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So Spoke the Idol God

Prologue

21 December, 2001
English Ministry of Magic - Department of Mysteries
London, UK

Her navy blue robes were stiflingly warm and her mask uncomfortable against her cheeks, but Number Fourteen had long since become used to it in the two years since she had been accepted into the secretive coterie that lurked round the appropriately named Department of Mysteries. Usually, she was out and about, milling from one cavernous room to the next, studying the nature of magic and all its many secrets, but not today, however. Today, she was seated across a steel table from her boss, wearing a carved ivory mask in the likeness of the goddess Athena, for whom she was named. It was the only indication that she was a woman behind the rather formless cut of her robes.

"Fourteen," the woman said, voice masked to sound toneless and androgynous, "do you know why you are here?"

Fourteen raised an eyebrow underneath her own, uncarved mask. "No, ma'am. Should I?" Her voice sounded as toneless as her superior's.

"Perhaps," came the answer, but the woman continued no further. Instead, she opted to lean forward and rest her elbows on the table and steepled her fingers beneath Athena's nose. Fourteen resisted the urge to scoff, nothing annoyed her more than people being purposefully obtuse, but it was the sort of rub she had come to accept from the Unspeakables of the Department of Mysteries.

Their staring contest continued for some moments longer before her boss recoiled some, apparently having come to a conclusion:

"It looks as though you actually do not know why you are here."

Fourteen once again resisted an urge to scoff, instead, she choose to respond more tactfully: "No, ma'am, no I do not."

The other woman sighed, and Fourteen once again raised a brow despite knowing her boss could not see it. It shocked her somewhat, Fourteen's boss wasn't a woman to display her emotions so casually:

"Three nights ago, after hours," the woman started, "we had a break-in."

To say that was a surprise was an understatement; the Department of Mysteries was, like the lower tiers of Gringotts bank, supposed to be impregnable. No one got in unless they were allowed in:

"Where? Why? How?" Fourteen asked, questions slipping out of her mouth in a rush. Her superior held up a gloved hand in a gesture for silence:

"We currently do not know how the theft occurred, but it appears the thieves wanted into the Hall of Prophecies," she paused to let that information sink in. "You understand the magnitude of that, do you not?"

"Did any of the charms determine the identity of the thief?"

"Unfortunately, no. All our surveillance charms had somehow been disabled."

"How?"

"Either by an extensive knowledge of the Department of Mysteries, or they had help from the inside. Either way, it does not bode well."

"But if a prophecy was stolen, then we can narrow down those who might have taken it."

Fourteen's boss nodded. "Correct. It is a well-known fact that the only people who can remove a prophecy, are those that the selfsame prophecy concerns. Ordinarily, there wouldn't be a problem with someone retrieving their prophecy. If they know about it, and want it, they can come take it, provided an Unspeakable retrieves it for them."

Fourteen nodded along: it was grossly oversimplified, but mostly correct. The common wizard likely didn't know if any prophecies concerned them, and the Unspeakables did little policing of the predictions, so it was very rare for wizards or witches to retrieve their prophecies at all. At this point, there were so many prophecies in that Hall, it would be difficult for even an Unspeakable to determine if there were any prophecies concerning them.

"But to come into the Department of Mysteries after hours, with no guide... there is much down here that the uninitiated should not be privy to. And the thief needs to be corralled so that we may perform a memory charm upon them before they divulge any state secrets."

"I understand, ma'am, but why tell me this?" Questioned Fourteen, still somewhat confused as to her role in all this.

The other woman leaned forward once more. "This particular prophecy had four recipients. One of whom is dead."

"And the other three?"

"Alive and well, from the looks of it."

"Who are they?"

"The Deceased: Riddle Jr., Tom Marvolo, better known as Lord Voldemort," Fourteen stifled a gasp at how casually her superior dropped the defeated Dark Lord's name. "Alive and possible suspects: Potter, Harry James, the Boy-Who-Lived; Weasley, Ronald Bilius, Keeper for Chudley Cannons," the woman continued over Fourteen's bemusement: Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley had little connection to one another at all, "and Granger, Hermione Jean."

Fourteen's brows knotted together. "I'm sorry?" She said.

"You heard me perfectly, Fourteen."

The silence that fell between the two seemed to stretch into a chasm, growing longer and longer, until the woman breached the gap with a few short words:

"Do you understand why you're here now, Fourteen?"

Fourteen swallowed, the full weight of the unspoken accusation settled on her shoulders. "Yes ma'am, yes I do."

Her boss tossed her two files, one on Potter and one on Weasley. "See to it that this case is concluded swiftly, Fourteen. You are granted permission to use force, if necessary. You have been most impressive in previous tasks I have given you. I trust you will not be another disappointment."

"No ma'am, I won't."

"Good. Now run along; I'm giving you four days off from active duty and I've taken the liberty of setting up a meeting between you and Mr. Potter tonight at 5 PM, St. Mungo's. How you reach Mr. Weasley, however, is up to you. Enjoy your stay in hospital."

With that, she waved her arm in shooing gesture, and not one to question orders, Fourteen swept out of the office quickly. She left the Ministry of Magic swiftly by a Floo Pit connected only to the Department of Mysteries and stepped out into her large, but empty, flat. Fourteen dropped the files on her living room coffee table and trod to the washroom and only slipped off her mask once she was encased in the sanctity of four cream-coloured walls.

Hazel eyes and a nearly matching shade of thick hair combined with the pale skin of a lifelong scholar stared back at her. Hermione Granger sighed and shrugged off her thick robes, and tossed it haphazardly on the towel rack as she struggled to comprehend what had just happened: she was in a prophecy with Harry Potter? And Ronald Weasley? That wasn't even mentioning the obvious figure of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Hermione laughed at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Really? Her? Ronald Weasley? Harry Potter? It was all too ridiculous. Beyond the times she was assigned to work with him every once in a while during Care of Magical Creatures and Charms at Hogwarts, Hermione had never spoken more than ten sentences to Harry Potter. And the only thing she remembered Ron for was his tendency to insult her First Year, before he had moved on and started focusing on Quidditch, a passion he was now making thousands of galleons off of.

She couldn't know them any less even if she tried.

But now was no time to get caught up in the sheer madness of it. Hermione checked her wristwatch, a battered old thing gifted on her tenth birthday from her mother. 13:31, it read. Cursing her luck, Hermione realized she had less than four hours to prepare for her appointment with Harry Potter. And so, after changing into comfortable clothes, she went back out to the large living room, past the couches and wood walls with one unfinished side of red brick, into the homely kitchen that again felt far too large for a terrible cook such as she.

Nevertheless, she wasn't here for unsatisfying repast, and instead headed straight for the coffee machine Terry Boot had thought so novel to give her as a housewarming present a year earlier.

Quickly making a pot, Hermione returned to the coffee table and opened up the first of the two files, eyes lingering for a moment on the photo of black-haired man with bright green eyes stuck to the top of the folder.

Some hours later, Hermione found herself, dressed in her best robes, seated on a fine leather bench inside a small, decorative room, inconspicuously nestled in the corner of the Spell-induced brain damage ward of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. There was relatively light foot-traffic to come through this area of the hospital: there were few accidental spell cases serious enough to affect brain function on the daily, and even fewer wizards to seek out the particular service Potter supplied. Muggles had only accepted the science a scant few years ago; Hermione was certain it would be long before Magicals did the same.

Hermione took stock of the room around her, and had to admit, Harry Potter did have a sense of style. The walls were lined with elegant bookshelves, decorated with fine leaves of gold that wreathed around the dark wood. Numerous texts lined the walls, from medical treatises to Treasure Island. The floors were a similar dark wood, sometimes covered in fancy oriental rugs, distinguishing the waiting room from the soulless white tile elsewhere in the hospital. Cream colored walls glowed orange at the merrily-dancing flames of the fireplace, ensconced in one curving corner of the room. Hermione doubted that the hospital had paid for the luxury of the office, so she had to assume much of this came out Potter's paycheck.

Though, she supposed, the galleons for this might not be much an issue for him, assuming the rumours of his wealth aren't entirely exaggerated. Harry Potter: the eligible bachelor with a strong wallet and a soft head, or that was the way the Prophet was content to put it. Somehow, Hermione doubted the mainstream narrative.

After studying both Weasley's and Potter's files, she came out sure that the Boy-Who-Lived was the thief. Weasley was, frankly, too unskilled to pull off a theft of that caliber, and he would not have had interest enough to look for it. Potter, on the other hand, was well-known to collect any and all information concerning Voldemort, and he was connected to any number of people who might have known there was a prophecy concerning the deposed Dark Lord lurking in the Department of Mysteries.

What bothered Hermione, however, was that no one told Harry he could merely have asked for the prophecy and it would be delivered to him by an Unspeakable such as herself. So maybe he wasn't as smart as she feared.

Oh, hell, I'm thinking in circles and getting nowhere.

"Miss Granger?" Asked a voice that broke Hermione from her reverie; she turned her head to find the receptionist, a vivacious middle-aged woman dressed in lime green robes, smiling at her from behind her carved wooden desk. "Healer Potter will see you now."

Ignoring the pit of nerves her stomach had become, Hermione nodded swiftly. "Thank you. Shall I just go in?"

"Yes, ma'am, just beyond that door there," the healer pointed at a heavy oak doorway that curved into some sort of oblong oval, reminding Hermione rather starkly of entryway doors to medieval castles.

Shaking the thought from her head, Hermione stepped up, grasped the handle, and pushed the door into an impossibly spacious room. She looked around, spotting more bookshelves lined with more texts, the same dark floors and Persian rug ensemble, an enormous carved desk placed centrally, but to south of the room. The true centerpiece of the room were two couches, both armchairs, facing each other over an elegant carved coffee table and in the light of false windows, magically charmed to give a panoramic view of London. There, by the chairs, a well-dressed man in a dark blue, three-piece muggle suit awaited her with a crooked smile:

"Miss Granger," Healer Potter greeted brightly. His baritone was an odd, attractive mixture of Londoner and Mackem. "It's been a long time!"

Hermione wandlessly silenced the door, so Potter's secretary couldn't hear her boss when Hermione eventually immobilized him and attempted to discern his whereabouts three nights earlier.

Turning back to the Healer, she observed him: Harry Potter looked an entirely different person now. Three years wasn't a very long time, particularly for people as long-lived as they were, a wizard at sixty-five could look younger than a muggle at forty, and yet Harry Potter seemed to have aged quite a bit in these three short years. Not enough to warrant suspicion of an imposter, but his stubble and neatly swept hair (antithetical to the typically messy-haired Harry Potter of her schooldays) made Hermione feel distinctly like a teenager facing a grown man.

However, she squashed the thought before it could fester. "Yes it has. Three years now, is it?"

Potter made a show of checking his wristwatch. "Somewhere thereabouts," he answered with that charming grin of his, before gesturing at the armchair opposite him: "Have a seat." Hermione complied, seating herself primly on the opposite couch and folding her arms over her lap. She coughed politely, signifying she was ready to begin.

Potter frowned and wet his lips with his tongue: "I'm afraid to say, given our prior acquaintance, some might find me offering you therapy to be... inappropriate. Myself included." Hermione had a feeling Potter might use this as an excuse to worm his way out of seeing her, but she wouldn't be fooled:

"Yes, in the muggle world, it would be inappropriate," she countered softly, so as not to sound overly-aggressive. "However, we are a small enough community that we must sometimes skirt the ethical boundaries that larger muggle communities enjoy."

"Hm. That's true; however, I am only just getting my start: you'd still be considered one of my very earliest clients. If that's uncomfortable, you could very well turn to my superior, Healer Rotaru."

"I would prefer you to Healer Rotaru," Hermione answered quickly, in a tone that brooked no argument. Potter merely nodded; his eyes turned to a neatly clipped-together stack of parchment paper, fine-print writing on it, and an inkwell with a fine, green-feathered quill dipped within it.

"What's this?" Hermione asked, leaning over to make out some of the tiny, beetle-black words on the yellowing paper.

"Informed consent," said the Healer. "If I'm to take you on as a client, we have to set some ground rules. I'll need you to read it, and sign. There'll be more to sign after the initial consultation, but we can save that for the end of session."

Hermione quirked a brow, surprised by the Healer's sober mannerisms; Harry Potter had never been a party animal, by any means, but he wasn't the type to take work too seriously. It surprised her, but, then again, it wasn't the first time. Potter had shocked magical Britons everywhere when he rejected a high-paying Seeker contract from Whiston Wanderers, in favor of an internship at St. Mungo's psychiatric division, a division that previously consisted of one man, Healer Agamemnon Rotaru, widely considered to be a crackpot.

Wizards didn't think much of psychiatry, Hermione knew. Logic wasn't the strong suit of this society: every worthwhile problem could be solved by magic; if it couldn't, then it couldn't be solved or wasn't worth solving at all. Most people took Harry Potter's choice as a youthful flight of fancy, something frivolous to waste his time with until he came back in from the cold and took on a proper trade.

After three-and-a-half years, people were starting to realize Potter was quite serious about his chosen profession.

As she finished Potter's 'rules', Hermione retrieved the quill from its well, letting the excess black liquid drip off before she signed the line at the bottom and returned the paper to the Healer with a smile.

Potter looked over the paper, and when he was satisfied, he conjured a pen and paper pad from thin air, both of which landed neatly in his hands, and Hermione couldn't help but take notice of it: he wore a muggle suit instead of robes and used pen and pad rather than quill and parchment. What does that say about the man? She wondered silently.

"Now, before we start," Healer Potter was saying, "I will be writing down the things we discuss, for my own sake, that I might be able to determine a proper method of treatment. No one else will see these notes; you've absolutely nothing to worry about. Is that alright?"

"Yes," Hermione said breathlessly, eager to be finished with this distasteful task. "Do you mind terribly if I stand up and walk around? Sometimes it's difficult for me to sit still in one place for an hour."

"By all means," answered the healer.

"Thank you," Hermione said, to a nod from the black-haired man. Standing up, she paced a bit to one of the bookshelf-lined walls of Potter's office and resisted smiling at a dog-eared copy of Ulysses. It seemed the Healer was a reader, and all the books weren't just for show.

"So," Potter began from his chair. "Why are you here?"

"What?" asked Hermione, distracted by the books.

Smiling slightly, the Healer repeated himself. "Why are you here, Miss Granger? Why did you feel the need to schedule an appointment with me?"

"I've been..." Hermione trailed off, thinking up of an excuse. "I've been feeling anxious lately."

"Anxious?" Potter asked, green eyes sparkling underneath his reading glasses.

"Yes. Though I suppose I've always been a little anxious," Hermione faked a nervous little laugh as Potter wrote something down on his pad. "I've been feeling more anxious than usual lately."

"Is there any particular reason for that?"

"Well, yes. You see, there's been a problem at work," she said evasively, which Potter seemed to pick up on:

"I see. How did you cope with anxiety in the past?"

"I read," she answered, "which I see you do a lot of, too. I don't remember you being much of a reader in the past."

Potter frowned. "I wasn't. But when you spend three years doing nothing but reading medical texts, fiction is a good escape. But, as for you, did you have any other ways of dealing with your anxiety?"

"Magic itself was a stress-reliever; if I felt frazzled, I'd learn a new spell. Working at it until you get it just perfect... it's the best way to get your mind off something. Most of what I know now is probably due to that habit."

"Have you ever seen a professional for your anxiety? Prior to me?"

"I haven't."

"Ever considered seeing one before me?"

"No."

"What's changed? Why isn't it working now?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Well, there must be a reason you're here, talking to me, instead of at home with a book or a wand."

"Because, you see, something was taken from my work. And my boss has been all over me to get it back."

"Something? I take it this 'something' was important."

"It's not that the something was particularly important; it's that it was stolen from us," Hermione arched an eyebrow, hoping to see some semblance of recognition in Potter's eyes, but he remained unruffled as he bent over to jot another sentence down on his notepad.

"And have you been tasked to retrieve this item?"

"No. But I've been tasked to find the person who took it."

"Why not leave it to Magical Law Enforcement? The Ministry would be your best bet."

"I..." Hermione trailed off. "I work for the Ministry."

It was the Healer's turn to quirk a brow, pen moving furiously on paper. "Ah," he said. "I see. Are you anxious because you can't find the person who took it?"

"No, Healer Potter. Quite the opposite, in fact. I've known the culprit for several days now," Hermione lied easily, not wanting to give away she'd only been on the trail for a scant few hours.

"Sounds like it should be easy. What's stopping you?"

"I had to be sure."

"How do you plan to go about that?"

"Barge into his office," Hermione said, still examining the books, "stun him, and force the truth out of him." She turned around and met Potter's eyes, wand in hand. His eyes widened, he had the time to stand but not to sidestep her "Petrificus totalis," and fell to the floor rigid as a board. Hermione kept her wand at the ready, pointed at the downed man, whose eyes roved around the room in a mixture of confusion and anger.

"Don't worry, Harry," Hermione said, using the Healer's given name for the first time, as she knelt by him, "it pains me to have lied to you, but this never was about anxiety," she paused, as the wand raised once more. "I don't plan on harming you. Like I said, I just wanted to be sure. Legilimens!"

It wasn't a much advertised fact about her, but Hermione was an exceptional mind-reader, particularly for her young age. She supposed it had to do with her memories of her school days. All those people saying nice things to her while thinking the most vile things in their heads. Knowing what they really thought had spurred Hermione on to try and learn the art of legilimency. Though she had never been particularly accomplished with the spell at Hogwarts, that changed upon joining the Department of Mysteries, where the skill was cultivated under the tutelage of several Unspeakables.

So, it was with deft skill that Hermione waded through the ocean of Harry Potter's memories. She saw blurry shapes and dark, enclosed spaces, then the bright halls of Hogwarts. There Harry went about his days, a charming little preteen who was surprised to be sorted into Slytherin.

Not even close, thought Hermione as she left one memory and moved further up the river, past the Yule Ball he took Susan Bones to and the graduation he barely paid attention to, to three nights earlier.

He sat in his office, right at the time he should have been taking the prophecy off a shelf in the Hall of Prophecies, looking lost and drained as he worked. Hermione pictured a quill ripping through paper and myopic eyes scanning a solid tome, unseeing. His vest was unbuttoned and his tie loosened, hair sticking out at every end, looking every bit as disheveled as the man Hermione had been facing was immaculate. Harry turned a page, and a knock came at the heavy, wooden doors. He looked up, and smiled softly as the door opened.

But before Hermione could see who entered, a large steel door seemed to pass right in front of her and bar her from the rest of the memory. Seconds after, she felt a horrible sensation emanating inward from the extremities, as though she were being pulled apart on the rack and was forcibly dragged under a surging tide. The water rushed up and she closed her eyes instinctively. And when they opened, Hermione was no longer in Potter's memories; all she could see were his hard, glittering eyes, so different from wearied, soul-sick look she'd seen in the memory.

A pressure came at her throat, and Hermione didn't need to be a genius to realize that was Potter's wand:

"Who are you?" He growled lowly.

"Hermione Granger," she returned, somewhat appalled at the man's apparent stupidity.

"Hermione Granger doesn't have the balls to attack a man in his own office."

The Unspeakable didn't dare speak any further, not until she had the upper-hand, which she deftly set about regaining with a blasting hex. Potter was sent flying off her and crashed into one of his armchairs, toppling over in a boneless heap. Hermione shot to her feet, raising her wand, and intoning "Incarcerous," as calmly as she could. She wasn't particularly surprised so much as annoyed when Potter's wand arm shot out with a cutting curse that ripped right through the ropes headed for him and sailed straight for her.

Hermione threw up a shield charm and shot off a stinging hex and disarming charm in succession, the first of which lightly smarted at Potter's hand to lay it low for the second. The Healer's wand flew out of his grasp, and he deftly dodged more of Hermione's ropes, before standing at full height. Potter drew himself back and his nostrils flared, reminding Hermione of an enraged bull for one amusing moment.

That was before he completed the image, and charged.

Hermione's eyes widened as she tried to put some distance between herself and the Healer with the three wildly shot stunners, but Potter quickly bore down on her. Recalling dueling classes toward the end of their tenure at Hogwarts, she tried to think of what the healer might be planning. She had beaten him almost every time they dueled, but Potter had never come this close: he was always a distance caster, electing to stay as far from the enemy as possible. Either three years of psychiatry had dulled his dueling senses, or he had something up his sleeve.

The debate was answered when Potter seemed to phase in front of Hermione before she even realized it, grabbed her wand arm, jerking her forward whilst simultaneously pushing her backward with a strong arm across the collarbone. Before she knew it, Hermione was on her back, disarmed the old-fashioned way.

Privately, she was impressed: she'd never met a wizard more dangerous without a wand than with one.

Hermione looked up to find both her wand and Potter's pointed at her. "Duels are hell of a lot different when you can put your hands on the other person," he growled.

"Judo?" She asked unnecessarily, the painful landing on her back was more than enough information for her to know.

"Not exactly. But it is the last thing a duelist would expect," Potter replied.

"Well, it sure got me," commented Hermione idly, bemused at how surreal this situation had become.

He cracked a small smile. "That was the intention. Now, may I ask why you were invading my mind, Ms Granger? Does it have something to do with this thief of yours?"

"As a matter of fact, it does," replied Hermione, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead under a messy fringe of hair. She dared not even wonder what eldritch abomination her hair must have become over the course of their fight.

"You think I'm the thief," replied the Healer, amused and incredulous at once.

"Are you saying you're not?"

"I don't even know what was stolen."

She cast a wary glance at the wands. "That is not the action of innocent man."

"It is when a madwoman charges into his office trying to mind-rape him."

The Unspeakable winced at the man's choice of words.

"Again. What, exactly, was stolen?"

"The prophecy."

"What prophecy?"

"Your prophecy."

"I have a prophecy?"

"Don't play dumb."

"I'm not," Potter answered, looking earnest, "I'm just a bit surprised, is all," he paused. "So... a prophecy."

"That's what I said, don't wear it out."

"That would make you..." He trailed off.

Hermione could not have answered even if she wanted to. Unfortunately, her silence only confirmed Potter's suspicions. "Well, regardless," he began, taking in the revelation that Hermione Granger was an Unspeakable with surprising grace, "I can't have been the only one this prophecy was about, can I? Because I swear I haven't taken it."

The Unspeakable nearly snorted. He could swear up and down all night, it wouldn't make any difference:

"There are others, but this is a bit of a special case."

"How so?"

"Three others. One is dead, one is far too stupid to have pulled off that kind of theft. And the last, well... she's me. And I know I haven't taken it."

That stopped Potter dead. "You?"

"I know," Hermione chanced a tentative smile, "I had much the same reaction as well."

"Who are the others?"

"Well there's Ronald Weasley..."

Potter blinked. "You and Ronald Weasley," he drawled. Hermione hissed at his use of the man's name. "Right," continued the healer over her, "I don't believe you."

"What? Why?"

"Why? Are you really asking me why?"

"Yes, yes I am."

Potter gave a dull, flummoxed expression, as though he hadn't expected Hermione to question him. "Why? Because it's ridiculous. We haven't seen each other in years, and even then, we were hardly friends, and now you're to tell me I'm in a prophecy with you and Ron-bloody-Weasley, Quidditch Keeper?"

Perhaps he really didn't take it. Which made sense when Hermione took what she saw in Potter's mind. The night of the break-in, at the very time the security charms had shut off, it seemed as though Potter was working on

"You may think it ridiculous," countered the brunette, "but it's the truth."

"Got any proof?"

"My flat," Hermione answered quickly, remembering the files she had been given on Potter and Weasley. One of them had the details of the theft, official Ministry seal and all.

"Ha-ha," laughed Potter in the world's most unamused manner. "That's not happening."

"I'm not going to lead you into a trap."

"Well, now that you've said it, I feel very reassured."

"I swear I won't."

"You can swear up and down all night, it won't make any difference," said Potter snidely, and Hermione outright laughed at that. "What?" he asked, voice dropping low and growly and what he apparently thought was very threatening.

"No, no, it's nothing," Hermione said, vainly trying to smooth her expression. "I have files that will prove I'm telling the truth," Potter remained stubborn and silent. It was just too much for Hermione, so she crossed her arms underneath him and huffed. "Oh, honestly! What will it take for you to believe me?"

Harry watched her, and Hermione's annoyance grew. Here she was, trying to offer him an olive branch, and suddenly he decided to become the world's most taciturn shrink. Fine, she thought, if he doesn't want to give any demands, then I'll do it for him!

"Do you want to hold onto my wand?"

Potter ran a hand through his black mane of hair, and grunted. "It's a start," he said, and his eyes glowed like newly cut emeralds. Suddenly, he paused, and asked a question: "Who's the last?"

"What?"

"The last person the prophecy was intended for. You said you, Weasley, and myself, but you mentioned a fourth person who's dead."

"Oh, well... uh... it's..." Hermione stalled, trying to think of the most appropriate of the previous Dark Lord's many nicknames. "It was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

Potter immediately drew off her. "Voldemort?" He asked quietly, and shocked Hermione with his brazenness, much as Athena had done. He stood off her, giving the Unspeakable some room to breathe and readjust as Potter went to the windows and observed the city skyline, both his wand and hers in either hand. For some time, he stared out the window and Hermione stared at his back. And when the silence had gone on far too long, Hermione spoke:

"Potter?" she asked, moving slowly toward him to tap his shoulder.

He turned the instant she did. "You will take me to your evidence. I want to see it with my own eyes."

What? That was it? Mention a dead Dark Lord's name and suddenly Potter believed her? "Really now? No trust issues?" Hermione asked, furiously pushing back the mocking smile that threatened to worm its way onto her face.

"You were known for many things at Hogwarts. I suppose being a liar wasn't one of them," he said, "then again, you weren't known for unprovoked attacks either."

"I'd hardly call them unprovoked," Hermione muttered, more to herself than Potter.

"Besides," he continued over her, "while you're undoubtedly much cleverer than I, we've just proved I can beat you in a duel with no preparation. If worse comes to worse, I'll do it again."

If there was one thing Hermione didn't approve of, it was cockiness. But she didn't have the time or luxury to reprimand the man for it; after all, she had lied to get into his office and attacked him while doing so. If anyone ought to be criticized for their hubris, it should be me, she thought.

Potter grinned lightly and raised a hand, as though offering it to her. Caught up in her own thoughts, Hermione's brow furrowed in confusion, until she looked down and saw he was offering her wand back. Privately, she was surprised that Potter would be trusting enough to grant her a possible weapon, even if he was confident that he could beat her in another duel, but Hermione had no intention of looking this particular gift horse in the mouth. Instead, she snatched the thin piece of wood from his hands and spoke:

"How should we leave?"

"We have to leave separately. I don't want to give the wrong impression..." he began.

"What?" Hermione asked.

"I mean, it's not exactly proper form for a Healer to accompany a client anywhere outside of hospital, especially together," he said somewhat sheepishly, and Hermione snorted a short laugh.

"I wouldn't call myself a client," she reassured, amused.

Potter stared, stone-faced. "That's not what my receptionist thinks. Nor my boss."

"Alright," Hermione threw her arms up in exasperation, "I'll meet you outside, and we can go together from there. Where do you want to rendezvous?"

"There's a Tesco right down the street. Wait in there, do some shopping, or whatever, I'll meet you there in fifteen minutes."

Hermione gave Potter a perfectly deadpan look. "You want me to go and wait for you in a Tesco. Dressed like this," she pointed down at her robes, picked out specifically because she wanted to avoid odd stares at the hospital.

"So?" Potter shrugged. "You're a clever girl, transfigure it."

"Honestly!" huffed Hermione, crossing her arms.

"Hey, if you didn't want to do it, you shouldn't have charged into my office with no evidence," the black-haired healer replied, wagging a finger mere inches from Hermione's face. She never had the urge to punch someone before, but Hermione finally understood the feeling when Potter grinned and began shooing her out of his office.

"You had better show," the Unspeakable ordered, realizing she sounded like a bossy little child. "If I don't see you in fifteen minutes, I'll come back here and so help me your head will roll, judo or not."

"Ditto to you. If I don't find you at that Tesco in fifteen minutes, I'm reporting you to the Aurors," it was a lot less outwardly threatening than Hermione's own, but no less effective.

Hermione huffed once more and strode out of the office, completely ignoring Potter's receptionists cries about an unpaid bill. In the distance, as she approached the lift, she heard Potter say to cancel the bill:

"I did the assessment pro bono," he said as Hermione stepped through the doorway, "she won't be coming ba..."

The lift doors shut.

Privately, Hermione wasn't all that peeved about being confined to a Tesco; it had been a long time since she'd been shopping and she was in dire need of groceries. Even her robes hadn't been much a problem once she transfigured them into a stripey, black-and-white summer dress. So she loitered around the market for fifteen minutes and even bought a few desperately-needed veggies before Potter appeared in his fancy suit by the entrance.

She walked toward him, but he kept staring past her, as though he was lost. Or perhaps just searching for a woman in frumpy robes.

"Right here," Hermione said when she was nearly nose-to-nose with the man and he still didn't notice. Quickly, he looked down and recognized her without the robes, surprise flitted across his face quickly as he did so. Promptly, she shoved a bag of groceries into his chest. "Hold on to this for me, please?"

"Good transfiguration," he said quickly as he got a hold of her grocery bags, "didn't even notice it was you."

"Keep walking," Hermione said before the healer could continue. Potter, for his part, heeded her advice and let Hermione be, temporarily at least.

They burst out into the quiet evening, just as the shadows were beginning to lengthen. Hermione led Harry down a predictably crowded sidewalk to the nearest deserted alleyway. They found one, mercifully free of any possible street toughs or other such nuisances to the apparating magic-wielder.

"Now what?" Potter asked once they reached relative safety from any prying muggle eyes, whereupon he shrunk the bags of Hermione's groceries and put it in one of the interior pockets of his suit.

"Now you hold on to me and I'll side-along you to my flat," Hermione said, stiffly offering her arm.

Potter took hold of it and stood close. "Works for me," he said carelessly.

Hermione sighed and thought clearly thought of the hallway outside her flat. One moment and the intense high-pressure feeling of being squeezed through something the circumference of a garden hose later, and the duo stood in a pretty, cream-coloured hallway. Potter looked around at the muggle design of the floor and opened his mouth to say something, but Hermione anticipated it:

"No, I'm not breaking any secrecy laws, Potter," she said, "everyone who lives here is either a wizard or witch who decided to work in the muggle world, or a squib."

"You're neither," pointed out the healer.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "How perceptive of you," she snipped sarcastically and turned almost immediately on heel, marching toward a door at the end of the hallway marked 517. A door that just so happened to be left ajar. Abruptly, the brunette stopped and held out an arm keeping Potter from going any further.

"What's wrong?" He asked.

"My door's open," she whispered back. "I remember closing and locking it when I left for St. Mungo's."

"Is it warded? Lock and key isn't much trouble for your regular wizard."

"Of course it's warded; who do you take me for?" she readied her wand.

Potter grimaced. "For god's sake, put that thing away. Are you expecting anyone?"

"No," Hermione said, unwilling to relinquish her wand.

"Is anyone keyed into your wards?"

"Yes, my father," she replied.

"Any chance it's just your dad?"

Dad does have a habit of popping in at the strangest times, Hermione thought, and today has all the makings of the strangest day I've ever had.

"It's a possibility," she said.

"Well," Potter said, "go on in then, just make sure not to give him a heart attack; I'd hate to have to administer CPR right now."

Merlin, I hate him.

And sure enough, Potter was right. Hermione slunk into her flat, wand at the ready, aware of every possible threat that could be in the room at that very moment. Instead, what she found was a middle-aged man reading today's issue of the Daily Prophet, smiling softly at the moving photos in it. Potter followed in behind her, and grinned.

"Well, isn't that something," he said, which attracted the attention of the man on the couch, who beamed widely at the sight of Hermione.

"Hermione!" He called to her gaily.

Hermione smiled, but couldn't resist the small scolding he deserved. "Daddy, how many times have I told you to close and lock the door behind you? You nearly gave me a heart attack thinking someone had broken into my flat."

"Oh!" exclaimed her father. "Sorry, sweetling," he apologized and Hermione cringed at the nickname, "I keep forgetting; guess I'm just getting old. Who's this?" Hermione opened her eyes and saw her father pointing at Harry, who crossed his arms and spoke:

"Harry Potter. I'm, erm... I'm a work colleague of Hermione's."

"Oho! So this is the famous Harry Potter!" he grinned boisterously and strode up to Potter, clapping him hard on the shoulder. Or, what should have been hard: Hermione's father was a big man who often didn't know his own strength, yet Potter didn't even stumble at the push. "I've heard so much about you!"

"Have you, then?" Potter asked, and glanced quickly in her direction as he walked toward the kitchen table and resized all her grocery bags. "They're all lies, I swear."

Hermione's father let out a booming laugh. "Only if the books are all lies; Hermione's never said more than two words about you."

"Father!" Hermione exclaimed with the intent to sound scolding, but it came out more as an embarrassed meep.

"Well," said the healer smoothly as he re-entered the living room, "it's hard to live up to a legend."

"Oh, indeed! Why, the things they've said about you in the books! Is it true you slew a dragon in single combat?"

"Erm... no?"

"Oh, well, would've been a great story if it was true."

"Well," started Hermione. Her father was many things, not the least of which perceptive; he would certainly notice if Hermione didn't at least pretend Potter wasn't her friend, "it isn't completely untrue, Harry here did face a dr-" she was cut off when Potter raised a quieting hand.

"Do you hear that?" he asked.

She didn't. But then, Hermione listened. And then she heard.

All three whirled to the door Hermione and Potter had come through, and saw the knob rattle the slightest amount. And then, she felt it:

"The wards. Someone's broken the wards."

Potter's face had gone deathly pale. "Get your father into another room," he said seriously. Something about his tone made Hermione comply immediately. She gathered her father, who stood dumbly with questions of 'What's going on, Hermione? Where are we going?'.

Hermione didn't respond, instead pushing her father away from the living room as the lock clicked and the door burst open. She whirled back and saw a green light spear toward Potter, but didn't see if it hit or not, because her father took the initiative and dragged her into her bathroom and gripped her by the shoulders as he spoke:

"What the bloody hell is going on, Hermione!?"

She struggled to go back outside, but her father kept her firmly in his arms. "Work stuff, just stay in here, I need to help Harry!"

"Absolutely not!"

"Stupefy!" Harry cried outside.

Hermione knew she should have no qualms with Potter fighting whoever it was. After all, he had practically blackmailed her into bringing him to her flat. Yet, despite his annoying tendencies, he didn't deserve to get hurt or worse because she had been a fool and not done her homework well-enough.

A shouted killing curse and the tell tale ripping up of plaster from a blasting curse interrupted her thoughts, and a body thudded to the floor. Hermione whirled on her father:

"Please, daddy, I'll talk to you in a minute. Once we're all safe!"

Hermione's father let her go, and she burst out from the doorway, wand in hand, hoping she didn't find Potter laid out on the ground lifelessly. Her heart's wild beating immediately slowed when she found Potter straddled over the downed home intruder, arms crossed over one another and his forearms pressed into the assailant's neck. The intruder scrabbled weakly at Potter's arms. Within a few seconds, he went limp, though not to Potter's blood choke, but to the stunner Hermione cast at him.

Hermione smiled faintly at the scene. "Yet another person falls to the master martial artist Harry Potter."

"No one ever expects it," replied the healer with a shrug as he stepped off the man.

Hermione walked over next to Potter and stood over the downed assailant. "Who is this man?" she asked, inspecting his black robes and carved, skeletal mask. She lifted off the mask and saw someone she didn't recognise.

"That bloke?" Potter started. "That bloke means we have to find Ron Weasley."

"Weasley?"

"He's in danger."

"How do you know?" interrogated Hermione. "Who is this man?"

"The man's a Death Eater," replied Potter soberly, "he works for Lord Voldemort."

A/N: Midnight Blues isn't abandoned, don't worry. I've just had this idea in my head for a while and couldn't get it out. There's a lot of questions you no doubt have, but instead of the typical chapter notes, I'll let you speculate and maybe your questions will be answered in the coming chapters. Next chapter will be from Harry's perspective.

Thanks for reading,
Geist.