Here's the first chapter. Enjoy x

Chapter 1

Hog's Head Inn

Hogsmeade, Scotland

Booming chatter and boisterous laughter are typically atmospheric within the stone walls of the Hog's Head. Friday and Saturday evenings are usually the busiest hours for Aberforth and his hard-working staff. This popular establishment is regularly filled to the brim with ravenous patrons, eager to spend their night with friends and family, drinking the finest Firewhisky in Wizarding Britain. Undeniably quite the contrast to those decades of the crumbling bar filled with dilapidated wooden benches, a small mildewed bartop, splintered flooring, stained whisky pots and an everlasting presence of damp in the air.

Since his brother's downfall, Aberforth has found a great weight lifted from his shoulders and a sense of peace fill his previously disgruntled existence. Impending tensions threatening continued conflict throughout Wizarding Britain after Albus Dumbledore's death nearly five years ago did not dissuade Aberforth from moving forward with his life. His primary focus became his business, and a life-long ambition to create an all-star restaurant came into fruition. Though a slight adaptation from his childhood imagination so long ago, The Hog's Head is now an invigorated Pub Inn, widely popular with the masses and even gaining credibility across the UK and over shore in Ireland, France and Belgium with a popular new brand of Firewhisky, Abe's Embers.

It is in this new and improved establishment Minerva McGonagall finds herself relaxing on the occasional Hogsmeade weekend her third to seventh year students are permitted to enjoy. The elderly witch will also happily frequent the Hog's Head throughout Hogwart's summer and Christmas holidays. Minerva is renowned for her reserved nature, yet formidable stature and prowess; perhaps this is the reason only those who are familiar with the witch truly know her patterns and behaviours. Hermione is relieved to have a friend and ally such as her old Hogwart's Professor. Though she is not one of Minerva's own Cubs, Hermione has always felt comfort with the kindly elder witch, fondly reminded of her own maternal grandmother, and knows she has been held in high esteem by Minerva since her first year at Hogwarts nine years ago.

Entering through the double doors – ornately crafted from the remains of an ancient Whomping Willow, believed to have died two centuries ago on the very land the Hog's Head now stands – Hermione is immediately embraced by the joviality of the Hog's Head. Both the restaurant and bar are filled with the usual patrons as well as witches and wizards from all corners of the country, drawn in by delicious foods and the finest drinks money can buy. The popularity of the Hog's Head is unprecedented since the end of the war, striving ahead of other largely popular eatery establishments across Britain in leaps and bounds.

Hermione can recall the surprise of walking down to Hogsmeade one weekend during her sixth year at Hogwart's only to discover the vast expansions Aberforth had undertaken for his business. The Hog's Head now has five storeys whereby the ground and first floors comprise of a main restaurant, bar and kitchen and a second restaurant with a side bar often used for reservations during peak times of the year. The third and fourth floors house thirty rooms each for patrons or holiday goers to enjoy the lavish country life of Scottish summers or a winter wonderland whilst celebrating Christmas. The fifth floor is believed to be Aberforth's apartment, though the wizard in question has neither confirmed nor denied it. Perhaps a sense of secrecy and self-reservation is an innate trait for the Dumbledore family, though thankfully Aberforth has refused to allow any level of corruption akin to Albus' treachery seep through, clutching his very being.

Glancing around the restaurant, Hermione conducts a quick and thorough periphery as she weaves her way around dining customers, showing care and caution with her movements as the Hog's Head has once again filled to the brim on this fine summer evening. Though it is the middle of the week, there are still many customers, from couples and families to friends and work colleagues. Perhaps the crowded pub restaurant will have been sufficient for Hermione to blend in, however relief fills her as she enters the bar, spying a large group of wizards in the far-right corner. Trekking her way to the archway leading behind the bar, Hermione walks through a concealed door, all the while thankful for her decision to cast a notice-me-not charm before even apparating to the Scottish Wizarding village.

The steps belie all appearances, completely silent and firm as Hermione makes her way down to the basement. Predominantly used as a wine cellar, largely expanded from the tiny box it once was, Aberforth kept an obscure room oftentimes used for Order meetings over the decades, though later abandoned upon Albus' death. Hermione recalls the one time she set foot in the room as it was during the war. She was immediately met with the obtrusive scent of mould and decaying oak; damp had infested the concrete floor, every wooden surface and the stone walls. The room had been left to literally rot for half a century, reaching the point you could feel the state of decay cling to your very being. It would not surprise Hermione in the least if that had been Albus' intention – nothing like utilising weathered, broken locales to rally the oppressed.

This time, there is no secreted door, or corner leading to an entrance. Standing before the seventh column of wines, whiskeys, ciders and ales, a warm tingle alights every sensory nerve in Hermione's body. Her magical core recognises the ominous cloaking charm as pulses of energy surround the immediate vicinity, accepting the spell for what it is – an illusion, designed to effectively deflect unwelcome attention. Sometimes simplicity is key to achieving one's objectives; the technique has certainly worked well in this case, creating a gloomy sense of melancholy. Not enough to cause a notion of panic, instead an inkling of negative energy; an exact dose to ensure one turns to look the other way. Recollecting her first time in the refurbished basement, Hermione is entirely aware of the struggle to ignore the overpowering effects of the charm.

Stepping across the threshold, no longer draining her inner-strength and resolution to do so, she is immediately greeted by a large hall similar to Victorian ballrooms. Supressing a disgusted shiver, Hermione is thankful for Aberforth's keen eye and tasteful design, taking in the pristine marbled flooring lined with identical marble pillars providing support for the high ceiling. There, in the very centre of the ceiling, delicately hangs a large crystal ice chandelier adorning the effect of a harp; shards of gleaming icicles align in multiple rows of slightly differing heights and trajectories, seemingly softly swaying as though caught in a breeze, releasing the gentle sound of tinkling chimes. More so intricate icicles glisten around the marble columns, each shard provided with a finished edge, creating the illusion of a trickling waterfall. The idea is to provide a sense of movement, fluidity to the room, not nearly as blatantly obvious as wizarding portraiture.

The subtlety is not lost on Hermione; the designs are inclusive of contemporary Muggle culture, yet easily overlooked by the untrained eye of purebred wizards and witches. Whilst antique chandeliers provide cradles for candles, or modern chandeliers with a range of differing bulb fixtures utilising electricity, Hermione can feel the familiar warm hum of magic. Having used this room on the odd occasion since graduating from Hogwarts, she is familiar with the elaborate web of spells signifying a trigger when one enters, enveloping the large space in seemingly natural light, originating from each shard of crystal ice. It is truly impressive wandmanship, providing a quality of freedom, only hinting Aberforth's high level of power and influence – thank Salazar he is not his brother.

Gaze finally resting on the centre of the hall, Hermione is pleased to see her old Hogwart's professor has already arrived. The elder woman has transfigured a beautifully crafted ornate walnut desk and two equally as stunning walnut armchairs adorned with creamed acromantula silk cushions lining the seat and back. The furniture rests atop a large bronze rug interlaid with hippogriff feathers and sea serpent silk. Though not quite complimenting the overall contemporary style of the room, the ensemble provides a comforting, warm feel to the large space, gradually becoming more so inviting as she walks closer to the centre. Humming softly, she can almost feel the delightfully soft silks and furs of the rug through her Converse.

A warm, friendly greeting slips from her tongue as she rounds the desk to embrace the elder witch with a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. Finally settling in the opposing chair, Hermione places her obscenely expensive designer bag – a typically theatrical gift from a friend – by her feet, instantaneously relaxing in place. The cushioned material is as soft as first deduced, encompassing her frame and freeing the tension she had not even registered seizing the muscles of her back. The other witch once more takes her own seat, appearing equally as relaxed. She is adorned in her usual emerald green robes; her mousy brown hair is softly pinned in a neat bun, clasped in place with a green tinted diamond dragonfly; rose gold glasses dangle below her collarbone from a delicate emerald chain looped around her neck. As nonchalant as she may seem, Hermione is very well aware surface appearances do not necessarily convey the woman's true thoughts and feelings at any given moment.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Minerva." Her gratitude all but shines in her eyes, smile gentle, yet fractionally strained. "I know you will have had a busy week, preparing for the feast tomorrow."

"Nonsense." The kindly witch literally waves her hand in the air, seemingly batting inconsequential matters away. "I make a point to enjoy Hogsmeade along with my students. Tea?" A nod of the head and Minerva transfigures a white floral tea set to one side of the desk: a delicate tray holds a tea pot with steam rising from the funnel, a petite jug of creamy milk, a small bowl of white and golden sugar cubes, two teacups overturned on saucers and two dainty silver spoons. With a light flourish of her wand, the woman prepares the beverages. Hermione is relieved when she feels the heat seeping through the china, warming her hands as she takes a sip.

"I also enjoy your company." Minerva continues, "Though I presume – given your request for discretion and our current locale – this is not a friendly get-together." Hermione cannot suppress a grimace, tension filling her shoulders once again.

"No, I'm afraid not."

Placing the teacup and saucer on the desk, Hermione bends over, reaching into her handbag which is propped against the chair leg to remove a familiar clutch purse, lilac in colour and covered in a smattering of beads. Barely concentrating on her movements, relying almost entirely on muscle memory alone, she reaches inside, pulling out a beige flip-file folder before settling it on the desk facing the older witch. The moment Minerva opens the folder surprise briefly mars her features. As she scans the first page, Hermione carefully studies the quirk of her eye brows, her slightly widened eyes and the familiar tick of her jaw. The witch, formidable as ever, swiftly gathers her countenance and begins flicking through the folder. It is impressive, really – anyone unacquainted with the witch would surely overlook her lapse in emotive restraint.

Hermione remains silent, waiting patiently and anxiously as Minerva seemingly absorbs every piece of information – almost every piece of information, for there is rather a lot. The young woman was as proficient as ever when conducting her research. The plastic wallets are filled to the brim with page after page of one document or another: photos, newspaper clippings, scripted audio recordings and an endless list of scheduled meetings between who she believes are buyers and sellers. There are links and curves and twists and turns throughout every inch of the pages. Hermione is the brightest witch of her age; a little cross-referencing here and there, reinforcing one case after the other, is certainly not too difficult for her to handle. Clearly deciding she has read enough, Minerva closes the folder, locking her gaze directly onto Hermione's worried expression.

"You recognise the article." It is not a question. Hermione immediately acknowledged Minerva's sharp intake of air alongside her surprise. The woman has unquestionably seen the article before. "That piece was not the beginning of my suspicions, but I thought it would garner your attention faster than the occasional theory." Glancing the thick folder filled with documents, a look of sadness and dejection crosses Hermione's features. "Or, at least, it was a theory."

"And what exactly, may I ask, did you think was a theory?" The woman's voice is both soft and crisp rolled into one. Confusion briefly filters through Hermione's form, a feeling as though, despite glancing through the pages in under fifteen minutes, her old professor knows exactly the sorts of wild ideas running through Hermione's mind. That does not quite sit well with the younger woman, a sense of unease filling her from the inside out. She wonders whether the woman believes she has finally cracked after all of these strenuous, tension filled years of war and turmoil. Tears of stress and fatigue sting her eyes, almost completely clouding her vision.

"I—ah," Clearing her throat, Hermione stems her emotions, determined to get through this meeting without breaking.

"You recognise the article. I kept seeing and hearing things, whispers really – suspicious activity, and then that article comes out. I have researched non-stop alongside my everyday life for over a year . . . actually, I conducted the majority of my research whilst at work; gathered intel and evidence to support this theory to the point where it can no longer be classified as just a theory." Taking a breath, she scans Minerva's frame, hoping for another slip in character. Instead the woman remains perfectly demure, back straight, teacup held delicately three or four inches above her lap; she can tell from the angle that her legs are crossed at the ankle, poised beneath the chair. Sighing, her shoulders and back ache, knuckles white as she grips onto her purse.

"That article was never released." Voice calm, Minerva raises one brow. It is the signal Hermione needs to know she has her attention. Though the old professor is clearly unconvinced, she can see the young woman has thought through and considered every possible scenario, even to the point of discrediting her own evidence. She concedes the young witch has evidently concluded there is something to her research.

"I know." Hermione sighs. "I couldn't find much on the article itself and figured it was an early release, later quashed. That would explain why you recognise it."

"You're right."

Taking a final sip of tea, Minerva places her empty cup on the tray. Hermione winces, lifting her own tea and swiftly deciding against consuming the barely warm liquid, instead imitating the older witch by placing the teacup and saucer back with the set. A flick of the wrist, and the desk is once more bare, short of the closed folder still situated directly in the centre.

"The paper was delivered to the usual parties in the early afternoon before the day of release. As you know, I too have a subscription. As acting headmistress to a school of young, easily-swayed minds I feel it a necessity more than of personal interest." Minerva all but mutters the final part, if muttering is ever something one associates with the powerful witch.

"So, they are trying to hide something." Hermione does not know whether she feels relieved to have been on the right tracks this whole time or worried she has been on the right tracks this whole time.

"I do not wish to cause you any further means of concern, my dear." The older witch ensures her tone is kind and gentle, continuing only when she has Hermione's full attention. "You do realise who they are?" Her words are a question, prompting Hermione towards an acknowledgement, for she is sure the young woman already understands the implication. It appears, considering the renewed sheen glistening her eyes, Hermione is very much aware of whom Minerva is referring to.

"It is hardly surprising." Clearing her throat, her shoulders are no longer tense, though she effectively slumps against the back of the chair, hugging herself as she clasps her trembling hands around her arms. "My family have been on the political ladder for centuries. They are aristocrats first and foremost, not to mention they are undeniably in His favour."

"You think this is His doing?" Hermione's startled expression meets serene hazel orbs. The older woman gives nothing away of her thoughts or opinions on the matter, leaving Hermione to reach her own conclusions.

"How could it not?" Her question is rhetorical, mind seemingly already made up for it is surely the most obvious explanation. Or the easiest. Suddenly, a sense of indecisiveness and scepticism confounds the young woman. Leaning forward, she grasps the folder, flicking through a number of pages, knowing exactly where every case, every piece of research and evidence is located. Spending night after night reading through the damning papers will do that to anyone. A few seconds tick by and she finally stops more than two-thirds of the way through. Digging into the wallet, she grips a folded piece of paper, swiftly unfolds it and hands it over to Minerva.

"Tell me what you make of this." Her voice cracks, a lone tear running down her cheek as Minerva takes the paper.

Printed in colour is a copy of a photograph. The image cannot move; taken with a muggle camera on a busy street the focal is a young male no older than twenty-five, seemingly conversing with another shadowed figure in an open doorway. A sign is also captured in the image, reading 'Brompton Road'; Minerva knows the street, occasionally indulging herself with shopping trips to the very popular, high-end department store located in the centre of London. She also recognises the young man, returning her attention to the young woman across from her once more. Angrily swiping the tear away, Hermione takes a few breaths, consciously calming herself as she awaits a response.

"When did you take this?" Minerva's tone is sympathetic. She gingerly refolds the paper, placing it atop the wallet it originally came from.

"Two days ago."

Voice quiet, Hermione's façade is a discomforting combination of crestfallen and betrayed. She fiddles with the corner of the card folder, evidently a habit for the edge is rather discoloured and worn. No longer teary eyed, the young woman is suddenly exhausted. Gathering together mounds of research has caused endless stress and fear, entirely overwhelming though only now reaching a peak. Whether acknowledging she was close to the tethered edge motivated her to reach out for help from her old professor, truly the only person she feels she can trust, or whether reaching out has finally caused a crash and burn is not altogether conclusive.

"Does he know?" Not entirely certain why she posed the question, Minerva already knows the answer even before Hermione shakes her head, sniffling and swallowing uncomfortably. Another simple spell transfigures a light oak box filled with snowy white tissues and a clear glass of ice water. Forgoing the tissues, Hermione thanks Minerva, picking up the glass and immediately consuming half. Cupping the glass in her hands, it is a lovely contrast to the earlier cup of tea; instead, the cold surface cools her heated skin, keeping her focused, grounded.

"I thought I knew what I was doing." Hermione sighs sadly. "I thought I knew all . . . most of the variables. But if he . . ." A sob catches in her throat, "if he is involved—" Her words trail off into nothingness, a sense of sorrow and fear clouding her soft tone.

"You don't know that." Minerva's voice is sharp, a hint of anger and pain flashing in her eyes. "You clearly have not considered his possible involvement until very recently. There could be something else at play here." The young witch does not appear convinced. Minerva sighs, this meeting bearing a heavy weight, exhausting both occupants of the room.

"Go home." Her tone is now soft, comforting. "Do you not have a party to attend tomorrow evening?" She raises a brow, satisfied once she receives reluctant confirmation. "Forget about this-" She gestures to the folder and its contents, "for a little while and try to enjoy the following few weeks."

"You will help me?" Large eyes look desperately upon the witch, seeking any semblance of reassurance.

"I will." Minerva confirms. "After you have taken some time to clear your head." She raises one hand to stem any protest before she continues. "You are a very skilled, very proficient young woman. However, you have had the tendency to run yourself ragged into extreme levels of stress since your first few weeks at Hogwarts. So, I suggest you take some much-needed time for yourself." Rising from the chair, Minerva hands the folder back to Hermione.

Taking the offending papers, Hermione stuffs them into her purse, dropping the purse into her handbag as she loops the thin straps onto her shoulder. Standing before her trusted professor, she smiles softly, turning on the spot, intent to leave and follow the older woman's advice. Perhaps doing anything and everything in the immediate future to take her mind from her mounds of research and damning evidence truly will do wonders for her wellbeing. Pausing briefly, she turns back to face Minerva, an interlaying touch of guilt – perhaps beguiling innocence, in her eyes.

"Could you, perhaps, keep an eye on your students for the next couple of days and when they return to Hogwarts in September." Biting her lip, Hermione finally breaks eye contact with the older witch, fully aware she is asking the Headmistress to break her code of professionalism and spy on children – fully aware she has already requested for such deplorable behaviour once before, to which the older woman readily consented.

"I know children can be easily moulded by their parents' beliefs, how easily swayed we all were during the war." Squaring her shoulders, Hermione places her full attention back onto the formidable witch, unable to discern what the woman is thinking. "Perhaps also consider any suspicious activity by your students throughout the past year; I would be very grateful."

Waiting in silence, Hermione holds her breath, sighing as relief fills her being the moment Minerva nods her head in acquiesce. The woman dislikes favouritism, or the opposite in this case, however clearly begrudgingly agrees with the young witch's assertion. Imitating Minerva's response, Hermione nods her head. She feels drained and is now looking forward to the upcoming weeks of relaxation – hopefully taking her focus away from these triggers of unending stress – though she is also pleased with the outcome of the meeting. She is glad she reached out to Minerva yesterday evening.

The two witches' give their farewells, Hermione swiftly exiting the room. Breezing past the calmer affair of the restaurant and bar after a lunchtime high, she apparates to a thicket of trees located in a familiar park she often visited with her muggle family as a child. Allowing the shining sun to warm her skin, a sharp contrast to the nippy temperatures often associated with the Scottish Highlands, she walks leisurely along the dirt pathway in the direction of her childhood home.

A Small, Two-bedroom Apartment

Somewhere outside of London, England

Waking from a light sleep, the man lays silently, hearing attuned to anything which may be out of the ordinary in the quiet of the night. He can feel a pressure against his chest and soft skin stretched out along his side. Gently shifting the figure beside him, he rises from the bed, glancing down when the woman mumbles in her sleep, curling into the duvet. Smiling softly, without causing any amount of further disturbance, he leaves the room, walks down the hallway and enters the nursery.

The smaller room is just as quiet and calm. The design of the large shelving unit is embedded into the single cream wall, filled to the brim with picture books, nursery rhymes, toys and baby supplies from cartons of milk to packets of nappies to infant-friendly soaps and shampoos. The other three walls are decorated with a painted mural of a safari, beginning with a woodland before moving onto the savannah, desert plains and finally the ocean; there are a wide range of wild animals, including the odd few magical creatures such as Buckbeak the hippogriff soaring through the clouds and the Giant Squid of the Great Lake splashing in the shallows. Along the far wall rests a small wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a handmade, beautifully carved mahogany cot.

Standing before the cot, the man smiles down at the sleeping babe, gently tracing a finger along the chubby cheek. Soft rivulets of charmed light from the starry mobile glance across the small space; mostly hued in gold, there is also a sliver of silver from the single crescent moon. The light gold emphasises the baby's pale-yellow onesie and cream coloured socks with pale-yellow toes and heels. On the onesie are the words 'The lion sleeps tonight . . .' with a male cartoon lion sewn into the fabric beneath, Z's floating around its head. Chuckling softly, the man lightly strokes one tightly coiled fist resting above the babe's head, heart clenching with absolute love and devotion as the little hand clasps the man's thumb in his sleep.

He simply stands there, watching his son sleep for a few minutes before he registers a tapping sound coming from the window. Glancing to the left, he spots the shape of an owl perched on the ledge. Carefully removing his thumb from his son's surprisingly firm grasp, he walks over to the window, putting it on the latch and removing the small parchment from the familiar midnight black eagle owl. Barely glancing the bird as it instantly flies away, no payment necessary, he removes the clasp and unfurls the letter.

Reading the message once, the man releases the parchment, watching as it ignites, turning to ash in mid-air. The man does a simple nonverbal spell using wandless magic to remove the ash and scent of burnt wood from the nursery before closing the window. Checking his son is still soundly asleep, he exits the room to head back to bed. All the while, the man's jaw is tightly clenched, eyes narrowed as he ponders the words on the parchment over and over again in his head, forming two simple, irrefutable lines.

Rendezvous Alpha, Compromised

Activate, Rendezvous Delta

Oh Sh*t! My heart is exploding, I am genuinely excited for what is coming next. Are you?

Thank you so much for taking the time to read the first actual chapter of this fic – I really hope this has your minds reeling with what has happened thus far and what may well take place in the future.

Thank you to crazyKate92 and angel897 for your lovely reviews. You have made me feel so warm inside and it's truly wonderful to 'hear' what you think of my fic.

Please, anyone and everyone, do leave a review if you have a moment – even one simple word would be so amazing, not to mention reviews do tend to motivate a writer with quicker, less strenuous updates when they know first-hand readers are genuinely interested . . . I am certainly not an exception to the rule :D

Until next time guys . . . keep a weather eye! :) xx