Chapter Text
Hermione Granger, weathered knapsack over her shoulder, paused at the door and turned back to survey her flat. Morning sun filtered through the thin white curtains, casting the living room in a peaceful glow. The light flickered with the movement of the treetops outside. Pretty. It was not a large flat — only four rooms. But it was perfect for just her, and had been home since she got a job at the Ministry. After Hogwarts, after the war, she thought. The door opened into the tiny entryway, which was really just the front end of a short hallway. Living room to the right, kitchen to the left.
The living room, the best and largest. She had filled it with a deep, comfortable sofa, welcoming armchairs, jewel-toned wallpaper, photos of the people she loved on the mantle above the fireplace. And, of course, two full walls of shelves, laden and bowing with books, scrolls, and notes. Her galley kitchen, which never had enough counter space, held only a tiny table for two. One chair was permanently stacked with old Daily Prophets she meant to re-read. Past the kitchen was the door to the bathroom, designed for efficiency, not luxury — a shower stall, a loo, a sink, a mirror. And then straight ahead, at the end of the hallway, her bedroom, where she kept every stitch of clothing she owned in a small dresser and closet. She slept in a comfortable four poster dressed in white sheets, dense pillows, and a fluffy duvet. From it she liked to look out the window, watching the moon move across the sky.
Simple. Hermione took comfort in the knowledge that her bed was made and the floor was clear. She tidied everything — with a flick of her wand — every morning. Smiling at the orderly state of it all, she pulled the lapels of her jacket together and adjusted the pack. Satisfied, she stepped out and magically locked the door. Back soon.
She emerged from the building — only a few units, and hers was on the highest floor — onto the crowded London street. She turned and walked quickly, weaving in and out of Muggle throngs, on her way to Diagon Alley. She checked her watch, a miniature version of the Weasley family clock. Harry and Ron had given it to her after the war, when she was regularly suffering from nightmares about their safety and whereabouts. Harry’s dial was set to Traveling. Good. Ginny’s too. Of course. Ron’s was with Family. Which meant he was probably already at the Joke Shop, killing time before they all met. She sighed. It’s only awkward if we make it awkward. Those were his last words to her when they broke up, so she had to give him credit. He had whispered it as he hugged her tightly and said goodbye.
Their end had been mutual and inevitable. Hermione’s bad dreams and intense anxiety had plagued her for more than a year, rendering her increasingly unpleasant to be around. Ron, frustrated at his inability to help or soothe, had finally suggested some time apart. “To get our heads right.” But she knew what it meant — she should fix herself. In many ways he was right: she was stunted, trapped in the past, incapable of growth. She loved him but struggled to connect, emotionally or physically. Struggled, as in, she couldn’t. She let him kiss her, sometimes, and then turned away, wordlessly disassociating. Let him talk to her, at her, but told him virtually nothing about herself. So, he wanted space. She had imagined, briefly, that it would kill her — that it would hurt them both to be separated but still so present in each other’s lives and histories. But then Ron had promptly gotten drunk, ran into Parvati Patil, and reportedly took her back to his place for one night of wild sex. When he confessed it, teary and forlorn, Hermione had been numb. It hadn’t killed her at all. In fact, it was a little frightening how easily she had adjusted to the news, how quickly she had accepted that they were finished. Thereafter, she had fallen easily into being alone and making decisions with only herself in mind. The saddest part of it all had been how little she had missed him.
She arrived at the Leaky Cauldron, where she ducked her head and pulled her hair forward to try to hide her identity. Nothing she hated more than the occasional stranger who tried to speak to her about tragedies best left in the past. She passed through to the courtyard, tapped the brick three up and two across, and entered the Alley. It was packed with people running their morning errands. Children milled about, more than usual, some of them holding their parents' hands. Ah, right — school starts soon.
Her thoughts returned to the impending sight of Ron — probably because she’d been single for so long. Since — well, since him. Could things have ever been different? But she knew — no. That first year, after the breakup, she had nearly sent Parvati a Christmas present. In hindsight, their alcohol-fueled fling was the best thing that could have happened. It was simply the catalyst that ended things sooner than they otherwise would have. Hermione and Ron had several awkward years, sure, but the relationship had ebbed into respectful acquaintanceship. She might even say they now cared for each other. Only occasional weirdness. Like the time Hermione too had too much to drink and had been feeling so desperately lonely after a couple of bad dates that she leaned in and nearly kissed him.
“Wha— what are you doing?” Ron muttered, turning to look over his shoulder at the pub crowd behind them. “Hermione, we can’t.”
“I know,” she’d said, angry. Not at him, at herself. “I — I need to go.”
“Can I walk you home?” he offered.
But she’d left without answering. Absolutely not. That near-kiss had been the last action she’d gotten, over a year ago. It wasn’t that she was opposed to meeting a nice wizard. She’d simply realized she was not good at dating, with its casual, repetitive conversations and unwelcome surprises.
She recalled the time she’d gone out with a young man and ended the night in an alley around the corner of her building’s front door. It was after a pleasant-enough dinner. He’d talked too much about himself, but that was normal. So, she’d let him kiss her. Until she glanced up and saw a tattoo of a snake on the forearm he’d used to cage her against a brick wall.
“What is that?!” she’d screeched, breaking abruptly from his lips.
He followed her eyes to it, and laughed. Laughed. “This?” He pulled his sleeve up to show it off.
“Yes that — is it a Dark Mark?” Hermione was too horrified to think straight. That man had just been sloppily snogging her.
“It’s not,” he said sadly. “Just a tattoo we all got on a lads weekend in Tulum. It was a riot. Me friend Billy, he was so drunk he couldn’t hold still, so his doesn’t look like the rest of —“
Hermione rubbed her temples to clear her head. “Why would you get a snake tattoo on your left forearm? Don’t you know how it looks?”
“Yeah,” he had said, like she was stupid. “Dad’s best mate used to sell wine to one of the top Death Eaters. He could ‘ave joined them if he’d wanted to. They were real exclusive, but he had an in —” Then, apparently sensing he was losing the vibes, he leaned in to resume their kiss. Hermione put a hand on his chest and pushed him away.
“Don’t contact me again,” she’d said firmly, and turned and walked into her building, locking the door behind her.
That was the end of her foray into dating. One of these days I’ll try again, she told herself. She didn’t want to die alone, of course. She wanted to share her life with someone. For now she was content. Most of the time. And when she felt lonely she sent an owl to Harry, or Ginny, or Padma, or Neville. And, of course, she saw her parents with some regularity. Every so often they met somewhere for a Muggle vacation. They’d hiked in New Zealand the year before. It had been lovely, and exhausting, with all the questions about ‘why wasn’t she seeing anyone’? And ‘did she want to meet her mother’s coworker’s son’?
Mostly, Hermione was working. She was a Junior Minister in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and there was never an end to the projects or reports or investigations. She had a nice office, a variety of intelligent — if less dedicated — colleagues, and plenty of autonomy to do — well, things like this, she thought, as she arrived in front of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. She checked her watch again. All three hands were Shopping. Smiling, she walked through the door. They had gathered around the counter, bent over what appeared to be a fresh litter of Pygmy Puffs. Ron stood between Harry and Ginny, which was no surprise. Hermione felt a twinge of anxiety at the prospect of what they were about to do. It will be fine. We’re all adults.
“Hullo, you lot,” she called, and they turned and offered warm greetings, embracing her in turns. Each seemed relieved by her presence, but for different reasons. Ginny was glad she was there to serve as a buffer with Harry. Harry was glad she was there to serve as a buffer with Ginny. And Ron was glad she was there because it meant he could get on with his day and be relieved of navigating the awkwardness of Harry and Ginny.
“Harry, did you bring the supplies we discussed?” Hermione asked, pulling a sheaf of papers from her pocket and inspecting the one on top for the tenth time. They were each standing with their knapsacks, magicked with expansion charms so that they could travel light but carrying everything necessary.
She could feel, rather than see, his eyes roll. “Yes. Literally every conceivable ingredient we could need to catch this guy, stocked —” Harry patted his own bag — “safe in here.”
“This guy or this monster,” she corrected primly. “Ginny, you have the camping supplies?” That was a separate checklist, and Hermione pulled it out from behind the list of potentially-necessary potion ingredients.
Ginny flipped her hair over her shoulder. “And then some — I mentioned this trip to Dad and he really loaded me up. We have a tent, beds, cookware. And some kind of Muggle stove that they use to make their food outside. Thankfully, he managed to make it so small I hardly notice it.”
Hermione smiled at that. Reliable Mr. Weasley. “I love a good grilled steak. And I —” she examined a third slip of paper in her hand — “have a satisfactory collection of potential research material, depending on what we encounter.”
“I have no doubt you’ve shrunk down and packed a veritable library,” said Harry dryly. “Right. Shall we go?”
“Please,” Ron groaned. “I’m ready for you three to hurry up, stop whatever this thing is, and get back. There’s bad rumors floating around. I don't like it.”
Harry patted him on the shoulder reassuringly. “It’s just the last wannabe Death Eaters spreading lies, mate. Trust me, The Department is on top of it.”
“You mean the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” Ginny clarified snippily. “There are multiple departments. Yours isn’t the only one, nor the most important.”
Harry looked very much like he wanted to argue, but at one withering look from Hermione, changed his mind. Thank goodness. This will be awkward enough as it is. Ginny was in the Department of Magical Accidents And Catastrophes, which was why she had been selected for this trip in the first place. It had been her idea, in fact, to create their little “task force” a few days before, when The Prophet reported another strange attack.
Hermione remembered it clearly. Ginny had wandered into her office at the Ministry as she did many a morning, levitating two hot coffees alongside and floating them gently down onto the desk, while her nose was buried in the paper. “Have you seen this?”
Hermione had been examining a project of her own, a draft of a report on unusual dragon sightings over the North Sea. She glanced up at her friend as Ginny sat, swinging her legs over the arm of the chair. “You’ll have to be more specific.” She picked up one of the coffees and took a sip. “Mmm, I needed this. Thanks.”
Ginny reached without looking for her own coffee while she read. “There’s been another one of those unusual attacks in Yorkshire. The third one, if this news is correct. The victims weren’t visibly harmed, but are experiencing some kind of shock. Can’t eat or drink or talk.”
Hermione frowned. “That’s terrible. Are they in St. Mungo’s?”
“Uh huh.” Ginny read aloud. “Witnesses indicated that the victims, a pair of men in their twenties, were playing a Quidditch scrimmage on the moors outside of the village of Hutton-le-Hole in the evening of August 10th but failed to return home when expected. After a brief search their families located them, curled on their sides, their brooms a short distance away. Both were unable to respond to questions. A spokeswitch for St. Mungo’s Hospital, where the men have been admitted, declined to provide details, citing patient confidentiality. An observer, who requested to remain anonymous, confirmed that while the men’s conditions are stable, they have not improved.” She looked up at Hermione. “Isn’t that strange?”
“Yes, very.” She continued to sip her coffee, thinking. “Who were the victims in the prior attacks?”
Ginny read silently for a moment. “Ah, here it is. The symptoms mirror those of a Muggle mother of two who was found in her backyard in Hartoft on August 8 and has been in hospital ever since. Current status unknown. A Ministry insider stated that they received word of a Muggle couple from Levisham who were found in similar condition by fellow hikers sometime in late July, but the matter was not investigated at the time since it did not appear to be caused by something magical.”
At that they looked at each other. “Ministry insider?” they said in unison, and both laughed. “We both know who it was,” said Hermione.
“Fowler Kennilson, in my Department,” groaned Ginny. He is . . .”
“The worst,” finished Hermione. “Covering his tracks, more like, since he knows he should have looked into this and didn’t.”
“That means we’re up to five people,” said Ginny thoughtfully, turning her attention back to the paper. “But I can’t tell where further follow up belongs. If it’s an attack by a magical creature —”
Hermione pointed at her chest. “That would be me. Or could be some kind of spell gone wrong, lingering in the area? In which case —”
It was Ginny’s turn to point at herself. “My team. But if it’s some wizard gone evil —”
“Harry.” Hermione smiled gently but Ginny frowned.
“Perhaps this might be a good opportunity to . . . do some healing,” Hermione offered. “You know — a little project. You agreed you wanted to be friends.”
Ginny huffed. “We both know that’s impossible. And I haven’t met his conditions, so what’s the point in trying to spend time together?”
It had been years since they officially ended things again — for the best, they each insisted. Harry had suffered from a crisis of conscience that they were too serious, too young. What were they going to do, get married in their early twenties? No one did that anymore. Ginny had protested — they didn’t have to get married, it was enough for her to simply be together. And besides, after everything they’d been through it was the simple life she wanted anyway. But Harry had privately told Hermione that he couldn’t stand it — the idea that he was tying her down, chaining her to a man who seemed primed to be a life-long sufferer of bad dreams.
“You can work through that together,” Hermione gently suggested.
Harry had been insistent. “She needs to get out. See more of the world. Meet men who aren’t damaged and difficult. Men who aren’t me.”
Ginny had tried everything — crying, yelling, leaving Harry in peace and then showing up at his door to seduce him. But he’d resisted her at every turn, countering her with his own anger, his own silence, and then rejection. It had been terrible to witness, even on the periphery, and had meant a certain space among them for a time. With Ron and Hermione having their own struggles and finding separate paths forward, it meant that for several years — at a time when they all should have been reveling in peace and the future before them — they spent hardly any time all together.
But here was an opportunity in her office on a random weekday morning. “We should propose a task force,” Hermione had said briskly to Gin. “It makes sense. Harry as Auror, you for the Department of Magical Accidents, and me in case it’s a magical creature requiring collection and regulation. We go and find . . . whatever it is. If it’s just the three of us we can travel fast and light and make sure no one else gets hurt. Especially Muggles, who are likely to go and try to put their ‘Police’ on it and make everything worse.”
Ginny had pretended to baulk, but caved within minutes. “It might be nice for us to do something like this together — with you as chaperone. Hopefully it’s some kind of lingering dark magic and I can impress him with my ability to fix it. Leave him quivering with regrets.”
“Mmm hmm,” said Hermione, smiling to herself. It’s definitely a magical creature. But it would be good to have the help of her friends.
Now, they were there, ready to depart. They’d gathered at George’s shop due to its central location from their individual flats and proximity to the train station, where they would leave for Yorkshire. They hugged Ron goodbye in turn. Other than their respective bosses, he was the only one who knew they were going. “Our emergency contact,” Harry joked. “Make sure you’re watching for an owl in case we need backup.”
“More like if we all wind up stunned, lost on the moors,” said Ginny. “If you don’t hear from us, make sure the Ministry’s not forgotten our mission.”
“You’re both being dramatic." Hermione turned to Ron. "But do keep in touch. If we get this wrapped up by the weekend, perhaps you could come and meet us and we could all do a bit of camping.” Like old times.
Ron smiled and hugged her last — briefly, friendly. “That would be nice.”
Waving goodbye, she, Harry, and Ginny trooped out of the shop, the door bell tinkling. Somewhere at the back she heard George interrupt a conversation with a patron and call a “good luck.” They walked to the station, chatting about Ministry gossip. Hermione kept herself positioned in the middle.
When they were boarded and settling into their compartment, Hermione lowered the little table between them and pulled out several maps of Northern England.
Harry whined. “Can’t we wait to work until we get there? I’d hoped for a nap.”
Ginny raised her eyebrows. “Out late, were you?”
“No,” he said slowly. “Just didn’t sleep well.”
“Sharing a bed with someone restless can be distracting.” Ginny leaned over one of the maps and examined it with faux interest. Hermione busied herself with spreading out the largest scroll.
Harry shook his head, staring at the fall of red hair. “Come off it, Gin. You know I’m not sharing a bed with anyone.”
Ginny made a great show of unfolding another map. “I haven’t the foggiest idea with whom you’re sleeping. Nor,” she sniffed, “do I care.”
Harry turned to Hermione, his face earnest and frustrated. “Hermione, am I sleeping with someone?”
“I, um,” she glanced at him, and then at Ginny. Occupied herself with pushing an errant curl behind an ear. “I don’t know.”
He pursed his lips and glared at her. Traitor. Hermione shrugged. “Well, I’m not,” he said firmly. But Ginny didn’t appear to be paying attention, as she traced a finger over the lines of some river.
“Let’s discuss strategy,” Hermione interrupted. “I’ve triangulated the locations of the attacks to this general area.” She pointed at a spot in the middle of Yorkshire. “The Muggles have identified this land as protected ‘National Park.’ But of course, I cross-referenced with magical records.” She pulled out a different map, its surface weathered and ancient-looking, of wizarding world towns and landmarks. “What’s strange is, this area is definitely owned by someone, but I can’t tell who.”
That intrigued both Ginny and Harry, who bent their heads to see. Sure enough — there was a boundary that roughly aligned with the borders of the Muggle ‘Park,’ but no identification of the owner. Surrounding lands, albeit with much smaller areas, were each labeled with the name of some wizarding family. Hermione had recognized a few of the names, but not all. The ones she knew were old, pure-blood, elite, wealthy — very wealthy. Greengrass and Carrow. Tuttle and Khan. All their lands combined couldn’t compare to the unidentified plot.
“Perhaps it’s no one’s land in particular,” suggested Ginny. “I mean, if it’s special to the Muggles maybe it’s special to us too.”
“But wouldn’t we have heard of it?” asked Harry. “I mean of course I’ve heard of the National Park — and I’m sure you too, Hermione.” She nodded. “But I expect if a massive piece of land was some kind of destination for the wizarding public we would know.”
Hermione shook her head, pointing again to the borders on the old map. “Look though, all indications are that the land is owned by someone. If it’s a solid border, like this —” she pointed to a border around Carrow lands — “it’s owned. If it’s public, or shared, it’s got a dotted border.” She pointed to a wizarding village as example. “Where we’re going, it’s solid. Someone’s got to own it.”
“I suppose we’ll find out,” said Harry, leaning back into his seat. “Maybe we send some kind of message when we get there.”
“How?” scoffed Ginny. They stared at each other across the table. “Direct an owl to . . . find the closest castle?”
Harry's eyes narrowed. “No one said anything about a castle. Maybe whoever’s place this is doesn’t even live there. But we could ask around if we see anyone, try to get the scoop.”
“Sure, we’ll just walk up to the closest Muggle and ask. ‘Which witch owns the land on which you’re standing?’” Ginny snorted. “Shall you cast Obliviate or shall I?”
“I’ll cast it on both of you if you don’t stop this instant,” said Hermione abruptly, putting down the map. “It’s going to be a long couple of days together if you keep this up. This was supposed to be a mission to bring us together. To show we can still cooperate.” Her voice softened. “As we used to do.”
At that they both looked terribly guilty and turned away from their simmering tension. “Sorry,” Harry mumbled, and then so did Gin.
“Right. Thank you. Anyway — I agree it would have been best to contact whoever owns the area we’ll be on. Which is why I took the liberty of pulling the official Ministry land deed records for the entire area.” Hermione reached in her bag and pulled out a scroll of notes. “All these plots surrounding it, I confirmed. Greengrass, Tuttle, Carrow, Khan. But look — when you get to where this piece’s owner should be listed,” she pointed to a line of notes. “Redacted.”
Ginny peered over her shoulder. “Have you ever seen that before?”
“No. And I don’t know what it means, because these are the official ministry records for things like property taxes and boundary disputes. The owners, whoever they are, should have to be listed.”
Harry shrugged. “Maybe it was sold or something.”
“Well, I checked that too,” said Hermione, pulling yet another scroll of tidy notes from her knapsack. While she unrolled it, she missed Ginny and Harry’s exchanged glances. Their small smiles. “But here’s what’s odd. The area generally has very low ownership turnover. Which — I suppose is normal, as the land is likely quite valuable. A few though, here or there, have been sold — at least parcels of them, probably when the owners needed money. But this one,” she pointed again at the area in question, “has never been sold, according to known records. It’s been held by the same owner since . . . well, since the Ministry began keeping track. Centuries ago.”
Ginny frowned. “So it must be a family. Passing it down.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Hermione. She pulled out yet another scroll. “But the plot isn’t listed in any inheritance records, either. Normally when the owner dies, the heir will take on the property — but there are taxes required and signatures kept in the Ministry records. For this, nothing!” She was indignant.
“Probably just some cheat then,” said Harry. He yawned. “Maybe this trip will be a two-fer. We’ll catch whoever is running around stunning people, and then we’ll find the owner of the land and drag him in front of the Wizengamot for tax evasion.”
“Spoken like a true Auror,” said Ginny under her breath. She’d never approved of Harry’s chosen profession. Always insisted he would have been the best Defense Against the Dark Arts professor Hogwarts could have had. And, eventually, Headmaster. But Harry didn’t want the memories, he said, and told her, finally and firmly, to drop it and never speak of it again. That was shortly before they ended things. Thinking about it made Hermione very sad.
Before Harry could react to the dig, Hermione interjected. “Last scroll, I promise. But I checked that too.”
Ginny laughed. “Of course you did.”
“Well, there’s no sense in not being thorough,” said Hermione defensively. “And there are taxes being paid on it. Every year. Massive taxes.” She pointed at a number on the scroll. A number that made Harry’s eyes widen and Ginny’s mouth fall open. Hermione had done both when she’d first seen it. “Source of funds is listed as Redacted.”
“So what do we do?” asked Gin, when she recovered from the shock. “Can we be arrested for Trespassing on this rich git’s land?”
“No, we needn’t worry about that.” Hermione began to roll up the scrolls and fold the maps, tucking everything into her bag as she talked. “There are trespassing rules, of course, but we’re from the Ministry on an official mission to protect the population. So we’re exempt.”
“In court,” said Harry gruffly. “But are we a little worried about some mystery wizard —”
“Or witch,” said Ginny crossly.
Harry ignored her. “Appearing out of nowhere, leveling his wand at us and shooting first, asking questions later?”
“I suppose. A little,” conceded Hermione. “I don’t see a way around it though. I think we just . . . move as quickly as possible, find what we’re looking for, neutralize it, and get out of there.”
Harry and Ginny agreed, and they all relaxed into their seats. After a few minutes, Harry dozed off. Hermione opened a treatise she’d been reading. Ginny pulled out the Prophet and flipped through it. A comfortable silence reigned.
Until Ginny gasped.
“What’s wrong?” Harry asked instantly, opening his eyes and leaning forward. Hermione looked up from her book.
“Tunnels were found. At Azkaban,” Ginny said. “They think they’re for . . . smuggling.”
“Smuggling what?” Harry reached for it. “Give it here. Why haven’t I heard of this?”
Ginny handed it to him, face pale.
“Smuggling what?” repeated Hermione.
Harry’s eyes flew over the words, back and forth, back and forth. “Most of the tunnels were narrow enough that inspectors think they were for extra food and other small forbidden items.” That was cold comfort. Knives. Portkeys. Wands. “But,” he paused, and ran a hand over his forehead, “at least one tunnel might have been large enough for a person. All prisoners are currently accounted for.” He lowered the paper. “That’s good.”
Hermione shook her head. “All prisoners appear to be currently accounted for, they mean.”
“Yeah,” said Harry absently. He was looking past them, thinking. “Who knows who could have done a switch. Polyjuice, or a glamour.”
“Or who’s been Imperious-d into saying ‘all’s well,’” said Ginny softly. “Now that prisoners could have wands.”
The silence that fell then was decidedly less comfortable. “It will be okay,” said Harry finally, with confidence. “Aurors would have been notified if it was anything serious. It’s probably just Lucius Malfoy, mad that he’s getting slop instead of filet, paying some poor patsy to dig a hole and smuggle in snacks.”
“But . . . then why would one of the tunnels be large enough for —” began Hermione.
“I would have heard,” he said firmly. “We’re senior enough at work that at least one of us would have heard. Let’s focus on the mission at hand. Now, where did you say the train lets off?”
Hermione glanced at Ginny, who looked as worried as Hermione had ever seen her. So she followed Harry’s lead and focused on the days ahead. At which station they would arrive, how they would make their way to the moors, where they should begin the search. As the details came together Ginny relaxed and suggested ideas. She pulled out sandwiches and crisps when stomachs rumbled, and they all had a Butterbeer. Harry suggested a cheers to quick success and clinked Ginny’s glass first.
It was late when they disembarked in Yorkshire, and dark by the time they hiked to the starting point. When they arrived at the approximate boundary of the lands of the unknown owner, Hermione paid particular attention to whether she sensed wards of some kind, or heard alarms or warnings. But there had been nothing. Just the constant, gentle whistling of the winds over the hills, and a faraway call of a bird. She half expected some scary old hermit to emerge from behind a stone wall, yelling at them to “gerroff me lands” and shaking a wand in his fist, but they saw no one.
When they found a flat place to camp — where the only light came from the moon and the blanket of stars filling the sky — Harry pitched the tent. It was a decided upgrade from the one they’d used when chasing Horcruxes, Hermione noted. Ginny was busy trying, and failing, to set up the Muggle grill. Instead they had another round of cold sandwiches, with a promise of breakfast cooked fresh over a fire in the morning. Hermione, meanwhile, set ward after ward, obsessively checking the list of suggested spells she’d prepared in advance.
“Time for bed,” called Harry eventually, poking his head out of the tent. “Hermione, come in please. I promise you it’s safe.”
“Should one of us keep watch?” she asked anxiously.
“No.”
“But —”
“Come inside, Hermione.”
“What if —”
“You’re going to scare Ginny,” he said softly, stepping through the flap and closing it behind him. “She’s been frightened since the news about Azkaban.”
“Hence keeping watch,” whispered Hermione.
Harry set a hand on her shoulder. “We would have heard,” he said again, in what he probably meant as a comforting tone. Hermione looked at his familiar face. At the dark glasses, and hair over his forehead, and the barely visible lines that creased the corners of his eyes. At the determined set of his mouth, confident without reason.
“What if we didn’t? What if Dolores Umbridge, or Lucius Malfoy, or Antonin Dolohov are at this very moment —”
“They aren’t going to be out on this moor, Hermione!” He was irritated, and glanced back over his shoulder at the tent. Listening for Ginny.
Hermione shrugged off his hand. “Didn’t she go to bed?”
“Yes, but — I don’t want her to hear us. Or think that we’re worried.”
“We are worried.”
“I’m not,” he said. But Hermione could sense it — a hint of fear.
She shivered. “Should we send an owl to Kingsley?”
Harry thought about that for a moment. “Would it make you feel better?”
“Yes.”
“Alright. Next place we can get an owl out we’ll send a missive — ask if there’s anything we need to know. But in the meantime, trust that I'm familiar with several of the aurors who guard that prison. They’re good, smart, focused professionals. I’m sure they’re all over these tunnels. Probably already figured out who’s behind it and tacked a gajillion years onto their sentence. Nothing’s going to happen. The future is peace.”
She looked up at his face again, her eyes tracing the outline of his scar, and sighed deeply. “You should know better than anyone — peace is fragile. It doesn't happen by itself, and we’re only ever one bad man away from it being broken.”
“Then let’s hope if anyone’s gotten out of Azkaban, it’s Umbridge,” he said, smiling.
But it wasn’t funny, and Hermione ducked past him to go inside. “Goodnight, Harry.”
He followed her, sealing the tent flap behind them. She climbed into the middle bunk of the three — Harry took the top and Ginny was already tucked in on the bottom — and lay there for a long time before she fell asleep. She was imagining all the ways the Azkaban aurors could have missed something.