Chapter 2
Harry read the newspaper, a look of boredom on his face. A man sat down next to him on the bench. A rather ordinary looking man in a nondescript suit.
"Do you have the money?" the man asked.
"That depends entirely on whether or not you have the information," said Harry. A large envelope became visible. "Five as promised."
The trade was quick, the envelope for a small bag of galleons. Harry tucked the envelope under her jacket and stood up. Folding his newspaper he walked away.
Hermione fought the urge to bash her head against her desk. At times she despised her boss. Yet another incident where the police had nearly found out about magic because of an Obliviator's ineptitude.
At times she hated her job. Forever cleaning up the messes others made. And where would she be in twenty years? Cleaning up the same mistakes, the same messes.
Eventually she'd loose her edge, her instincts. She'd become some dowdy old woman grouchier than old Mafalda Hopkirk. Did she really go to Hogwarts for this? Did she fight a war for this? No, she didn't.
"Miss Granger, it took several hours to clean up the mess you made of that household. I know that you're still new and are permitted to make mistakes, but you had claimed that you were capable of introducing a Muggle-born to the magical community."
She let out a growl. "That's it! It is not my fault that the boy and his parents were prejudiced against all forms of the supernatural! They were members of the Friends of Humanity for Merlin's sake!"
"Miss Granger, one more outburst like that and no matter how exemplary your work, you will be terminated," said Mr. Kenton, her boss.
"I wouldn't worry about firing me," said Hermione, a sickly sweet smile upon her face. "I quit. My desk will be cleaned out momentarily."
"What about notice?" he demanded.
"I'm sorry I couldn't give you my two week's notice-actually, I'm not sorry. And no, I will not continue to work in this office a moment longer."
With a sweep of her wand, all personal effects had flown into an old crate under her desk she'd used as a footstool. She picked up the crate.
"Good day, Mr. Kenton," spat out Hermione. "I hope to never see you or this office again."
Harry looked over the information in the file. It wasn't much, but it was enough. Only a couple newspaper pictures had been enough to made Harry realize the familiarity. The information one of his informants in the Muggle branch of the government had been more than enough to confirm his suspicion. The only question was, how did he approach her?
His aunt had lived a hard life for the past twenty seven years. She might not even remember her sisters. She certainly had no idea that Lily had had a son.
Harry had already known Neena's location when he'd… questioned Aunt Petunia. There were few ways to hide from scrying spells. He had only questioned her so that he'd have a better understanding of what'd happened that night.
Putting the file in a drawer, Harry decided to figure out his next move at a later time. He did have a job to do, after all. He only had until the end of the week to assassinate the rather influential resident of Hightown, Madripoor.
Hermione paced her apartment, trying not to cry. What had she done? How could she have been so stupid? Quitting her job like that. It had to be one of the most random things she'd ever done, and that was saying a lot considering who her parents were and that her best friends made causing chaos look like a science.
She could just go back to Mr. Kenton. Beg for her job back. It would be so easy, so very easy.
No. She would not go crawling back to anybody. Ever.
Then there was nothing left to do but find a new job. But where could she go? She wouldn't be able to get another job at the ministry, not that she wanted one. And did she really want to work in some store where people came to gawk at the "War Hero"? Well, the wizarding world was out of the question, then.
So she had to find a job somewhere in the Muggle world. But what could she do? Sure, she had a diploma, but not a university degree. So she would only be qualified for jobs that… were undoubtedly below her skill level.
Hermione briefly considered attempting to convince her father to pay for her to go to a university. She certainly didn't have the money herself, and by her calculations, working at the same time wouldn't pay nearly enough unless it was three separate jobs. But her father would just snap at her and tell her to either join the family business or marry a man who would be willing and qualified to participate in the family business.
Her mother wasn't an option. At some point during the war, her mother had died. Her father hadn't really explained the circumstances of his wife's death, which led Hermione to believe he might have had something to do with it.
It seemed to be the most likely possibility. Her father had only married the woman for her uterus and the rather impressive military and criminal work of her family. And of course the woman's child caring abilities. Hermione had little doubt that her father had not wanted to deal with a small child at all, so had left her with her mother most of the time. With Hermione grown up and fighting in a war, there would have been no need for her mother's continued presence.
Hermione flopped down in a chair. She really should have thought about what she was doing before she had quit like that. Going to her father wasn't an option, neither was any job she could think of in the Muggle or Magical world.
A soft tapping broke Hermione's thoughts. She looked over to the nearest window. Just outside the window was a small brown burrowing owl. Wondering why Luna had written, Hermione let the owl in.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "And who was your source?"
"Ginny," said Ron. "Who heard it from Percy who heard it from that old biddy, Hopkirk."
For a moment Harry considered comparing the chain of information to a game of telephone. However he thought better of it at how serious Ron looked. "Hermione really quit her job, yelled at her former boss, and used accidental or wandless magic to set her desk on fire on the way out?"
"I always knew Hermione would go nutters one day, crack under the pressure or something," Ron shrugged. "Just didn't expect it so soon."
"Riiiiight. Who's turn is it?"
"Hey, I made her breakfast, lunch and dinner for five days strait when she had the flu last month."
Harry just gave him a look. "But I was the one that bought her… feminine products because she was too ill to get out of bed. And I was the one who took Crookshanks to the vet so that he could get fixed."
"Fine," sighed Ron. "I'll go talk to Hermione and find out what's going on."
Hermione starred, as if not quite sure of what to make of the woman in front of her. "You're really offering me a job. Luna, no offense, but I really don't think that I would enjoy writing articles for the Quibbler."
Luna tilted her head to the side. "I never said it would be as a reporter. Do you remember what I said on how the Quibbler paid its employees?"
She thought for a minute. Hermione's eyes widened. "You don't pay. I remember you telling Harry back in Fifth year. You said that the Quibbler didn't pay its reporters."
"Of course we don't pay them," said Luna. "The people they're working for pay them. It's all in the contract."
"I'm listening."
"The Quibbler is a front for an agency that employs former military personnel, both Muggle and Magical. They sign a contract with us, file monthly coded reports, which are printed as stories in the Quibbler. We are contacted by outside sources that wish to hire… people such as the ones we employ for certain fees. Anything from bodyguard work to assassination to deliveries."
"Why are they printed in the Quibbler?"
"We need to print something to keep our cover and it helps the various agents keep in touch and know what the others are doing. It's a failsafe so that our agents don't come up against each other. That would be in breech of contract, of course."
She was silent for several moments, considering her options. "How much does it pay and what does your contract look like?"
Luna handed Hermione what seemed to be ninety pages of small type print. "I'll be back tomorrow, you have until then to read it over."
Ron wasn't quite sure what to make of the scene in front of him. Hermione was in her chair reading something rather thick. He had, as per usual, come through the private floo connection. The floo was limited to a half dozen people.
"Hermione?"
"Hello Ron? Are you going to be staying long?" She didn't look up from her reading.
"Uh, I dunno. What are you doing?"
"Going over my contract. Which reminds me, I'm going to be working for the Quibbler from now on. As a reporter."
Ron stuttered, not sure what to say. "Y-y-you really quit?"
Harry was a little surprised to find out that Hermione had quit a rather good job to work for the Quibbler. If he hadn't known for sure that Hermione had been able to throw off the Imperious for more than two years, he might have been worried. As it was, he was just confused.
He settled back into his seat. Flying coach was uncomfortable, but it could be worse. He still wasn't sure what to do about his aunt, though. Just show up on her doorstep? That would just be asking to get shot. But what else was there? Any other ideas he had come up with seemed too much like he was trying to manipulate her.
There wasn't anything for it. Showing up on her doorstep was the only reasonable thing he could think of.
"Luna, is this the standard contract that everybody signs or can I add some clauses to it?"
"What sort of clauses?"
Harry examined the files in front of him. He had done exhaustive research on the various people his aunt was associated with. It had taken longer than planned, but that was all right. There wasn't really a time limit on this. It was better to know too much than too little in his experience.
Unsure of what he would encounter, Harry had decided to travel light. Some basic supplies; Muggle American dollars and British pounds. A couple forms of identification, credit cards belonging to people who didn't really exist were in hidden pockets. A bag with a change of clothing, a blanket and some extra weapons was thrown over one shoulder. It was heavier than he had packed most of the time during the war, but he wasn't planning on going into battle.
Harry knew that the picture he presented was one of a college or high school student. He wore baggy, slightly worn clothing which his weapons rather well. There were two guns, a small plasma riffle, five knives of varying lengths, lock picks, a garrote hidden in the collar of his shirt, his primary wand, two back up wands, and several other weapons.
It might have been overkill, but it was better to be safe. Even with the information he had gathered, he couldn't be sure about what he was up against until he had a look around.
Still several blocks away from where his aunt lived, Harry came to the conclusion that it would probably be best to appear as harmless as possible just in case. Which, unfortunately, meant approaching the warehouse as openly as possible. Part of him screamed about how stupid it was to be so open to attack, but he stopped that line of thought rather quickly.
Hermione had been given a quick introduction to the Quibbler employees between assignments before Luna had told her of her first job. It was rather simple bodyguard work. Protect an influential member of the United States Congress and his family during his stay in the UK.
Even if it wasn't that difficult, Hermione loved it. Being able to use her skills again was wonderful. Not to mention the fact that the Congressman was not being difficult like some people were when they had bodyguards.
It was rather nice working for the man. He had wanted a bodyguard to protect his family and occasionally himself. Apparently he was involved in some controversial legislation. He had specifically requested that Hermione look and act as normal as possible, preferably mistakable for a personal assistant.
Sam Guthrie was unsure of what to make of the person standing on their doorstep. The man was neither tall nor short with shaggy black hair that reached his shoulders in the sides and back. He wore bottle cap glasses, which almost hid the scar on his forehead and drew attention away from the scar on his cheek. The man appeared to be around the same age as him and his teammates.
"May Ah help y'?" said Sam
"I'm looking for Domino," said the man, a British accent obvious.
"An' why are y' lookin' for her?" asked Sam, not bothering to hide his suspicion.
"It's a private matter."
Ron winced at the answer one of his fellow students gave. Without a second thought he raised his hand. Why wasn't the professor pointing out the flaws in Kevin's plan.
After a long moment Ron was called on. "If you do that, you and your partner could be dead…"
Ron ignored the way they glared at him, the appraising look his professor gave. He outlined four different plans that would have worked better before he was stopped.
Harry sat on the chair, waiting patiently. He ignored the looks various members of the team, X-Force gave him, giving only monosyllabic answers to their questions. Not enough to be rude, but enough to make it clear that he did not appreciate their line of questioning.
Their leader, Guthrie, had gone somewhere into the warehouse to talk to Domino. The blonde-Tabitha-asked a question he couldn't answer in one word. It would be best not to lie, at least not yet.
"After I left Her Majesty's Royal Marines I started doing… odd jobs," said Harry.
He knew what he had implied, and what they could take from his statement. It could have been worse. But it wasn't that important. He had told the truth, sort of. As far as his Muggle records were concerned, Harry Potter had attended a military academy for six years. Before finishing school he had joined the Marines.
And during the war he and his friends had been members of the Magical equivalent of the Royal Marines, even if they got a rushed version of basic training. Several of the treaties between the Ministry of Magic and the Royal family meant that any military experience could be claimed as the Muggle equivalent.