. "Um, hi?"

The little man chuckled softly. "Really, eighteen-year-olds call me Professor Fleinhardt. I'm pretty sure it's acceptable for you to call me Larry. I just came by because I happened to be in the area and wanted to check in with you. Megan said that you weren't at work today. Is everything all right?"

Colby seemed to relax a bit. "Well, now I feel old. Thanks for checking-yeah, I'm fine. I just took a couple of personal days." Understanding that either his teammate hadn't told Larry what was going on with Colby, or the older man was content to let the younger man decide for himself whether to share, Colby glanced over at Hermione in warning and then opened the door wider. "Actually, my niece just flew in yesterday to visit, and I've been getting her settled in. Come on in, have a seat."

The couple nodded their thanks and walked into the apartment, glancing around the small living area before catching sight of the teenager in gray knit pants and a rose-colored t-shirt. Both offered her a gentle smile and a hand. "Hello!"

Hermione shook the woman's hand with a nod and then took the man's hand, giggling in surprise when he kissed it. "How do you do? I'm Hermione."

"Ah!" The gentleman—Larry—seemed to light up a bit. "The daughter of Helen and Menelaus! And you're certainly beautiful enough to start a few wars of your own."

Hermione blushed hard at that, and though she smiled, she didn't see Megan glance at Colby, or Colby nod to Megan that he'd also seen the shadow that had brushed the young girl's eyes at the mention of wars. "Why, thank you! I . . . I don't know quite what to say to that. I am impressed, though; I can count on one hand the number of people I've met who have heard of that myth, and have fingers left over." She supposed that, given her age and his, she should feel a bit creeped out by his comment, but when she looked into his eyes, she saw nothing but sweet sincerity.

"Oh, you'll have to forgive Larry, Hermione," Megan said with a playful grin. "He considers flirting a scientific imperative." She winked at the teenager and got a genuine grin in return.

"Nonsense! I was simply raised to appreciate the loveliness of every woman." The charming professor and the schoolgirl shared a smile while the other two adults rolled their eyes in fond exasperation.

Colby invited his friends to take a seat in the living room, and Hermione scrambled into the kitchen to fix tea for all of them—British-style, with a little something special for the two men. She steeped while the adults chatted, mostly about Larry and Megan's evening so far (apparently, the two were dating, which Hermione found all the sweeter for their ostensible mismatch) and Larry's workday. By the time the teenager got back to the living room with the tray of mugs, she'd gleaned that the middle-aged gentleman taught in the science department at a local university, and that he'd had to break up an argument between someone named Charles and someone named Penfield about the possible of paranormal abilities. Colby seemed especially amused by this.

The group accepted their tea with good grace, Colby being the only one who hesitated and ruefully admitted that he wasn't a big tea-drinker. Megan seemed to enjoy hers, and Larry was openly pleased with the British style and the unique notes. Hermione explained that she and Megan had a typical English style, while she'd given the men Earl Grey with a little twist of her own. Larry tried to guess what the twist might be, while Colby just saluted her with his mug, telling her with his eyes that he appreciated both her thoughtfulness and the tea itself.

Hermione just smiled into her own cup. This was so easy.

About half an hour later, Colby got up to get something from the kitchen and asked Hermione to come with him. They left Larry and Megan comparing their experiences with English food.

"Hey, I'm sorry about all this. I didn't know they were coming, or I'd have made sure that you were okay with that." Colby was genuinely worried about Hermione's feelings on unexpected guests.

"No, it's fine—I rather like your friends," the girl assured him. "Really, I've no idea how long I'm expected to be in your hair, and there's no sense in you not being able to have your friends 'round, or go out with them, just as you normally would. Besides, I'm feeling much better; the jet lag seems to have got bored and left." She offered him a reassuring smile. She meant what she'd said—she did like his friends, though she couldn't quite shake the feeling that Megan was watching her.

"Okay, let's get something straight right now," Colby said firmly, straightening and locking his eyes onto hers. "You are not in my hair. You are family, you're a pretty great kid from what I've seen so far, and no matter who ordered whom to do what, you're here and you'll always be welcome. Hear me?" He waited until she nodded, then relaxed again. "Cool. Now—I gotta tell you that those two are just sort of representatives of the two groups I spend most of my time with; I have to go back to work tomorrow, and I'd kind of like for you to know who you can go to if for some reason you can't get hold of me, so how would you feel about inviting the rest of the scoobies for dinner? If you're not up to a small crowd, just say so, and we'll think of something else . . ."

But Hermione was already nodding. "That'd be nice, actually—I'm sure at least one of your friends can tell me some interesting stories about you." She shot him a teasing grin and got her ponytail mussed for her trouble.

"Bratlet."

"Hey!" Hermione turned to follow him as he brushed past her, headed for a small wall hook that held a number of take-out menus in clear sleeves. "That's Lady Bratlet to you!" His rumbling chuckle filled the small apartment.

Ponytail tidied, Hermione opened the apartment door, knowing that Colby was tied up with Larry and Megan and a black man he'd introduced as David. Before she could do more than open her mouth to speak to the two dark-haired men in the hallway, Colby was behind her, leaning down to murmur a reminder to use the peephole or, better yet, just let him answer the door. She wasn't quite sure what he was worried about—she was nearly an adult, after all, and probably much more equipped to take care of herself than this gentle giant was to protect himself—but she let it go and put on a welcoming smile for the guests.

Colby introduced her to them, and stated that the taller one was his boss and the one with the 'Yiddish Fro' just might be her new best friend. When the two had come in and found seats in the now-crowded little living room, and Larry had taken orders for the Chinese food he'd insisted on paying for, Hermione found herself in the kitchen, bidden to fix more tea for everyone. She felt a bit dizzy at the assortment of people and was amused to be fixing Earl Grey for David, who claimed that he'd never had hot tea. When she came back, balancing a full tray of mugs and thinking that she'd have to grind up some more of her mixture if Colby kept bringing her volunteers, she came across David asking Charlie and Larry a question about transoceanic travel. That somehow evolved into a conversation about Atlantis and the Bermuda Triangle Effect, neither of which Charlie would even entertain as possible fact. The girl settled herself in the chair she'd carried over from the kitchen and let the conversation wash over her until Larry mentioned a theory involving alien technology under Antarctica shifting the magnetic South Pole close enough to destabilize the Triangle and cause the legendary phenomena.

"Hasn't that been disproven?"

Every head in the room swivelled toward her, and Hermione thought that maybe speaking up had been ill-advised . . . until Charlie grinned. "Ah, a voice of reason—and so young, too! I hadn't been aware of anyone taking it seriously enough to bother trying to debunk it; what have you heard?"

Now, Hermione knew perfectly well that the whole mess had nothing to do with alien technology—the Bermuda Triangle was actually the irreparable damage left by a group of Ravenclaws who'd been trying to transfigure the island into a dragon for extra credit—but she couldn't very well say that, so she smiled gamely and said, "Well, I don't know if they've actually done scans under the ice shelf, but I thought I'd heard somewhere . . ." And she and the two professors spent the next hour in a lively debate involving math, physics, paranormality, and a girl who kept turning Charlie's arguments back on him. The other four people in the room, the captive audience, traded looks, having their own silent conversation: Megan was telling Colby that this had been a good idea for Hermione, David was pretending to have a headache from all of the academia, Colby was attempting to keep score, and Don couldn't seem to stop laughing.

Hermione went to bed that night realizing two things: she still didn't know what Colby did for a living, as it had never come up in conversation; and she liked Larry and Charlie immensely, despite Charlie's utter lack of faith in anything he couldn't quantify. The two professors made her feel at home, in some ways more so than she felt at Hogwarts—they were friendly, expressive, and lively, and she didn't have to answer to either of them. They were obviously close, and she could only hope that she could one day have such a stimulating friendship with one of her former professors.

Too bad she couldn't reeducate them a bit.