Disclaimer: You know the drill; I own basically nothing, not the world, not the people in it, not even the OC’s because they are all loosely or not so loosely based on Alias characters. As is the plot…

Chapter Five – Familiar Face

“Now,”

She flicked her wand, “Ab Cunctantis.” All activity in the rotunda slowed to a halt.

“You’ve got seven minutes, Seeker.”

“Start the clock,” she replied. She glanced around once more and paused; was that movement?

“Granger!”

She started and ran hurriedly up the carpeted stairs. She looked down onto the ballroom uneasily, but shrugged it off; Palmer would tell her if she was being followed. She walked swiftly along the balcony, counting the lamps. Three, four, five, six. That was the one, she tapped it. “Provatio Abstrudo.” The hidden doorway became visible. She adjusted her contacts; yes, the doorknob was protected with fingerprint recognition spells. No worry, she took off her necklace and used it to scan the knob for prints. A perfect set. This was what she loved about Wizards; they never expected anyone intelligent to rob them. After using the chameleon essence to transfer the prints to her fingers, she tried the door. Sparkles of light assaulted her vision. She silently blessed Ford as she took out her perfume bottle and sprayed it into the air. The revamped MPDD potion worked like a, well, charm, and cut off the Stealth Sensors at their source. She glanced behind her once more then made her way through the gloom to Vecchio’s desk. “Base-Camp, I’m at his desk, tell me what I’m looking for.”

“A scroll?” Palmer tried, “One of those ridiculous Muggle boxes?”

“Base-Camp, this guy is a Wizard, aren’t you supposed to know this?”A noise, like material scraping on a wall, made her look up guiltily and ready to lie her ass off. Darkness.
"Ok then, adjust your contacts and look for the blinding bundle of light,” Palmer instructed her in annoyance.

Hermione did so and looked around quickly, nothing, nothing- aah! “Got it,” she breathed. It was a cabinet, beautifully made if you were into carvings, and incredibly well-protected. Hermione concentrated on the intricate weave of spells covering the keyhole. She half-heartedly sprayed Ford’s perfume again. Nothing, these spells obviously weren’t like Stealth Sensors and didn’t have starting points to be blocked – wait a moment, they had to have starting points if they worked on the same principle as Stealth Sensors, and these were obviously suited to that purpose. “It’s an illusion,” she exclaimed, and banished it with a single wave of her wand. Confidently, she jabbed her wand at the keyhole. “Alohomora,” she commanded, and opened the drawer. Immediately the air was filled with inhuman shrieking. “Bugger.”

“Seeker, report your status! What happened?” Palmer yelled.

“I tripped an alarm,” Hermione yelled back, “I’ve got the scroll, activate the Portkey, I’ll be at the extraction point in five minutes.” She grabbed the scroll, slammed the drawer shut and whirled around only to find that a wand was being aimed at her head.

“Drop the wand and get on your knees.”

London - 36 Hours Earlier

“Ok, for the doorknob we have the necklace scanner and the chameleon essence, which you know how to use, plus the basics; contacts, ring of death,” all agents were required to wear a ring that injected a fatal potion into their bloodstream in the event of capture, “spells-in-a-bottle etc. Oh, here.” Ford handed her a perfume bottle. “No! No, don’t use it!” Hermione started, and obeyed him. “Whew, that’s the same potion as your last mission – I know, I know; disaster, but nothing’s going to go wrong this time because I tweaked it to target Stealth Sensors directly.” he smiled apologetically and Hermione dutifully smiled back. “And I think that’s it.” She got up and walked off. “Oh, but don’t forget to come back for the, for the charmed Galleons, for the slow time thing…” he called after her as she left Tech Services.

Palmer joined her as she walked to the coffee machine. “Sometimes I just don’t have the patience for that man,” she grumbled. “'Uh, uh, well, you know, for the, for the... slow time, thing…’” she imitated cruelly, grabbing a cup.

“Let me,” Palmer offered, not out of any gentlemanly conduct but rather that he was in love with the Muggle coffee machine. “Ford’s not so bad.”

“I didn’t say he was bad, I said I didn’t have the patience for him,” Hermione corrected. “No, you don’t put the coffee beans into the cup.”

“Ah, yes, I remember now.” Palmer’s face didn’t tell the same story.

“Here, let me.” She took the coffee bag from him and began to scoop the beans into the grinder.

“What’s the matter?” he asked over the noise of the grinder.

“What? Nothing’s the matter,” she replied in surprise, tamping the ground coffee down.

“Really?” Palmer asked sceptically. “You came in acting like you were under the influence of a Cheering Charm and now-"

“That scheming witch!” Hermione exclaimed, scattering coffeegrounds everywhere.

“Uhh, who now?” Palmer asked fearfully, watching Hermione viciously resume tamping the coffee.

“Cho, I had tea with her and I went to the bathroom and she must have put a Cheering Charm on my tea, because I started talking to her about Ro- things and then when I came in I was all… happy,” Hermione trailed off lamely, realizing that perhaps Cho hadn’t done any such thing. It seemed logical three seconds ago, she thought mournfully, pressing the two cup button.

Palmer frowned. “The Cho rubbish aside, why wouldn’t you be happy?”

She sighed. “Just… because.” Palmer raised his eyebrows. “War stuff, “she added reluctantly.

He nodded. “Sugar?”

She hadn’t even noticed that the coffee was ready. “One, thanks.” She followed him to an empty table and they sat in companionable silence. “I suppose you want more of an explanation than ‘war stuff’,” Hermione said after a while. It wasn’t a question.

“Actually, ‘war stuff’ is a perfectly legitimate excuse,” Palmer told her. “But if you want to give an explanation, then please.” he waved his hand in a when-you’re-ready motion.

She grimaced."You know Harry Potter, right?” Oh Merlin, she thought, horrified, I truly am an idiot.

Palmer made a face of mock concentration. “Harry… Potter... why, yes, I think I have heard of the fellow. Saviour of the Wizarding world, right?”

“Well, I went to school with him, I was his best friend actually.” Why was she telling him this? “You know what, forget that I said anything, just, forget it.”

He obeyed her for about three seconds. “So you went to Hogwarts.”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Compartmentalise, she instructed herself. She was normally very good at it; her NEWT scores had rested entirely on her ability to ignore the problems around her, but something about this particular memory, or rather, set of memories couldn’t be ignored.

“I always wanted to go there,” Palmer went on, “I was going to, actually, but then Mum died and Dad went back to America, dragging me with him.”

“You’re American?” Hermione asked in surprise.

“Me? No. Just Dad; he moved here for Mum.”

“But you lived in America.”

“Yes.”

“And went to school there.”

“Veneficus Libera – Independent Sorcerers.” Palmer grimaced. “Needless to say, I wasn’t the most welcome student.” Hermione smiled sympathetically. “Why you manipulative shrew,” Palmer exclaimed suddenly.

Hermione looked shocked. “Who, me?”

“Yes you, we started out talking about your problems and wound up discussing mine,” he leaned back and narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re good.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about,” she replied loftily.

“Oh, ok, that’s how it’s going to be,” he smiled wickedly. “More coffee?”

“Please.”

What followed was an impressive display of diversionary tactics and information-getting. Hermione managed to find out that Palmer’s middle name was Sanford, and that his first name was actually Jonathan, but that paled in comparison to the discovery that the Love Potion he brewed for his fourth year crush was instead taken by his Arithmancy Professor.

“How on earth did that happen?” Hermione shrieked.

Palmer’s face was completely red. “It was at a Halloween Dance, Professor Daniels had just chased out the flying pig and she was puffed, so she snatched the glass out of my hand-"

“Flying pig?”

“Shut up. Say did you ever have any dances at your school?”

Hermione, thanks to her euphoric state, let slip that after the Yule Ball, Parvati and Lavender had bought some Firewhisky off Fred and George and that their entire dorm got a tad tipsy on it.

“You? Drunk? That would have been a scar- I mean to say, an interesting sight,” snorted Palmer.

“Oh it was, we started singing ‘Oh, Harry you’re so fine’, with a dance routine mind you, and then I burst into tears and started wailing that Ron would never love me-“ Hermione’s face froze and her voice died in her throat. “Uh-" she coughed and her eyes filled with tears. “Sorry,” she whispered, blinking furiously. Palmer didn’t say a word, just stroked her hand comfortingly, until she was ready to speak again. “At Hogwarts, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were my best friends,” she began softly. “We did everything together, for the most part; Ron and I were always fighting. It wasn’t until fourth year that I realized why the all the stupid things he said hurt me so much.” She stared at her coffee cup. “It took him two more years to figure it out. I loved him.” She shifted to face Palmer. For some reason, it was very important that he understood. “After school finished, we went into Auror training. We were only two years into it when Voldemort attacked. They sent us out as a last resort.” She took a few deep breaths, forcing the memories to impersonal. “In the middle of the battle, Ron and I realized that Harry was missing, and I went after him.

“I don’t know what I was thinking, because Harry was meant for this, and I would only be in the way. Ron called me back but I didn’t listen. It was the last time I ever saw him that way.

“The Death Eaters had gone to regroup and they came back after I left. They surrounded everyone, and captured them. They forced him to surrender and they tortured him,” tears were running down her face again but she made no move to stop them, “I don’t know what they did to him, but they nearly killed him. I think they wanted him to live; they just broke him down for their own sick pleasure. They knew the end was near; it was Voldemort’s plan all along.

“I was cornered when it happened. It was like an explosion, but there were no flames. It knocked me unconscious and I woke up in a Hospital with Harry in the bed opposite me and Ron in the one beside me. Harry was fine, tired but physically well. Emotionally though,” her eyes glazed over, “He’s never been the same. I haven’t heard from him or seen him in… oh, a year.” She looked at Palmer and smiled bitterly. “Ron’s in St Mungo’s, he has the mental capacity of a two year old and the emotional range of a teaspoon.” Palmer frowned at her tone; it was almost mocking, but who exactly was the target? “I visited him today, and seeing him always makes me feel guilty.” Her eyes were bright. “So now you have your answer. Well done.”

“Hermione, it’s not your fault,” Palmer said in concern.

She smiled at him, the wise mother pitying the ignorant child.

“It isn’t!” he insisted and the mother lost her patience with the persistent toddler.

“I appreciate your concern, Palmer,” the use of his surname was like a slap in the face, “But it is misplaced.” Her tone was hard, her entire demeanour was hard. “You make me regret confiding in you.” She stood up sharply, jerking her hand from his grasp.

He stared incredulously; was this cold woman really the same as the warm, emotional, alive Hermione he had just had coffee with? “Forgive me, please,” he returned in a tone as cold as hers, “I didn’t know that telling the truth was a punishable offence.”

“Your opinion of truth was not asked for,” she spat. “See you in Florence.”

And she was gone.

Florence

The gold and ruby-coloured carriage drawn by a single white horse circled the length of thedriveway once and came to a stop before the carpeted entranceway. The footman, a wigged and liveried Palmer, hopped down to open the door for an extremely uncomfortable Hermione. She adjusted her gold and orange dress robes in irritation as the carriage door swung outwards. She glared at Palmer’s evil grin and immediately started berating him in Italian as he helped her alight. She dismissed him as soon as possible, tossing her now black curls in a gesture of annoyance. She then stalked imperiously towards the impassive butler.

“Nome?” he asked politely.

“Maria Russo,” she replied haughtily.

He checked his list and found her. “Abbia una buona sera, signorina.”

“Grazie,” she replied insincerely as she sauntered past him. Once she was out of earshot she whispered, “I’m in.”

“Son of a three-headed goat? A little harsh don’t you think, Herms?” Palmer hissed.

“I was in character,” she breathed in reply, smiling at the young couple who passed her.

“Kudos, now start spreading those galleons, and while you’re at it, just think; I already got to take off my costume.”

She almost snarled, which would have given a nasty fright to the waiter who had just given her a glass of champagne, so instead, she settled for calling Palmer a few more bad words in Italian.

“I can hear you, you know- oh! I’m sure that I could get you a cream for that.”

She rolled her eyes and dropped a charmed galleon inside a vase. The room couldn’t have been designed any better for her job; it was a round ballroom, with staircases leading up to a balcony that overlooked the lower floor, and a curved, dome roof. Even better, the space underneath the balcony was separated from the ballroom by a number of pillars, providing her with a perfect circumference for her spell.

She strolled around the ballroom, casually dropping coins at regular intervals, smiling as though she were having a fantastic time. There, the last galleon had been placed. Now for the hard part. She gazed around the room, there we are. She caught the young wizard’s attention with a quick Infatuation Charm. He left his friends without a word and came over to her, walking like a man in a dream.

“Posso avere questo ballo?” he asked blissfully. She winced; she may have been a little heavy-handed with that charm.

“Certamente e con piacere,” she replied with a smile. He led them to the centre of the dance floor as the instruments began a waltz. As they danced, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. She looked around for the source, hoping that her dance partner wouldn’t fly into a jealous rage. There, in the shadows by the drapes. Her partner whirled her around and when she looked again, there was no one there. Was it her imagination? She was uneasy until the dance ended. As the clapped the musicians, she smiled again at her partner, “Esso era ballare bello con voi. Ha potuto voi scusarlo? Devo andare spolverizzare il mio naso,” She indicated her bag, “Grazie,” and she walked off, dropping a sickle in the process.

“Base-Camp, the coins are in place,” she whispered. “Ready?”

“Ready when you are Seeker.”

“Now.”

He watched from behind a pillar as everything inside the ballroom stopped. He whistled silently; she was good. Not good enough, though; he had spotted her as soon as she walked through the door. Of course, he wasn’t expecting the black curly hair and definitely not the risqué orange robes, if they could be called that; Witch fashion had started resembling Muggle dresses of late.

Cautiously, he glanced around the pillar to see if she was upstairs yet – no, and she was looking his way. Calm. Breathe. He waited until he heard her mutter the spell, and then a while longer before he moved. She hadn’t bothered to close the door behind her. He smirked; she hadn’t changed.

Vecchio’s private office was very conveniently designed for sneaking up on unsuspecting spies; the main office came after a short L-shaped corridor. A corridor that should have been latticed with Stealth Sensors. He looked closely at the walls. Amazing, simply amazing; she had blocked them off at the source. He inched carefully along the corridor, trying to get close enough to see her. His robes caught on the sandstone wall and came free with a rasp. He winced at the sound. Seconds of agonizing silence, then “Got it,” So she had backup. Or schizophrenia. He decided to give the Mudblood some credit and go with the backup scenario. While he was deciding this, Hermione was cancelling the illusion and proceeding to open the drawer. At the sound of wood scraping wood, he moved, walking hurriedly around the desk and levelling his wand at the back of her head, a sneer in place.

It was a shock when the banshee wails filled the air; he had expected her to be perfectly informed, to do everything perfectly. Oh well, it didn’t make any difference to him. She turned and he smiled cruelly at the look of complete shock on her face.

“Drop the wand and get on your knees,” he commanded.

“Malfoy!” she spat the name at him.

“Yes. It’s lovely to see you too, Mudblood. Drop your wand.”

She made no move to obey. He sighed and aimed his wand at the scroll in her hand. “Drop the wand,” he repeated, “I would hate for you to have to tell your bosses that you were responsible for the destruction of a priceless antique.” Her expression of hatred did not change at all as she let the wand fall from her hand. “Good, now, on your knees, hands… on your neck. We wouldn’t want to ruin your hair when you’ve finally gotten it under control after all these years.” His voice taunted her, brought back schoolgirl memories long forgotten. Childish laughter seemed to block out the banshees wails, laughing, laughing at her. She brought her shaking hands to her neck.

“Good,” his voice, patronising, cut through the memory. She wasn’t a little girl any more and the memories couldn’t hurt her. “Now, face on the ground.” Hermione glared, as if it weren’t enough to have caught her, he had to play puppet master with her.

“What, no ‘left foot, green’?” she inquired acidly, as she moved to obey.

“You’re spouting nonsense, Mudblood, I may have to Silence you.”

“Seeker, report status,” Palmer’s voice sounded tinny. Maybe it was the earful of carpet.

“Thankyou, dearest Hermione, for making my job easier,” Malfoy was pontificating. “And for being so amenable to my desires – that’s a lovely neckline, by the way. No doubt you’re thinking that you can just steal it back later.” He was waggling the scroll she had relinquished in the air.

“Seeker, report.” I can’t you fool, she replied in her head, Idiot.

“Unfortunately for you, I will be keeping this in an extremely safe place.” Oh be quiet.

“Seeker, you have two minutes to restore the party to normal before they notice anything.” Palmer and Malfoy were working in perfect harmony to make sure she couldn’t have a moment in which to think.

Thankfully, Malfoy was done; “Until we meet again, which I am sure we will.” And he was gone with a pop.

“SEEKER!” Palmer practically screeched as she jumped to her feet.

“Base-Camp, I’m going back to the ballroom.”

“Hermione! What happened, did you get the scroll?”

“Negative,” she gasped as she jogged along the balcony. “I’ll be at the emergency extraction point.”

“Copy that,” Palmer sighed. He hit the wall of the carriage. “Let’s go!”

Hermione trotted down the stairs as fast as she could, wand in hand, at the bottom of the stairs aimed for the sickle in the middle of the floor, “Corrumpo!” It exploded in a rush of light and she ran, the party behind her returning to normal speed. Surprisingly, no one came after her. Perhaps Malfoy had taken care of the guards. Only bloody thing he’s good for, she thought murderously, slowing to a walk as she approached the butler. Come on Palmer, she thought desperately, and there he was, the carriage whirling around the fountain at breakneck speed. She smiled, and ran to it as the butler called, “Spero che abbiate avuti una sera divertente!”

“Meraviglioso giusto,” she called back as Palmer slammed the carriage door shut and the driver whipped the horses into a gallop. “Well,” she remarked to the empty seat opposite her, “That went well.”

A/N: Mammoth chapter! For me, anyway, this is the longest chapter ever written, for any of my works. I hope you enjoyed, since I slaved until 12:30 in the morning to get this mostly done, or at least back around to the beginning. Then it was another afternoon’s work to get the rest done.

The Italian conversations – courtesy of Google translator – are translated as follows:

With the butler

“Nome?” – Name?

“Abbia una buona sera, signorina,” – Have a good evening, Miss,

“Grazie,” - Thankyou

With the young wizard

“Posso avere questo ballo?” – May I have this dance?

“Certamente e con piacere,” – Certainly and with pleasure

“Esso era ballare bello con voi. Ha potuto voi scusarlo? Devo andare spolverizzare il mio naso. Grazie,” – It was lovely, dancing with you. Could you excuse me? I have to go powder my nose, Thankyou.

With the butler

“Spero che abbiate avuti una sera divertente!” – I hope you had an enjoyable evening

“Meraviglioso giusto,” – Just marvellous

To the Readers:

Lolly O’Neill: All in good time my friend, all in good time. (Read: I have no idea). Oh, I attempt the Marshall, but I think that I fail miserably.

: Harry will come into the story later on. Never fear!

Everyone Else and the ones mentioned earlier: Thankyou, your kind words bring a tear to my eye and my fingers to the keyboard. Read, enjoy, review!

Extra Note: Despite the appearance of Draco, this is NOT, I repeat, NOT a Draco/Hermione story. Their relationship, for the moment, is like that of Sark and Sydney on Alias, Sarkney speculation aside. I feel it necessary to clarify this as I searched the words ‘Hermione' and 'Spy' and discovered a ridiculous number of R-rated D/Hr romances. Sorry to disappoint fluff fans but romance will not be a major player in this story.