Golem

Chapter 12

By Lillith Janvier

Disclaimer: The characters are Rowling’s. The plot is mine. No money is being made. This is all in good fun.

The sunny Prague morning had brought the city’s populace out and about to enjoy the first bright warmth of the week. Shops brimmed to the eaves with customers, and the cafés did a brisk business whilst Prague’s citizens relaxed with their cups of coffee and morning pastries. The woman who trudged up Karlova Ulice, however, did not notice. Hand scrubbing at her face, Hermione cursed all manner of books, booksellers, and libraries. For the last several days, she had tried to track down the mysterious bookseller Alain Brieux’s letter had mentioned. Between visits to bookstores and antiques dealers, she had camped out in the Klimentium ordering up book after book on Prague’s history. Neither the temptation of arriving early for her appointment at the Klimentium, nor the tendrils of old magic leaking from Kepler’s residence at number 184, could pull Hermione from her current quest—a cup of coffee.

Hermione crossed Malé námestí to the café just across from the old town hall with its astrological clock. As she sat down, the clock’s skeleton overturned its hourglass to start the death knell of the prior hour. Hermione relaxed and watched the clock’s ritual.

“Dobré ráno,” the waiter greeted her.

“Dobré ráno, káva prosím,” replied Hermione.

“Very good, your Czech is improving,” complimented the waiter.

“Dekuji, Vasi,” Hermione answered. At Vasi’s grin, she continued, “But we’ve reached my limits.”

“Then it is good that I know you?” He placed a small pot of strong coffee next to a cup and saucer and poured a cup of the aromatic beverage while another waiter set out bread, butter, and jam. Hermione gave him a tired smile, and with a sigh set to eating her breakfast.

She could have eaten breakfast at her hotel, but she liked to allow the sleepless visions of the previous night to disperse while watching the rituals of the main square. Hermione lifted her cup and inhaled the warm nutty aroma of the coffee while the clock finished chiming the hour.

Last night had been particularly bad. Lucius’s shade had visited her. His smooth, taunting voice had refused to be silenced even though consciousness had faded from her brain. The nutty flavor of the coffee rolling on her tongue didn’t cut the taste of his mouth on hers. The warmth of the Prague sun didn’t banish the cool touch of Lucius’s hand sliding down her waist. Shuddering, she swallowed against the bile rising in the back of her throat.

“You really should have left word with a more reliable messaging service.” That same drawl of her memory sounded outside her head, to the left, just behind her.

Hermione froze, slipped her useless but comforting wand from her jacket sleeve, and then slowly turned to face a person she was certain was dead.

Sunlight haloed the dark figure. It moved to pull out the chair next to her and sat down. He raised his arm, signaled Vasi, and ordered coffee and pastries identical to her breakfast.

“So are you going to poke my eye out?” Draco picked up his coffee. “I hope not, because I only have one, and I’d like to keep it.”

Hermione stared at him, open-mouthed.

“Could you pass the jam?” he asked. “And shut your mouth Granger, you’ll be catching flies. I hope you have something really good to tell me. Ginny was ready to have you put away.”

“I left word with Eddie, and I‘m certain he told Hubert,” Hermione replied. She slipped her wand back up into her sleeve.

Draco nodded.

“Ah yes, the ever reliable Mr. Finn, who conveniently left town to attend a conference the morning after your disappearance. As for Hubert, his need to know list is very short -- himself.”

“I’m sorry, Draco,” Hermione said. “I thought Eddie would take care of things.”

“It seems to me, Hermione, that if we are going to make this partnership work, you will need to stop relying on other people to straighten out your messes. Ginny was out of her head with worry. She had no idea where you’d gone.”

“You know, I never asked to join this investigation. I was perfectly happy where I was,” replied Hermione.

Draco stared her down.

“What?” She glared at his impassive face. “It’s true.”

“No, it is not,” he replied. He waved away the hovering waiter who was listening to every word. “This isn’t the person who gave Marietta Edgecombe pustules, or who led Umbridge to be pummeled by the centaurs,” he paused and stared at her before continuing, “or who killed Lucius Malfoy by skinning him alive.”

Hermione flinched, before answering, “Maybe I’ve grown up.”

“Or grown away. I know what happened in the dungeon. I was there in the house, remember? I can’t begin to know, however, what it was like to have to kill your best friend to save another, but I do know that the Weasel,” Hermione scowled at this. “wouldn’t want you to be moping about. I know it wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right, and you have every right to be angry. Life, however, goes on, and we’ve got several murders to solve.”

Hermione didn’t know whether to punch him or hug him. Draco grinned at her expression of confused anger.

“Why on earth does she keep you around?” she finally asked.

“My good looks and charm,” he replied. “The analysis is extra.”

Hermione stuck her tongue out at him. “Put it on my tab.”

“According to my solicitor, your ‘tab’ is turning into a costly investment. He advises me to reconsider. Would you care to plead your cause? Will this investment return some profit?”

“I thought Ginny was going to send me back to filing – give the book to someone else. Yes, I know that doesn’t go with my earlier statement about not wanting to be here, but damn it, it’s my book. I found it.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “For the record, she wasn’t going to re-assign you to filing. She wanted it kept under lock and key. It’s become a very prized item. Where is it, by the way?”

Hermione was about to answer when a guttural voice called out, “Dragon!”

Instantly Draco changed, picking up a studied insolence. His expression bored, he beckoned a stocky bald man, accompanied by a shorter, rough-hewn man with craggy features. Both wore black jeans and leather jackets. The shorter man stood behind his bald companion, and Hermione couldn’t see his eyes, but her cheek stung where it had been hit in Paris. She winced at the pain and looked away, hoping that no one had seen.

“Sergei,” Draco drawled. “Right on time. I like punctuality in a man.” He held out a languid hand for Sergei, the bald man, to shake.

“’Ope you don’t mind, but I brought Ilya along.” Sergei jerked his head indicating his companion. “The boss wanted two of us to check you out.”

“I understand perfectly.” Draco waved away the false concern. “I trust our plans are still in place.”

“Well, you see, that’s what we came to talk to you about,” replied Sergei. He pulled out the chair in front of Hermione, sat down, and stared at her.

“Don’t mind her. She forgets everything she’s ever heard. Don’t you, love?” Draco slanted a look at Hermione.

“Drackie, darling, you promised we’d go shopping for jewelry,” Hermione’s voice sing-songed, and her face assumed, what she hoped, was a vapid expression.

Draco patted her check and laid a cool kiss on her lips. “I haven’t forgotten. We’ll go after I talk to these men.”

Surprised by the kiss, an involuntary shudder shook her. Swallowing hard, she whispered, “Okay.”

Draco looked at her curiously, but she smiled brightly and leaned back to listen to his arrangements to meet the two men, Sergei and Illya, and their unnamed boss tonight at some club by the castle.

“I trust my companion can accompany me?” he asked.

“S’okay,” Sergei replied.

“Excellent.” Draco rose and shook hands with Sergei. Illya kept his hands in the pockets of his coat.

He sat back down to find Hermione staring at him.

“You really should learn to attend meetings,” he said.

“How? Who?” She stuttered. “You just got here!”

“Actually, I’ve been here for a week,” he replied. “Which brings me to the next question, where have you been? I’ve tried all manner of location charms and you have not been in Prague.”

“Magic doesn’t work here,” replied Hermione. “Haven’t you seen the shadows or ghosts or what have you?”

“I have. What are they?”

“I’m not sure,” she replied. “But I think they have something to do with the weirdness.” Hermione looked at her watch. “I have to go. I have an appointment at the library.”

“Of course you do,” he said. Draco stood and dropped some bills and coins on the table. “Lead the way.”

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” started Hermione.

“We’re partners, Granger,” he emphasized. “I’ve been told I’m good at research.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Well, if you’re sure, I wouldn’t want to keep you from your friends.”

“Jealous, Granger? They didn’t seem your type?”

“You are impossible, you know that don’t you?” She fumed, knowing he wouldn’t tell her until she asked a direct question. She wasn’t in the mood to play their little game and decided to ignore the two men. Casting her mind back, she realized they must have something to do with the Death Eater rumors Ginny had mentioned the night she ran away. “Surely not!” She said in disbelief, in spite of herself. “They can’t be Death Eaters?! They’re Muggles.”

Draco grinned and offered her his arm. Hermione sighed, realizing she couldn’t win, and took his arm to lead him across the large square towards the black towers of the Tyn Church.

“The library’s the other way, but there’s something I want to show you.”

“And what might that be?” he asked.

“You’ll have to tell me,” she replied.

They walked across the square and into Parízská, as they headed north towards the river, the frenetic activity of the square stopped and silence and shadows descended. Every now and then a crackle of energy would brush across their skin or raise the hair of their arms.

“What is this place?” Draco asked.

“It’s what used to be the main street of the Josefov, the old Wizarding quarter,” replied Hermione.

“Does it always feel like this?”

“Like what?”

“Granger, now’s not the time for games,” he growled.

“I wasn’t being smart, Malfoy, I was asking for your opinion about how this place feels. For the past week, I’ve been wandering through this neighborhood and the magic and ghosts seem more distinct.”

Draco stopped and pulled his wand from his sleeve. He looked skittish as the squat concrete building in front of them faded to reveal an alley lined with stone and wooden buildings. People in colorful robes strolled along the street and into the buildings.

“What is that?” he asked.

“I was hoping you’d have an idea,” remarked Hermione.

“It looks like Diagon Alley, have you been down there?”

“Yes, but all I get is the interior of the building. It’s an office.”

“We don’t have time now, do we?”

Hermione looked at her watch. “No, we need to get going. The library’s some blocks away. I took us the long way around hoping you’d know something about the weirdness.”

“Never seen anything like it, Are we going this way?” Draco steered them away from the fading image of the old street. “Is this why the locator spell I was casting failed?”

“I honestly don’t know, “ she replied. “I’ve tried simple summoning charms and they don’t work either. I thought it was me.”

“It’s not just you, Granger. It’s this city. I’m feeling weird waves from that street back there. Like I’m being watched.”

“I know,” said Hermione. “It’s like something knows we’re here.”

“It could be the magic we’ve cast.” They had turned off Paíizská and onto one of the side streets.

“Are you sure you know where you’re going?” Draco asked after the fourth turn.

“Yes,” replied Hermione. “The Klimentium is down here on the corner.” They had finally turned onto Krizovicka. “Just across from the bridge.”

“That’s the library, right?”

‘Yes.” She laughed. “It’s the Muggle National library and where the wizarding collection was kept before the Goblin invasion. Afterwards, you’ll have to explain our date tonight.”

Draco smirked. “I’m just a popular fellow. And, you’d know what was going on if you had stayed to attend the meeting.”

Hermione winced. “You couldn’t resist, could you?”

“Nope,” he said and grinned.

Hermione sighed. She supposed she’d have to pay some in chagrin. After all, she had run out. They turned into the courtyard. “We go in over here.” She pointed to the left. “I have an appointment with the special collections librarian. He controls access to the rare books.”

“Ah.”

“You didn’t have to come.”

“Yes, I did.”

They turned into a hallway with a dreary grey lino floor and cracked plaster. At the end of the hallway and passing by two glass doors leading to the modern collections, Hermione lead Draco down a flight of stairs to a surly looking man with thin hair, wearing thick glasses and thread-bare tweeds.

“Prosim?” he demanded of the duo.

“I have an appointment with Mister Leowe, at 10:30,” replied Hermione.

“And him?”

“I’m her research assistant,” Draco charmed. He held out a hand, which was ignored.

“I see.” The tone of the gate-keeper’s voice relayed that he found Draco’s presence exceedingly irregular. He glared at Hermione, who shrugged. “Wait here.” He pointed to two chairs. “I’ll see if he’s ready for you.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said.

They watched the receptionist slip through two wooden doors to the left of his desk.

“You certainly know how to pick them, Granger,” Draco drawled. “Who is this guy?”

“He’s supposed to give me access to the historical and rare books collection.” Hermione squirmed on the uncomfortable plastic chair. “I’ve read hints that some of the lost library survived. I’ve also checked around the castle, the Hrad, and seen a few hints of its continued existence.”

“What are you hoping to find out? I thought you’d found what you needed in the other book,” he remarked.

“There’s a gap of about 5 years in all the histories I’ve read. It’s as if Prague ceased to exist. I’m hoping the books in the historical section will fill in the gaps.”

Before Draco could comment further, the receptionist came back to the waiting area.

“If you’ll follow me,” he said and pushed one of the doors open. “Don’t dawdle, Doctor Loewe is a very busy man.”

“Well then, let’s not keep him waiting,” replied Draco. He ushered Hermione after the receptionist.

They followed the little man down a dark paneled hallway, the floors tiled in brilliant blue. He paused before a door.

“This is his office. You can wait in here,” he opened the door. “Do not touch anything.”

“We won’t,” Hermione reassured him. “Thank you.”

Draco nodded and followed her into the office.

“So, I guess we wait,” she said. Draco shrugged and started to pace around the office.

Hermione sat in one of the gilt armchairs in front of the massive Rococo desk. She had thought the office was in the basement, but two windows to the left of the desk showed the Vlatava river and the shore on the opposite side. Sunshine illuminated walls made of glass-fronted bookshelves filled with all shape and size of leather-bound volumes. A table to the right of the desk was stacked-over with scrolls and parchment. Her eyes wandered idly over the shelves with titles that would have set Eddie drooling. Up on the third shelf, she thought she saw an original John Dee and next to that a Paracelsus. The books provided such a distraction to Hermione’s tired brain that she did not hear the door to the office open.

A quietly spoken word caused her wand to sail out from her sleeve to follow Draco’s wand from the pocket of his coat.

Draco swore before another quiet word sent him flying against the shelves to hang by his arms, held by invisible shackles. Hermione felt the same unseen shackles circle her wrists and ankles to anchor her to her chair.

“You both reek of Dark magic,” the voice was heavily accented.

The man who entered the office was of medium height and build. His expression was pleasant and benign. One eye was clouded while the other was a clear hazel. Round silver spectacles sat at the end of his nose.

He studied each of them in turn. A wave of his hand silenced Draco’s profanity and Hermione’s protests. He moved behind his desk and settled his heavy navy blue robes about his person before turning his uncanny gaze to Hermione.

He stared at her for several minutes.

“Surely, you did not think you could simply waltz in and gain the information you desired?” he asked in a smooth cultured voice. “And you,” he pointed to Draco, “I have seen you before, but with two eyes.” He stared mockingly at Draco. “What happened? Did you displease your Dark Lord with your failure?”

He returned his attention to Hermione.

“But I do not know you,” he said. “Thought they could distract me with a pretty face did they?” He leered at Hermione. “Still you are much better looking than that Bellatrix woman.”

Hermione tried to struggle against the bonds holding her to the chair, but they held fast. She shook her head in denial, but the person behind the desk shuffled some papers.

“My secretary said your name is Granger,” the man said. “I don’t suppose you’d mind if I verify that now, would you?” He smiled.

Hermione’s eyes widened as the man behind the desk pierced her with a fierce gaze. She tried to look away but felt compelled to stare into that one clear eye.

The man stared directly into Hermione’s eyes and spoke an incomprehensible word that echoed in her skull as she felt the push inside her mind. Her brain had turned into a deck of cards and the intruder was shuffling the images, looking for the magic card to tell him…

What? What do you want? I’m not… Hermione thought.

The images of her life flashed across the movie screen of her mind. She saw the flash of Snape’s robes aflame, the partial triumph of the polyjuice potion, followed by the glowing yellow of reflected eyes, the cold stillness of petrification. More images flipped by, faster, the adrenaline rush of defeating Dolores Umbridge, the cheer of the final year, the uneasiness of Auror training, but wanting to follow her friends. Then the colors and lights slowed. Her brain cowered, knowing what was ahead.

She saw the argument with Ron. He’d known she didn’t have the heart for Auror work. He’d known she hid her insecurities in increasingly ruthless and risky behavior. She broke Death Eaters in interrogations with the same magic they were fighting against. They had argued before that last mission. He’d wanted to wait for more information before charging into their last raid, but she’d insisted. There had been rumors of certain people attending, people they’d been after for quite a while—Malfoy, Avery, Nott. Ron had finally agreed, and they had been captured.

The images crawled malevolently across her brain. She felt the helplessness, the guilt, the rage at herself.

She saw Avery’s fists, and Nott’s boots; then, worst of all--Malfoy. No, wait; he had wanted her to call him Lucius.

“Yes, love, no need to stand on ceremony.” His cultured voice slid over her abused senses. “I’m not at all like those brutes. There’s no need to be uncivilized.”

He healed her bruises and broken bones. The cell’s stonewalls transformed into a lavish boudoir. The hard straw mat turned into a soft bed.

“Yes, love, you give me what I want and your friend will go free,” he purred. A long fingered hand petted and stroked along her shoulder, down her arm. “Yes, you like that don’t you?”

She nodded. She was so tired of being hit and kicked and taunted and molested. She felt the exhaustion and lack of food weigh down on her senses. Her mind screamed that he was tricking her, using her.

“Are you thirsty?” he asked. He handed her a goblet. “You need not be concerned, I haven’t drugged it. It’s only water. Drink it slowly,” he’d cautioned when she started to gulp the liquid. “You don’t want to get sick. Now then, I suppose you’ll want a bath?”

Hermione was confused. What’s happening? Her brow furrowed.

“I…I,” she stuttered.

“Truly, pet, you’ll feel better after a bath,” he cajoled.

She was even more confused.

“But Ron?”

“We’ll discuss Mr. Weasley later.” He waved her question away. “After your bath.” He pointed to a door beyond the bed. “Go on now. You’ll find everything you need.”

The images shifted, and Hermione felt a crushing pressure in her chest and on her shoulders.

A hand, his hand, Lucius’s hand slid over her shoulder. His lips nipped her neck, and she gasped.

Hermione’s wrists were cut from trying to free herself. Grunts and moans accompanied her struggles.

Two bodies on the bed, the shadows from the fire danced across pale skin. Feminine moans and sighs mingled with rain tapping at the window. The moans increased in tempo and intensity. The man started a chant, the Latin providing counter-point to the woman’s guttural syllables. A sickly yellow light bathed the twined bodies on the bed; the glow’s radiance soon obscured the scene.

The image switched and she saw the great hall and Ron Weasley and the knife and the blood that sprayed her face.

NO!

The shame, powerlessness, and rage rose up to choke her psyche and she shoved. A blinding pain erupted in her brain. The man behind the desk toppled over backwards, hitting his head. At the same time, the shackles holding Draco Malfoy disappeared, dropping him to the floor in a crumpled heap.

Hermione tried to stand to get to Draco, but her mind sank into the comforting darkness and her body fell to the floor.

Hermione opened her eyes to see dark wood beams against a white washed ceiling. She lay on a large poster bed covered by a patchwork quilt. Peeking under the covers, she saw that someone had dressed her in a white cotton nightgown. Looking around the room, she spied a wardrobe, a washstand, and her satchel on a chair. Judging from the light streaming in through the window, the time appeared to be mid-morning.

Hermione sat up slowly. The ache in her brain spiked. The memories rushed back to combine with the dizzy pain forcing her to lie back down.

She whimpered and curled up in the bed, the memories of the library and those of the war folded in on each other. The tears ran down her cheeks and she tried to muffle her ragged sobs in the pillows. Beating the pillow in frustration, she didn’t hear the door creak open.

“Oh, my dear,” a feminine voice swept down on her huddled form, and strong arms swept her into an embrace. “I am so very sorry, so very sorry. He had absolutely no right, none at all.”

Hermione buried her face into the embrace. Her sobs died down to sniffles, and then a few hitched sighs. Finally, she calmed down and raised her head to look into a kindly face surrounded by short silver curls.

“Who? What?” Hermione sniffed and pulled herself out of the embrace.

The woman dug a handkerchief out of the pocket of her long red skirt. “I think you need this and then this.” She held out a cup. “I’m certain your head must be pounding.”

Hermione wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “Thank you, I’m Hermione Granger.” She took the cup and sniffed.

“Yes, I know,” the woman replied. “Your friend, Draco, told me. I’m Marjeta Loewe. I’ve put a dress and robes in the wardrobe. Your friend has gone to fetch your things from that Muggle hotel. Your wand is in your bag over there.” Marjeta moved over to the fireplace. “Incendio.” She lit the wood. “It’s a bit chilly today.” She turned back to the bed. “You’ll be wanting a bath, no doubt.” She waved her wand and an old-fashioned tub of steaming water appeared before the now lit fireplace. “Take your time. When you’re ready come downstairs for breakfast.” And with that flurry of activity, the woman exited the room.

Hermione sat on the bed and stared dazedly at the door.

Who was that? She scrubbed at her face and looked at the tub. The steam rose gently, tempting her with its warmth and soothing scent of lemon verbena.

After the bath, Hermione, dressed in the borrowed dress and robes, stood on the landing looking down on a large, light-filled kitchen. The scene was strange, transparent figures stood at a table. They were chopping plants and grinding beetle carcasses. Each person had a cauldron. The air shimmered and the transparent figures winked out of sight. Hermione felt cold.

At the noise of a door opening below, warmth returned to the stair landing. Hermione blinked and saw Draco enter and greet the woman who had provided the bath and clothes.

“Ah, there you are, dear,” said the older woman. “Were you able to get her things?”

“I did,” he replied. “Is she awake?”

“Yes, she should be coming down shortly.” The woman looked up to where Hermione was standing. “Misha will want to speak with her.”

“No!” Draco exclaimed. “He’s not to go near her again.”

“Draco,” the woman began. “He’s…”

“Absolutely not!”

“He’s truly sorry, and wants to help.”

“He can help by staying away.”

“Perhaps you should let her decide for herself.” The woman looked up to Hermione’s perch again. “Perhaps she should come down and have something to eat,” she called up to the landing.

Hermione cringed, but stepped out into the light and started down the stairs.

“It’s good to see you up, my dear,” the woman greeted Hermione. “I’ve got coffee and bread here for you. And Draco has fetched your things.”

“Um…thanks…” Hermione started.

“Marjeta Loewe,” answered the woman. “You’ve been unconscious for the better part of two days.”

“Two days?!”

“Yes, Granger, two days,” mocked Draco. Hermione turned and had her first look at him. Her eyes widened at the black robes and dark green brocade waistcoat. She slowly took in the polished short boots and horridly familiar walking stick. His hair was unbound and around his shoulders. She shoved down the bile that rose to her throat and focused on the eye patch, the taut lines of his face until finally seeing the mischief in the one uncovered eye. “Yes, it’s the full regalia. Wasted on you, I’m sure. It seems to be wasted on my wife as well.”

Hermione snorted. “Ginny is a sensible woman. You’re prancing like a peacock.”

“Ah, good,” Draco said and sat himself down in the chair across from her. “What did I tell you, Marjeta, dear? She’s the same old Granger.”

“That may well be true, but Misha had no business doing what he did.” Marjeta Loewe set a steaming mug of coffee down in front of Hermione. “It’s good you’re up now. This one,” she pointed at Draco, “was ready to hang my no-good husband. Even though I think he deserves your anger. I am hoping you’ll be able to help us.”

Hermione took a sip of coffee and relished the warm nutty flavor that flowed over her tongue. “Your husband? Help you?”

“You know him, Granger,” Draco said.

Hermione looked puzzled.

“Two days ago, the library, I was attached to the wall, and you….”

“Bloody hell!” Hermione jumped up from the table. “He…you…he!”

“Please, Miss Granger,” Marjeta tried to calm her, but made the mistake of reaching out for her.

“No!” Hermione wrenched herself from the woman’s grasp. “Don’t touch me! Nobody touches me! “ She turned from the table and ran toward a door in the opposite wall.

“Well,” said Draco with a sigh. “I suppose I’ll have to go after her…after a cup of coffee. She needs time to think.”

Outside, Hermione marched out of the ample front yard quilted with garden plots. Throwing open the latched gate, she proceeded out to the cobbled street. She stumbled on the cobblestones while remembered images and sensations assaulted her mind and body. The cultured malignant tones of Lucius slithered into her eardrums. His endearments pulled the acid from her stomach to scorch her throat. Seeing neither passers-by whispering to themselves nor the quaint shops, she plowed steadily ahead through the populous that had been drawn out into the sunshine.

“Ouch!”

She had walked right into the waist-high stonewall surrounding a cemetery. Rubbing her sore hipbone, Hermione took in her surroundings. The cemetery was old, the tilted and sinking stones above the graves smoothed by the wind and rain and sun. Inscriptions in a mixture of Latin, Hebrew, Cyrillic, and Greek were etched into the grey surfaces. She recognized an alchemical symbol here and an arithmantic equation there. A chill ran through her when her vision stuttered and a couple of tourists walked past her, through the wall, and into the cemetery.

A high street, not unlike Diagon Alley, was superimposed on the transparent images of Communist era concrete apartment buildings. Hermione blinked again and modern Prague disappeared. She was back at the stonewall staring across the cobbled street at a busy Apothecary shop. The grumbling in her stomach brought her attention to the café on the opposite corner. She walked over and was about to turn away, realizing she had no money when a waiter addressed her.

“You must be an apprentice,” remarked a man in an apron. “I had no idea she was teaching again. Madame Marjeta drove you out already, eh? She’s a stern task mistress, no doubt.”

“What? I’m sorry?”

“I recognized the uniform.” He gestured at the red dress with the grey robes. “That’s her uniform.”

“Oh.”

“What’d you do? Chop the gillyweed too small?” He led Hermione over to a table in the sun. He waved a hand at a brazier next to the table. ”It’s warm, but there’s still a chill in the breeze. Have you had breakfast?”

Dazed, Hermione shook her head no.

“You sit right there and enjoy the sunshine.” He pulled out a chair. “I’ll get you a nice meal and you can tell Kolya all about it.”

Hermione sat. The sun shone down on her shoulders, the warmth easing the tense muscles. Curious, she took in the shop across the street that seemed to be doing a brisk business in cauldrons. Hermione could not hear what was being said, but the shopkeeper seemed to be defending his wares from a hag who was waving her arms in emphasis.

“That’d be old Lady Zahradnik. She ruins more cauldrons each spring. Every year it’s the same; she makes her tonic, and melts at least three. Then she comes and complains to Bedrich. It’s a game they play.” All this was said while Kolya set a plate of smoked salmon, salami, cream cheese, dark bread and a bowl of hard-boiled eggs in front of Hermione. “You need a good breakfast. You’re too thin.”

Hermione thanked him and began to eat.

“So what’d you do?” he asked, pouring some coffee for both of them.

“It’s a long story,” Hermione replied around a mouth of egg.

“It usually is. ”

Hermione nodded.

“Well, stay with it. She’s demanding, but she’s one of the best Potions Mistresses around. Or are you studying with Misha? He’s the best for charms. Come to think of it, you’re also rather old, but I guess it’s never too late to learn, eh?”

Hermione didn’t have a chance to answer as the café’s tables had started to fill and Kolya was needed to direct the traffic and order his young assistant about. Her hunger sated, she sat back to enjoy another cup of strong, dark coffee. Lady Zahradnik and the shopkeeper had completed their ritual argument. Next to the café, a clerk was setting out newly arrived copies of newspapers. Further down the street, Hermione saw a blonde head examining the passersby and the shops. Hermione watched his arrogant face scowl when she was not present in the bookstore. She smirked and almost burst into laughter when he planted his cane, a dragon’s headed ebony stick, and sneered at the clerk’s inquiry of aide.

“Looking for someone?” she called.

“Really, Granger, this is becoming an exceedingly bad habit.” The drawl was supercilious.

“Do stop aping, and come have a cup of coffee.”

“It’s the least you can offer,” he said and strolled over to her table.

“Do you need anything else?” Hermione waved to Kolya. “Kolya makes an excellent breakfast.’

“Does he now?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry, Draco.”

“Hmmmm.”

“I was surprised, and…” she paused.

Draco raised an eyebrow, but didn’t look directly at Hermione.

“I didn’t want you to know…”

“Know what, Granger?” He poured a measure of warm milk and dark coffee into his cup. “There’s nothing new about my father that you could tell me.”

“I…I…”

“Although, there is one thing I would like to know,” he drawled.

Hermione looked at her partner.

“Why you never killed me?”

“But why would you think I would?”

He shrugged and looked away. “Everyone else wanted to.”

“Ginny would have been…” she said. “Well, you know how she gets.”

Draco’s lips turned up. “Yes, she does have a temper.”

“Truly Draco, if you’re feeling maudlin, it was your eyes,” said Hermione.

He looked quite shocked, and Hermione giggled. He turned and stared at Hermione in amazement.

“Even though you’ve only got one, it’s full of life. Your father’s eyes were dead.”

Emotions passed in rapid succession over Draco’s face. His hand grasped convulsively at his cup, moved to his cane, before resting on the arm of the chair.

“But don’t tell anyone I said that,” said Hermione.

“Your secret is safe with me.” He turned his attention back to his cup and the street scene.

Hermione grinned, but then frowned upon catching sight of two men that had just slid through the graveyard wall.

“Draco?”

“Yes?”

“Aren’t those the two…gentlemen we met two days ago?”

“Where?”

“Down there, by the cemetery wall.” Hermione jerked her head in that direction. “They’re coming out of the gate.”

“Excellent eye, you really are an Auror,” he said. “It’s not just a vicious rumor.”

“Not funny, Malfoy. Who are they?”

“That, Granger, is the question,” he answered.

“But I thought you had an appointment with them.”

“I did, but I had an unfortunate encounter with a bookcase and your anger,” he replied. “That was some trick, Granger. How’d you do it?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I’ve never been very good at resisting the Imperius curse or Leglimency. All I remember was I didn’t want my memories tossed aside like some kind of trash. I sort of pushed and knocked him over.”

“You should get that checked out,” Draco said. “Who’s this now?” His coffee cup indicated the two thick men who had now been met by one other man.

Hermione looked at the newcomer, an older gentleman who carried himself stiffly, as if moving pained him. The shortest man looked over toward where they were sitting. Unconsciously, Hermione’s hand rose to her cheek and she dropped her gaze.

“I don’t know about the older one,” she said. “But my cheek is hurting again, like the other morning.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m fairly certain that the shortest of the bunch was with the group that attacked Severus and me in Paris,” she said. “We were on the way back to his flat and we were waylaid. The short one hit me. I’d know that shuffling gait anywhere.”

“What did he want?”

“He kept repeating ‘the book’,” replied Hermione. “That was the day of Robert Valais’s disappearance.”

“There is no Valais, except for the one you met at dinner with Ginny and me.”

“So you’ve said,” she replied.

“So who’s the old guy?”

“That I don’t know.”

“How odd!” Hermione exclaimed.

She and Draco watched the three men stroll down the street, seeming to participate in the activities on the street. However, as the two Aurors watched the solidity of the high street’s buildings faded to transparency and the trio of men disappeared into the interior of a harshly lit office building.

“What was that?” asked Hermione. “Why did they disappear? And how?”

“I don’t know,” replied Draco. “Have you tried any summoning or other charms lately?”

“No, why?”

Well, since we’ve been visiting Misha, my ability to perform magic seems to be back.”

“Accio water,” Hermione commanded. The water pitcher settled in front of her from its stand. “You’re right.”

“Misha would like to talk to you about the library trick, and the books.”

“No, no, no, and no.” Hermione sat back and crossed her arms defensively over her chest. “I don’t want to go anywhere near him.”

“Hermione, listen.” He held up a hand, “No, I mean it. He’s very sorry. He mistook me for Lucius, and…”

“How did you father end up in Prague?” Hermione interrupted.

“From what Misha told me after he woke up with a large knot on his head…”

“Serves him right.”

“Yes, well, won’t argue with you there, but he was visited several times by my father. The Dark Lord was trying to get the books you have decoded.”

“I see,” said Hermione. “I suppose Voldemort used the de Crillon Grimoire when he didn’t get the books.”

“Yes.”

Draco signaled to Kolya for the bill. Once he settled the account, he stood and waited for Hermione to rise also. She briefly considered ignoring him, but realized that the imperious pureblood attitude was impossible to resist.

“I don’t have a choice, do I?”

The brow above the patched eye rose.

“Thought not.” Hermione rose and tucked her hand in the crook of Draco’s elbow.

Misha’s study mirrored his library office. The cheery blaze in the fireplace bounced shadows and reflections off similar glass-fronted bookshelves. Hermione sat in the wing-backed chair before the lit fireplace, beside her Marjeta had set a tea service.

“Let it steep for a bit,” she advised. “Misha will be here in a few minutes. He wanted to pick up some books from the library. He’s very sorry, my dear, and don’t think that I didn’t give him a piece of my mind, of all the stupid things to do.” she grumbled before leaving. “I do hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive him.”

Hermione gave her a nod and sighed. She sat watching the fire dance, before pouring herself a cup of the smoky, dark tea. The warm tannic liquid hit her tongue and a quiet comfort crept into her nerves. Wondering what charm had been laid into the liquid, Hermione peered curiously into the cup before leaving her chair to scan the books on the shelves. She recognized a few of the titles, but unknown others left her itching to settle at the large desk and start reading. She had moved halfway around the room when the door opened and closed with a click. She turned to look at the room’s new occupant.

She was not certain of her expectations, but this short, pudgy balding man with the one watery hazel eye and one milky clouded one, an abashed expression did not come close to her thoughts. Her brow furrowed. Surely this unassuming man had not torn through her mind. Her memory was of…of what, she couldn’t say for certain, but this person was not it.

“Miss Granger.” His voice was subtly accented. “I am Misha Loewe. Will you sit down?” He gestured to the two chairs.

Hermione nodded and returned to her chair.

Relief settled on the man’s face and he sat in the chair across from her.

“May I refresh your cup?” he asked, picking up the pot.

Hermione held out her cup. “What?” her voice cracked, “What charm is in the tea?”

The man looked sharply at her. “It’s a calming charm that’s been laced into a Lapsang Souchong that Marjeta has specially developed.”

“It’s very good.”

“Thank you,” Misah replied. “I invented the charm process. Lacing a charm into a potion is very involved,” he gestured with his cup, “so to speak.”

Hermione settled deeper into the soft cushions of the chair.

“I really do appreciate your seeing me.” Misha set his cup on the table. “Young Lord Malfoy was rather dead set against it.”

“Lord?” Hermione asked. “He’s taken up the title?” she hooted. “Oh boy, wait ‘til Ginny hears this.”

The “title” had been a long-time joke about the Department. Draco had done some research into the Malfoy family when the Ministry had threatened to take all his assets at the end of the war. He’d found a tenuous link to a Muggle lord of something or other that somehow, no one was really certain how, had allowed him to retain ownership of some of the Malfoy property. Draco dragged the “title” out for various purposes, usually when dealing with easily impressed purebloods. Ginny hated it and the act that went with it.

“In his defense, I believe he’s attempting to contact some easily impressed people.”

Hermione’s lips twitched.

“As much as I am entertained by discussing your partner’s delusions of grandeur, we do have other matters between us.”

Hermione inclined her head and the smile left her face.

“My dear, I suppose I should call the elephant what it is. I do, most humbly, apologize for the invasion of your mind and privacy. I can only plead the fears and fancies of an old man, which in no way excuses what I did. However, I was very surprised by your escort’s appearance.”

Hermione sat and thought for a moment. She looked over at her companion who was watching the flames in the grate. He seemed to be allowing her to process what he had said before continuing their conversation.

“You thought Draco was his father, didn’t you?”

“Yes, they are of a likeness, except the younger Malfoy is missing an eye.”

“His father did that,” Hermione said.

Misha grunted.

“You saw what he did to me.”

Misha’s eyes closed, and he sighed and nodded. “I can only apologize again.”

Hermione sat and said nothing.

“I would, however, if you don’t mind, discuss your friend, the one who died,” Misha said. He reached for one of the chocolate biscuits on the plate next to the teapot on the table.

“You mean the one I killed,” replied Hermione.

Misha took off his round spectacles and stared calmly at Hermione.

“Yes,” he said. “The one you killed. The young man who was your friend and who died by your hand. You slit his throat because you had no other choice, am I correct?”

“Yes,” Hermione whispered. Tears were starting to track down her face.

“Tell me, Hermione, why did you kill him?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” she replied. “He would have killed Harry.” She had curled herself into the chair, hugging her arms around herself, her legs tucked underneath her. Her forgotten teacup sat on the table cooling.

“Why didn’t you have a choice?”

“If Ron had killed Harry, he and Voldemort would have been joined in Ron’s body,” she explained. “Voldemort’s body was failing. He thought he could kill Harry and absorb his magic at the same time.”

“Why did you have to kill Ron?”

“They made the potion from my fear and blood,” she said. “Why are you asking me all this? You saw it all! Why ask me about it?”

“Perhaps you should have some more tea?”

“No, no more tea,” she brushed aside Misha’s attempts at soothing her. “Who are you? And why did you invade my mind? You thought we were here to get something, didn’t you?”

She stood up and started pacing.

“You are correct in your earlier assertion,” Misha said. “I did mistake the young Lord for his infamous father. And I knew of the monster in your memories.”

“Voldemort tried to get the formula for the golem, didn’t he?”

“He was unsuccessful.”

“Which is why he turned to the potion in the de Crillon Grimoire,” she said, thinking out loud.

“Oh, you know the Duchesse? How is Marianne? Or has the title passed on to Ghislaine now?”

Hermione was startled. Who were those people?

“I’m sorry, but the Duchesse de Crillon’s name is Avice,” she said.

“Avice? The youngest? I have been out of touch,” he murmured. “But no matter, so it was the de Crillon potion that I saw? How did he get his hands on that formula? Fabienne gave assurances that she’d safeguard that formula. What happened?”

“I don’t really know,” replied Hermione. “You’d have to ask Avice or Severus.”

“Snape?” the man spat. “No, I’d sooner deal with Malfoy Senior.”

“He is Avice’s nephew,” Hermione remarked.

“He is? Humph. How did that happen?”

“What’s the problem?” Hermione asked, ignoring Misha’s blunt rudeness. “Let me guess, Lucius Malfoy didn’t come alone.”

“You guess correctly.”

“What does all this have to do with me?”

“Therein lies a tale, Hermione. May I call you Hermione?”

She nodded.

“Still, you have not accepted my apology,” Misha said. “I really do apologize for my extreme reaction, but young Draco’s appearance was quite startling.”

“Yes, well, he’s used to that sort of reaction, but he is truly not his father,”

Misha continued steadily to regard her, his eyes repeating his voiced question.

Hermione sighed. “Yes, I accept your apology. I suppose I have to. I almost killed a dressmaker in Paris because he looked and sounded like Lucius Malfoy.”

“I imagine that must have been very disturbing,” Misha commented.

“It was.”

“And quite explosive, if you reacted to him like you did to me.”

Hermione shrugged.

“Would you like some more tea?”

“Did I accept your apology because of the charm in the tea?” she asked.

“Excellent question,” replied Misha with a smile. “What do you think?”

Hermione sat back down in her chair and absently munched on a chocolate biscuit while analyzing her emotions. She felt calm. She tried reviewing what had happened in the library. She went further back and allowed the memories of Lucius and Ron’s death surface. She felt the powerlessness, but not the shame. Her throat closed against the memory of Ron’s shocked gaze. She allowed herself to miss him. She waited for the gut-wrenching guilt; it didn’t come. Maybe Avice was right, maybe there was grace. Or maybe it was the charm. At any rate, Hermione was willing to accept the stability she felt. She glanced over at her companion who was flipping through a book while he waited out her introspection.

“Something’s happened, but I don’t think it was the tea,” she said, still not sure why she trusted this nondescript little man.

“I am very glad you feel better,” he said. “It’s been very difficult for you, I know.”

“Why were you so interested in Ron’s death?” Hermione asked, returning to their previous discussion.

“Because I am hoping you’ll be able to help me,” Misha replied. “You see, some books of mine have gone missing, and I think I have an entity like what was done to your Ron on my hands.”

“You’re Alain Brieux’s Misha, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.”

“You could have saved yourself and us a good amount of trouble if you’d just identified yourself,” said Hermione.

“True, but I had the problem of not knowing who you were. I am limited in my ability to move around in the Muggle world, and as you’ve no doubt noticed, the Wizarding world of Prague suffers from a lack of permanence.”

“I was wondering about that. When I was out this morning, the Muggle apartments appeared right over the Wizarding shops and cafés. Neither seems to notice the other.”

“Yes, that is significant problem and I believe a sign that another golem has been created.”

Hermione thought about what she had read the week previously.

“Prague has been drained of magic, hasn’t it?” she asked.

“I think so,” he replied. “How do you know that?”

Hermione cursed her tendency to show off. Misha’s clear gaze regarded her with patient inquiry. She saw he was prepared to wait her out.

Draco is going to kill me. Maybe I should have stayed in research.

“Perhaps I can fill in the answer you seem so reluctant to provide?” he asked and chuckled. “I’m really quite surprised you broke the code. It’s quite difficult.”

Hermione grimaced.

“Where are the books?”

“Upstairs, in my bag,” replied Hermione.

“At least they aren’t back at the Muggle hotel,” he said. “So you know what happened then?”

“As much as the diary said,” replied Hermione. “I was relieved to know that I wasn’t crazy in thinking that five years had been magically erased from the history books.”

“No, not crazy at all, that was a particularly difficult charm,” Misha said.

“What I don’t understand is, how, if the code is so difficult, another golem was made?” Hermione asked.

“Because the formula and ritual as detailed in those books aren’t the only way to make a creature like the one you’ve named,” Misha said. “I’m sure Marjeta told you that I had to retrieve some other volumes from the library?”

Hermione nodded and focused on the small stack of black-bound volumes on the side table next to Misha.

“These diaries detail how the other version of the golem is made.” Misha put his hand on the stack. “They are the diaries of one Thaddeus Valaisus. I think you should read them before we talk any further.”

Misha picked up the books he had brought with him.

“It’s time I added the missing history from your research,” he said. He led Hermione over to the large table functioning as a desk. “Have a seat, my dear.” He put the books in the middle of the large table, and sat on the opposite side. “You’ll want to start with these brown volumes. They’re the diaries I mentioned. The others discuss the theory behind the creation of the golem. And, finally, here’s the book by Eliazar of Worms, who was the first to believe that magic could be manipulated to create life.”

Hermione, entranced by the treasure placed in front of her, reached for the first of the brown volumes.

“I’ll leave you to your work, then,” Misha said and chuckled at her distracted nod. He waved the tea tray over to the desk before leaving the room.

Later that evening, Draco came into the study to find Hermione bent over the red-bound volume of Eliazar’s theories.

“Merlin, Granger, have you been here all day?” he asked, and poked at the stack of books now marked with scraps of parchment. “What’s with all this?”

Hermione looked up, blinking blindly. “What? What you want?” she asked.

“I said, have you been here all day?”

“Yes, well, these books are fascinating,” Hermione answered and bent her head back to the diary she was reading.

“I hate to tear you away, but I need you to help be the action part of the pair,” Draco drawled and drew the book away from her.

“Hey! Give that back!”

“We have a date. You’ll need to wear something slinky,” Draco said. He held the book out of her reach. He flipped though the text. “How can you read this? You don’t read Greek.”

“Haven’t you heard of a translation charms? Give it back.”

“Nope,” replied Draco. “I need you to back me up tonight.”

“Draco, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I mean, I’m still not steady in the magic department,” Hermione said.

“Don’t worry, Granger,” Draco replied. “I’ll take care of the magic. I need you for a second pair of eyes and ears. You just have to sit there look pretty and observe everything. I’m going to be busy playing the swotty pureblood.”

“Hmmm, that shouldn’t be too much of a stretch for you.”

“You think?”

“You’re lucky your wife doesn’t know you’re using the title,” Hermione said.

Draco grimaced. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep quiet about that. Although, Ginny would say we should use any methods necessary. I presume your afternoon was productive?”

“I suppose you want me to tell you instead of making you read the books,” replied Hermione. She had a smug expression on her face.

“I think that would be an even trade, given that I spent the afternoon rubbing shoulders with the magical elite of Prague.” He yawned. “Dead boring they were, and completely oblivious. If these murders have anything to do with Prague, the Wizard population isn’t involved. No one knew anything about a library or stolen books. In fact,” he slumped into one of the chairs in front of the fire, “it seems like they have no idea of the Muggle world at all. And they all think Misha is a lunatic.”

“I’m not surprised they don’t recognize the Muggle world, they haven’t seen it in a very long time,” replied Hermione. “From the books I’ve been reading this morning and afternoon, Maharal and Thaddeus drove this city’s Wizarding world away from the Muggle world. I haven’t quite figured out how. It has something to do with the power that was used to destroy the first golem and strip Thaddeus of his magic. I’ve only read half way through the diaries.”

“You don’t say,” Draco said.

Hermione scowled at him.

“Yes, well, as fascinating as that is,” Draco continued, waving away Hermione’s huff of exasperation. “I’m more of an action person and I have a lead on who’s been buying books along with some rather dark potions ingredients. You might be interested to know his name is Thaddeus.”

“You’re joking,” Hermione replied. “There’re a lot of them running around. Ingredients?”

“Yes, you know,” he said. “Or maybe you don’t. You missed that meeting, didn’t you?”

The scowl returned to Hermione’s face.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you your face would freeze if you kept that up?”

“Malfoy, you are not funny.”

“Au contraire, Granger, Ginny finds me quite amusing,” he countered.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Oh please, pretty please, won’t you tell me about the potions ingredients and the man named Thaddeus?” she said and batted her eyelashes.

“Well now, Granger, since you ask so nicely,” replied her partner. He sat up straighter in his chair. “About the time of the last murder, Madam Pince’s brother,” Hermione nodded at his glance toward her. “Severus received a message from one of his contacts. Someone was searching for some particular ingredients.”

“I take it these ingredients were of the human variety? And the person’s name was Thaddeus?” asked Hermione.

“Yes. Do I need to go into detail?”

“No, no, I can guess,” replied Hermione. “He wanted various organs and fresh blood from a victim of a particularly gruesome curse. He wants to finish the golem.”

“Got it in one, Granger. Maybe those books are useful after all.” Draco poked at a stack in front of Hermione.

“And?” Hermione prompted.

“Ah, yes, well, the ingredients requests were traced through various channels to Prague, so here I am,” he replied. “I am trafficking on my father’s reputation, and meeting with the prospective buyer this evening. I am hoping you will accompany me and act as an extra pair of eyes and ears.”

“Am I an arm decoration, or am I your associate?”

“Arm decor, I think,” answered Draco. “They’ll never suspect someone as gorgeous as you has a brain,” he drawled.

Hermione stuck her tongue out at him.

“See, you prove my point exactly. Avice sent along your armoire so you should be good to go for a costume.”

“How nice of her,” Hermione said, sure she’d have some explaining to do there. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a club up by the Hrad,” he said. “This person may say he’s pureblood, but he is quite entangled in Muggle affairs. I had our contact with the Yard make some inquiries through Interpol. This Thaddeus owns several clubs throughout Europe. The authorities think he uses the money to buy and sell narcotics, but they can’t prove anything.”

“Potions ingredients of the sort he wants cost money.”

“That they do,” Draco replied. “As with our friend in the library, my father’s reputation precedes me.”

“I see,” Hermione said and looked him straight in the face. Draco’s grey eye was flat with no expression. “I’m sorry.”

He nodded and turned away. His next words were in the familiar drawling tone, “Wear something slinky tonight. We want to play up the Death Easter mystique. Can you do that?”

“Whatever you need,” replied Hermione. “What time? About 11 this evening?”

“Yes, that sounds good,” he said. “We’ll make an entrance.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Hermione. Grinning, she continued, “My Lord Malfoy.”

“I get no respect,” he said and left the room.

Hermione went back to her books until Marjeta insisted she eat some dinner and have a nap before she was to go out with Draco.

“You’ll need your strength,” Marjeta said as she chased Hermione up the stairs to her room.

A few hours later, Hermione stood before her wardrobe debating with Rochelle about the boots.

“No, don’t listen to me, hon,” said the wardrobe. “Who am I? I’m just a piece of furniture. No one bothers to tell me what going on or where they’re going.” If it was possible for a wardrobe to sulk, Rochelle sulked.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione apologized for what must have been the twentieth time. “But the boots are too high in the heel. I may have to run or something.”

“Aren’t there charms to make them more comfortable?” asked Rochelle. “You’re going for a look, darlin’, you don’t want to ruin it.”

“Oh, all right,” Hermione finally acquiesced. Honestly, she really did love the way the suede hugged her legs and the boots gave her added height and an air of seduction that would be perfect for the character she was playing tonight. She added some heavier make-up, lining her eyes with black and painting her lips a dark red. She took a look at her hair. If the shuffling behemoth was the same creature she had encountered in Paris, she needed to change her hair.

Hermione waved her wand, and her hair turned a silver blonde color.

“Not with your dark eyes,” was Rochelle’s comment.

“You’re right,” said Hermione and grimaced at her reflection with the dark-lined eyes and pale hair. She waved her wand again.

The red was a possibility, but then she shook her head no. Too weird when her partner was Draco.

She waved her wand again—raven’s black. “Oooh, very goth,” said Rochelle. “You’ll blend right in, especially if you straighten it.”

Hermione nodded and waved the wand around her head for a final time. Her scalp tingled as her hair straightened itself to her waist.

“I think that’ll do it,” she said.

“Oh yes,” replied Rochelle. “You’ll knock their socks off, darlin’.”

Her wand went into the side of her right thigh-high boot. A knife went into the side of the left, and she was ready.

A knock sounded on her door.

“Come in,” she called.

“You ready, Granger?” asked Draco.

Hermione turned to where Draco, leaning indolently against the jam, presented an image of the perfect aristocratic wizard. The plain walls of Hermione’s room faded and she saw Lucius stroll toward her, his eyes sliding insolently over her form.

“Oh yes, you’ll most definitely do, my dear.” His voice oozed into her ears and brain. He twirled his index finger, indicating she should turn. Fear warred with disgust and clashed with unwilling attraction, while Hermione obeyed the signal. She forced her arms to remain at her sides. As her back rotated toward her captor, she felt a cool finger run the line of her shoulder.

“Oh, don’t!” she breathed and cringed. Her vision swam and finally focused on the black patch covering the socket where Draco’s eye should have been.

Lucius did that, she thought and frowned.

“You all right then, Granger?” Draco asked. “You looked like you were…” His statement dropped off when he saw Hermione shudder. “We will need to work on your loving expression.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I thought these flashbacks had passed.”

“You haven’t been sleeping, have you?”

“No.”

“And there was the episode yesterday.”

Hermione nodded.

“Maybe I should go alone?”

“No! I’ll be fine, really.” She turned resolutely to the door. “Let’s go.”

“Interesting look,” was his only comment as he offered her his arm.

Marjeta and Misha wished them luck as they left the house and walked toward the cemetery.

“Misha explained that the cemetery is the link to the Muggle side,” Draco explained. He led Hermione through the old stones. “We’re looking for…ah, here it is.”

Hermione followed Draco to where he had stopped. The ancient headstone was etched with a combination of Latin and strange mathematical symbols.

“Let’s see,” he said and took out a piece of paper. “Misha made me write it down.”

He turned the paper this way and that whilst tapping on the headstone first on a letter then a symbol. “He told me it would work.” He looked around. “We’re supposed to be in the lobby of a hotel.”

They were still in the cemetery. Draco turned the paper upside down and tried again, still no hotel lobby.

“Oh, give me that.” Hermione snatched the paper from him. “You are so silly. You need to start with the word ‘mortis’.” She took her wand from her boot. “Like this.” Hermione taped the word on the headstone while saying it. “Then you need the symbol for silver.” She peered at the grave marker. “Ah here it is.”

Hermione went through the sequence and the cemetery faded from sight. In its place appeared the lush lobby of the Intercontinental.

“So that’s how it works, is it?” drawled Draco.

“Yes, it is.” She took his arm and they strolled out of the lobby.

The nightclub was in a cavernous Communist era warehouse on the Hrad side of the Vlatava River. The cacophonous music and writhing kaleidoscope of bodies battered Hermione’s senses. She reached into her boot, grasped her wand and cast a Silencio at the crowd. The pounding beat instantly faded as the magical bubble of silence enclosed the witch and wizard.

“Where are we supposed to meet your people?” she asked.

Draco shrugged. “I’m presuming that if we make ourselves visible, we’ll be contacted.”

“To the bar then?”

“Indeed,” Draco replied. Hermione grinned and draped herself against his side.

“Anything you say, love,” she cooed, and applied a kiss to Draco’s cheek. She laughed at his surprised expression. He quickly recovered and led them past the gatekeeper and down into the crowd.

Hermione looked around. The crowd in Paris had seemed more refined and sophisticated. This crowd, coupled with the band masquerading as anarchists, seemed ready to march on Wenceslas Square to demand the removal of tanks. Young couples with pale faces and black-rouged lips smoked clove cigarettes while sitting on clear plastic chairs. Other combat-booted young people bounced around on the dance floor whilst the band screamed out their discontent with work, money, love, and life.

Hermione felt old.

“Here, drink this and try to look like you’re having the best time ever,” Draco said and thrust a glass of blue liquid in her hand.

“What is it?” she asked after taking a sip and grimacing.

“Some sort of cocktail,” he replied. “All the other ladies were drinking it.”

“Hmmmm.” Hermione scowled at her glass. “It’s rather sweet.”

“Like you, my dear. Like you,” said Draco. He hoisted Hermione up on to the white plastic stool-type thing behind her and draped an arm around her shoulders.

“Really, darling, you’re such a flirt.” She leaned into his shoulder, scanning the crowd behind him. “Ah, it appears the man from breakfast has seen us. He’s coming over.”

“Behind us?” Draco whispered in her ear.

“Eleven o’clock,” she whispered back. “He’s stopped at the far end of the bar.”

“Ah.” Draco pulled back a little and ran a finger down Hermione’s cheek. “Let’s give him a bit of a chase.”

“Oh?”

“Let’s dance.” He pulled her away from the bar and down the stairs to the crowd on the dance floor.

Hermione smiled winningly at him and laughed as she followed him down into the crowd.

For a brief moment, when Draco pulled her into his arms, the club faded and a pair replaced the single grey eye. The music died into a sensuous and deadly whisper that slid and poked along her spine.

“I suppose as a Mudblood, you’ve never learned to dance? I’ll have to show you then.”

A girl in a black lingerie top and rubber skirt slammed into her back and the voice disappeared to be replaced by Draco’s frowning countenance.

Sorry, Hermione mouthed. He continued to frown.

Draco twisted her around and she ran her eyes over the balcony overlooking the dance floor. His familiar shorter partner joined the tall man. Both looked men looked bored.

Hermione briefly wondered if all power-hungry egomaniacs had such a pair of henchmen. She watched them from under her eyelashes.

“Have they taken the bait?” Draco asked.

Hermione leaned into him and whispered in his ear, “No, they’re just watching us. Right behind you.”

“Wonder what the hold up is?”

“Don’t know,” she breathed and nuzzled his neck for a brief moment. At least he didn’t smell like Lucius. She quickly shut her brain off from that path of analysis.

Draco turned her again. The pair still hadn’t moved.

Hermione’s vision stuttered. She saw herself and Draco from a vantage point behind them. She blinked her eyes, but the image refused to go away. The perspective in her vision moved closer,

“Is there someone behind us?” Hermione asked.

Draco took a moment before answering, “The short one is coming toward us. Where’s the other one?”

Hermione blinked hard and looked up at the balcony. Through the image of Draco and herself on the dance floor, she saw the tall man descend the staircase.

“Our breakfast partner is heading this way,” she said and bit Draco’s ear lobe.

“Ouch, Granger, watch the teeth,” Draco complained.

Hermione was going to chide him for grousing, but a heavy hand fell on her shoulder.

“We would like to buy you a drink,” said the one called Sergei. At least that’s what Hermione thought his name was. Or was it Crabbe or Goyle? Henchmen were all the same.

“I was wondering if you were going to keep our appointment,” Draco said. He pulled Hermione out of the grasp of the taller brute.

Hermione, meanwhile, was puzzling the source of her strange vision. She looked at each man in turn. Sergei was looking at Draco. The other man, whose face looked half finished, was looking at her. The heavy brows drew into a crease down the middle of his forehead. While Hermione met his gaze with what she hoped was vapid curiosity, she saw herself being looked at by someone else. The gaze didn’t seem hostile, more puzzled, like the person had seen her before, but couldn’t place her.

Then, suddenly as it started, it was gone.

“Thaddeus has champagne in his office,” said Sergei. “You will follow us, please.”

“Indeed,” replied Draco. “Come on, my dear. You won’t mind, I’m sure.”

Hermione smiled. “Whatever you want, love,” she cooed.

Hermione looked around the room where she and Draco sat waiting for Thaddeus. The office was insulated and the pounding beat from the band below had receded to near silence. Their escorts had split up. The Muggle, Hermione assumed he was Muggle, sat on a sofa to the right of the wing chairs where she and Draco installed themselves. Draco seemed at ease with his surroundings and had closed his eye and leaned his head against the back of the chair. Hermione took the time to reconsider the events of the evening, in particular the strange double vision she’d experienced just before they left the dance floor. Up close, she was certain that the mountainous creature that had flanked them leaving the dance floor was indeed the same one that had assisted in the attack upon her and Severus that night in Paris. As for the double vision, something niggled at the back of her brain, something she’d read or heard.

It’s so frustrating when I can’t remember, she thought. What was that bit?

The entrance of a stooped, older gentleman who sat down heavily behind the swooping Majorelle-style desk interrupted Hermione’s tail-chasing thoughts. His head was bowed and his breathing came in heavy pants. His face slowly turned up to regard his guests.

“You will have to excuse me,” he rasped. “I’ve been very ill lately. I’m still recovering, but please, do not trouble yourselves,” he held up a hand at Draco’s concern, “I’m only having difficulty breathing. It should pass quite quickly, if you can obtain the ingredients in which I’m interested.”

“I do not think that will be a problem,” Draco answered. “My source has complained about one or two of them, but I will be most emphatic in conveying your urgent need.”

“Your source? Is he local?”

Hermione studied the older man. His longish hair was quite silver. His face must have been handsome at one time, but now it was covered in wrinkles. The dark brown eyes seemed blurry and runny. Hermione watched as one of the hands on the desk started shaking. The more she studied this person, the more she thought she had seen him before, but not in his current aged state. His silent escort shuffled behind her chair, bent on reaching the far wall, and her vision flashed double—an image of a younger man, a sharp knife flashed in the candle light, a figure along the banks of the river, clay, and blood, so much blood. Hermione swayed in her seat.

“Lord Malfoy, is your young lady ill?” The older man turned his attention sharply to Hermione; his dark brown eyes suddenly sharp and suspicious. “Perhaps she should be excused?”

“Oh, no, I’m terribly sorry,” said Hermione in a sing-song voice. “I almost fell asleep. You know how I get when you’re doing business, darling. It won’t happen again.”

“I certainly hope not, my dear,” replied Draco. He tossed an arrogant glance at Hermione’s emptily apologetic expression. “There is one other matter to discuss, and I am hesitant to bring it up, but as you are a new customer, it must be dealt with this one time.”

The older gentleman inclined his head, waiting.

“You are aware that the rareness and quantities required will be reflected in the enumeration required?”

Hermione tried to keep from giggling. Draco was in full “Lord” mode now.

“And my sources will require proof of your good faith,” Draco continued. “For this first purchase only, the next transactions will not require the discussion of such matters.”

“Please, Lord Malfoy, I quite understand.” The older gentleman waved away Draco’s apology. “The tradesmen must be kept happy. And we all know what a contentious lot they are.”

He looked at a point beyond Hermione’s shoulder and she heard the troll, as she was now calling it, shuffle toward the desk. A shadow passed her chair and the thing put an attaché case on the desk and moved to back behind the desk.

“I do hope this first installment of 20,000 Euros is an adequate gesture of assurance.”

“You’re more than generous, Mister Thaddeus. My tradesmen will be very appreciative also,” Draco drawled. “I believe the first shipment will be available in two evenings. Is that acceptable?”

“That is more than acceptable,” Mr. Thaddeus replied. “Your closest competitor was unable to deliver until well into next month.”

“I’ve always been unable to understand how he stays in business,” replied Draco. “I am not bragging when I say that my tradesmen pride themselves on fulfilling their orders with the highest quality, and in the quickest time possible.”

“It’s very nice to do business with some one who understands the value of reliability,” Thaddeus commented. “And now, I hate to be an ungracious host, but my illness tires me so.”

“Of course, sir,” replied Draco. “We’ve overstayed our welcome. Come, my dear,” he motioned to Hermione, who stood up, “let us be on our way.” He picked up the briefcase and started out of the office.

Hermione beamed at everyone in general and followed him.

They availed themselves of the club’s watered down drinks and head-exploding rhythms for another hour before making their way out into the darkened city. They were half way over the Charles Bridge before Draco pulled her into the alcove by the statue of John Nepomuk.

“We’re being followed,” he whispered into her ear. He wrapped an arm about her waist while his wand hand shrank the attaché case.

“I know,” replied Hermione. She swept her narrowed gaze back down the bridge—up to the Hrad, glowing against the darkened sky, and down the other statues down the bridge. There, two shapes, and a third on the other side, moved against the shadows cast in the eerie yellow lights on the bridge. “They’re down about five statues to the left and right.”

“Do you know of a long way to the cemetery?” he asked.

“Do you mean the Josefov cemetery?” Hermione replied turning in his embrace.

“We’ll need the headstone of one of Misha’s ancestors,” he whispered and leaned into her ear. “I’d also like to grab one of our escorts, if that’s convenient.”

“It is,” replied Hermione. “Shall we stroll? We’ll be doing the reverse of the walk from a few days ago.”

“Let’s go.” Draco took her hand. The walked across the bridge and passed the passageway to the Klimentium’s courtyard.

“Leave it to you to go by the library,” Draco groused.

“Yes, I know,” replied Hermione. “But after my reading this afternoon, I’m not sure what I want is really there.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think the old library still exists,” replied Hermione. “Back there,” she jerked her head back in the direction they had come, “in the Hrad.”

“Why are you still on about the library? Given the ingredients Thaddeus wants, I think we’ve bigger problems than a missing library.”

“I think you’re right, but I’m also curious as to how the Prague library could have survived all this time without notice.”

“That answer’s probably with your friend, the librarian,” Draco mused. “How’re our escorts?”

They had strolled up Karlova to Male Nam, but instead of making the dogleg left towards the Astrological Clock where Draco had first found her, Hermione turned them towards the right along Jilska. They strolled hand in hand past apartment buildings and closed shops finally turning back on Skorepka and Michalska. After a round about stroll, they reached the Staromestske Namesti with the black towers of the Tyn Church, which was lit by a golden glow.

“How are we doing?” asked Draco.

“They’re still back there,” Hermione replied. “A bit back by that last crystal shop.”

“Ah. We need a back alley or alcove or something,” he replied.

“If you’re certain?”

“Yes, Ginny told me there were some questions with some tourists and possible Death Eaters that she wanted answered,” he said. “They’re wearing long jackets, but when I re-made the appointment, they weren’t. They both had tattoos.”

“Aren’t they Muggles?” Hermione led them down Parizska and turned onto the tree-lined Jachy mova, where the sounds of the city seemed muffled and far away.

“We’re coming up on that building you showed me, aren’t we?”

“Yes, just up here,” Hermione pointed.

“And yes, they are Muggles, as far as I know, but their boss seems to know a lot about potions.”

“Actually, I think he knows more about golems than potions.”

They had turned onto Maiselslova and were coming to face the cemetery.

“You don’t say,” replied Draco. “So this afternoon’s reading had some use.”

“Reading always has some use.”

They had stopped against a wooden door cut into the old stonewall. Through the small barred window, Hermione and Draco saw rows upon stacked rows of tombstones etched in Hebrew.

“The one we need is in the back,” she whispered.

“Well, now, my love,” drawled Draco. “It appears good Mr. Thaddeus has sent us escorts. Truly gentlemen, we’re quite capable of finding our way.”

“Heh, Illiya, he’s as dumb as he is pretty,” commented one of the lackeys. He threw away his cigarette. “The boss wants you back. Seems to think you’re some kind of magician or something.”

“Oh my, isn’t that quaint?” replied Draco. “Do you hear that, Hermione? Our friend Thaddeus thinks I’m a magician.”

“Really? How funny,” she giggled.

“So my friends,” Draco addressed the thugs, “who are you? Crabbe and Goyle?”

“Don’t know who they are, but you’d better come quietly. You wouldn’t want the lady to get hurt,” replied Sergei.

“My good man, I wouldn’t worry about the lady. She’s more than capable of taking care of herself,” returned Draco. He’d tossed aside his cane, wand in one hand and a lethal looking blade in the other.

“We don’t want to hurt you. The boss wants you back alive.” The two had cut Hermione off from Draco’s side as they circled around him.

“Hurt me?” Draco laughed. “Truly, you do jest.”

“You just don’ quit, do ya? You’re messing with the wrong guys. We’re Death Eaters.”

Draco hooted with glee. “Oh you are, are you? Well then, gentlemen, do your worst.”

He moved out into the middle of the quiet, dimly lit street.

“You don’t mind, do you, love?” He called back over his shoulder.

“No, go ahead,” Hermione called back. “You’ve been spoiling for a fight.”

Draco didn’t acknowledge her response. His attention had turned completely toward his two assailants, who circled him looking for an opening. Hermione stood just beside the alcove watching Draco repel attempted swings with return slices of his large knife. Hermione noticed he had put away his wand, preferring, she supposed, to play a bit. She sidestepped one of the thugs when he over ran Draco and almost crashed into her.

She was enjoying Draco’s graceful advance and retreat movements that were slowly sapping down his opponents’ energy. In the midst of a sudden jab on Sergei’s part that caught Draco’s chin, Hermione’s vision doubled. She saw herself watching the three men fight. The perspective drew closer to her back. She turned just as a fist swung into her peripheral vision. She tried to dodge, but it connection with her cheek and swept onto her nose. Pain and light exploded in her head and before her eyes. She felt the blood gush out over her lips.

Sputtering, she yelled, “Draco, we need to get out of here!”

The half-formed figured swung again, but Hermione had his measure and was able to dodge back again. She heard Draco shout, “Stupefy!” and felt the spell’s energy rush past her shoulder.

“Magic doesn’t work on him,” she said and ducked another lumbering swing. Cursing, she wiped at her nose that had always bled at the slightest disturbance.

Blood is the key. It binds the creature to the creator. It is the binding agent for the clay. Blood mixes with the earth to form the body and the will. It is the life force, and force of the creator’s will.

It was a fragment of text from Eliazar’s treatise. She had read it that afternoon in the quiet of the study and the calm of Marjeta’s tea.

“I’ve got them bound,” called Draco. “Get in here.”

“She glanced to her left where he was standing at the open door. The café from that morning shimmered just beyond.

Her nose was still running blood. Instinct took over, and she swiped at her face and then quickly darted toward the lumbering creature who had started to retreat. She reached up and swiped her bloodied hand down its cheek. She watched as the skin absorbed the blood. The creature paused, rubbed at its face, and then quickly lumbered off.

“Do you really need both of them?” Hermione asked. She cast Mobilicorpus and moved with Draco through the cemetery to a tombstone on the back path.

“There’s one for me and one for my source,” Draco cheerily replied. “What happened to you? Didn’t they teach you to duck in the Academy?”

“Very funny,” she groused and winced. She couldn’t tell for sure, but she thought her nose was broken and was quite sure that her cheek had split open, just like the last time.

Author’s Notes:

Much thanks to Crow, WendyNat, and Shags for the wonderful beta work. In particular, thanks to Crow for keeping me on track when I wanted to quit.

Yes, well, it’s been rather a long time, hasn’t it? I apologize to and thank everyone who’s still with me at this point. The only thing I can plead is real life. Happy New Year!