(A/N: I'm all the more grateful to our sterling beta-reader, MirielleGrey, because she had to work under extraordinarily stressful conditions: a couple of irritating visitors named Gustav and Hannah. Many, many thanks, Miri.)
(Disclaimer: You can tell I'm not the esteemed Ms. Rowling, because I go back and re-read the story already posted. Not to mention all the helpful reviews…)
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"Coming Back Late"
by Paracelsus
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XV: A Strike at the Heart
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Being both Monday morning, and the day she'd either close the deal with Swivingham or open his trial, Hermione didn't expect as fancy a breakfast as yesterday's, just her usual pastry and coffee. Pastries she got, but they'd been Apparated in from Paris; coffee she got, but it was brewed from Kona beans, freshly ground.
A girl could get used to this, and she immediately squelched the thought before it could go any further.
She spent a moment checking the morning post - there to find Robards's response to her owl, agreeing to the plea bargain and grant of immunity for Swivingham. Hermione had expected he'd jump at the immediate win without worrying about their long-term goals, but the fact still dejected her.
Ce qui sera, sera, she sighed to herself, and slipped Robards's letter into a folder. She added a note to the guard staff at the holding cells, to increase the security on Swivingham until all the deal's details were made final. If he's telling the truth about these Cartel Lords, he may be at risk once his evidence becomes public. The folder went into her briefcase.
"Good luck today," Harry offered as he stood from the table. He'd "dressed Muggle" again, in clothes that suggested country rather than city.
"Thanks. Will you be, er…?
"'Field work' today? Yeah, and probably tonight, too. There's this old couple in the Lowlands, they've owned and run a dairy farm for fifty years or more, and they don't really want to sell it, but it's hard times for small farms these days…"
"I get the picture," she smiled. "There's a spell for increasing milk production, by the way: Lactus. Of course, it's usually intended for new mothers who've just had twins, but there's no reason it shouldn't work on dairy cows."
"Lactus," Harry repeated. "Thanks…" He hesitated, then added, "And thanks for… well…"
"No, Harry, thank you." Her smile turned warmer. "When I think of how miserable I was when I went to bed last night, and how much better I feel this morning…"
"Yeah. I know what you mean." He took a step towards her, hesitated, then slowly - giving her every opportunity to decline - leaned forward to lightly kiss the top of her head. Far from declining, Hermione closed her eyes and gave a soft hum of contentment. Harry quickly straightened and stepped back; he opened his mouth to say something, but no words emerged. Instead, he gave her a shy smile before turning and leaving the room to Disapparate away.
For a rarity, Hermione took a few moments to linger over her coffee. She couldn't help the smile that spread itself over her face, she couldn't suppress it if she tried - and she didn't want to try. She didn't remember the last time she'd slept so peacefully, so blissfully. Even some of her nights with Ron, where she'd lain in welcome post-coital languor, didn't compare to last night, simply falling asleep with Harry's hand pressed between hers.
Harry had never been comfortable with feelings, neither his own nor others'… his aunt and uncle had seen to that (and that blasted Cloak hadn't helped matters any). Certainly, he'd never liked talking about them: it had always been through Harry's actions that he'd made his feelings known. So last night's admissions, she sensed, had been a tremendous breakthrough for both of them. Hermione hoped Harry felt better for it - she knew she did. She still felt a residuum of anger over their past - issues of abandonment and mutual boneheadedness, she admitted it - but the anger had been washed clean of bitterness.
Healing had begun.
Of course, he won't be staying around for long, she mused. He still thinks he has to avoid the wizarding world, as the only way to avoid any confrontation that might lose him the Wand. I'll have to work on that. There must be a way of eliminating it without Harry dying! He survived Voldemort, he can survive this, too! He has to!
She paused. Something about that last thought… something about Harry, about Voldemort… it niggled at her subconscious. Hermione tried to bring it out for inspection, but for the moment it eluded her. She waited a few seconds to see if it would surface on its own… then she gave a mental shrug and went back to her preparations for what promised to be an important day at the Ministry.
*
Once at the Ministry, Hermione set a brisk pace, not pausing to talk to any of those who might delay or distract her. She went first to her office, and immediately wrote the warning for the guard staff. Increased security - two guards, not one - for this week at least, she thought, as she folded the note into an airplane and sent it on its way. And eventual witness relocation, possibly - again, assuming Swivingham's telling the truth.
Next, she sat down to draft the agreement with Swivingham. It took only two drafts; the final wording went into the folder with Robards's message, which she tucked under her arm as she headed for the lifts to the ninth level.
At the holding cells, she surrendered her wand to the guard - Ferrers, it was today - and made her way to Cell Five. The door opened, she stepped inside - and froze in horror.
Swivingham was hanging by his neck from the ceiling, his belt a makeshift noose, his eyes rolled back, his tongue black and protruding.
"Ferrers!" yelled Hermione. "Ferrers!" The guard ran up, coming to a full stop at the sight of Swivingham's corpse. "I want Forensics down here now," she ordered him. "I want the duty roster for last night - the names of everyone on duty from DMLE. And send word to Head Robards - he'll want to see this for himself." Ferrers gratefully took his leave, while Hermione stood stock-still in the cell doorway, wishing she dared disturb the crime scene by looking for her own clues.
I guess Swivingham was telling the truth, she thought morbidly.
In remarkably short order, four MLE investigators, including a somber Dennis Creevey, had lowered Swivingham's body to the floor. Two began to run tests on it; the third began to cast spells around the cells, testing to be sure its Anti-Apparation wards were intact. Hermione watched, staying well out of the way, as Creevey approached the cell door itself. "Tempori Incantatem," he said, tapping it with his wand. A stream of mist issued from the lock, coalescing into five tiny, translucent clocks: time marks. Hermione knew that the first clock showed the time of her own arrival, minutes before.
Gawaine Robards entered the cell block and joined Hermione, watching the forensics team at work. One of the medical analysts spotted him and trotted over. "First-level spells complete, sir," she reported in clipped tones. "Cause of death is exactly what it appears to be. Broken vertebrae, slow strangulation - death by hanging. No other trauma or injuries."
"Time of death, Franklin?" asked Robards.
Franklin, the analyst, glanced over at her teammate, who had just completed another test. He nodded affirmatively. "Between midnight and two," Franklin replied. "Could be a bit earlier, but can't be much later. We'll know more after we get the body to the morgue."
"But why?" wondered Hermione quietly to Robards, as they stepped out of the cell to allow the analysts room to work. "Why would he commit suicide? Now, of all times?"
Robards shook his head. "He must've heard the rumors, and known that the elves were going to testify against him after all. He knew he was going to Azkaban, and decided he couldn't face it - and took the easy way out." At Hermione's stunned look, he elaborated, "It's happened before, after all. I recall one prisoner, at the end of the First Voldemort War, accused of being a fairly high-ranking Death Eater - he slit his wrists with a chicken bone."
Hermione shuddered at the image, but pressed her point. "No, but I'm talking about his plea bargain. If he was so willing to cut a deal Sunday afternoon, why kill himself Sunday night? It makes no sense!" She turned to Creevey, and so missed Robards's puzzled look. "Who else came into this cell last night?"
Creevey gestured with his wand, and the log book from the front guard desk came into his waiting hands. He flipped its pages, checking them against the miniature clocks by the cell door. "According to Tempori Incantatem, before you arrived this morning - the door was last opened…" He glanced down at the log book. "…when you and Lovinett interviewed him yesterday at noon."
"No, I mean since then."
"Nothing since then… until you opened the door this morning."
"No… that's not possible. Someone had to've come in, killed Swivingham, and made it look like suicide. He wouldn't have killed himself, after cutting a deal with us!"
"What deal?" asked Robards.
"The…" Hermione stopped and stared at her superior. "The plea bargain," she said slowly, "granting him immunity from prosecution in exchange for information against his own bosses. The Lords."
"His… 'bosses'? Granger, I thought Swivingham was the boss in Knockturn Alley! And no plea bargain would have been valid without my approval!"
Without saying another word, Hermione opened her folder and produced Robards's message. She handed it to him silently and waited for him to read it.
Robards's face showed confused shock when he looked back to Hermione. "This… is my handwriting… but… but I never wrote this."
"I think you did," said Hermione, quietly but forcefully. "I think you've forgotten. I think we need to see the Spell Reversal specialists." She grasped his forearm. "And I think we need to go now."
Robards started to protest, but Hermione was no longer listening. "Creevey, have one of our Legilimens meet us at Spell Reversal. Ferrers, you'll have to accompany us, too - we need to be able to clear you. You relieved Nelson when you started your shift, yes? Good. Grimaldi! Bones! Find Nelson and bring him here on the double - and be warned, he may be a fugitive at this point, so use appropriate caution, but bring him!" She waited just long enough to receive acknowledgements of her orders, then she left the cell block briskly - pulling her superior along behind her.
*
"If anyone else had tried to tell me this," Kingsley Shacklebolt said, two hours later, "I would have dismissed it out of hand." His keen gaze went from Hermione to Robards, before landing on Peasegood, the Ministry's foremost expert on Memory Charms. "You're absolutely certain, Arnold?"
"No question of it, Minister," replied Peasegood. "His memory has definitely been altered. Whoever Obliviated him knew what they were about: the lost memory was erased promptly, before it had time to imprint from his short-term to long-term engrams. Within the last twelve to eighteen hours, I'd guess."
Shacklebolt nodded thoughtfully. "Last night, then. That makes sense: they'd have to do it before our weekly briefing this morning. You'd certainly have told me and the other Heads about this plea bargain with Swivingham. And - correct me if I'm wrong, Arnold - it would've been much harder to Obliviate many people than just one."
"If you want their altered memories to still match, yes."
"Hmm. And no chance of recovering whatever was Obliviated?"
Peasegood pursed his lips. "I wouldn't say no chance, Minister, but slim. St. Mungo's has been working on Gilderoy Lockhart for over twenty years, and he's only just started to regain a few genuine memories."
"Which means no way of telling who did this to me," said Robards angrily, "except it was probably someone I trusted enough to let into my home!"
"Well, it could have been done through the window, or even the Floo," said Shacklebolt. "What puzzles me, Granger, is why it wasn't done to you as well."
"The standard Ministry security spells set on my home were recently… augmented," replied Hermione carefully. It seemed the most likely explanation: given the habits of secrecy Harry had developed over the years, it would've been very much in character for him to have added his defenses to her own. At least, she hoped that was the explanation, and not Well, the culprits had broken into my house and were about to Obliviate me when they spotted Harry Potter, raised from the dead and sitting by my bed!
"Well done. Now we need to do the same for the Ministry's internal security," Shacklebolt said forcefully. He abruptly broke off in a series of rough hacking coughs. Immediately, his attendant Healer stepped forward with a goblet of potion.
"You need to calm yourself, sir," she told him in a low voice as he sipped. "The stress…"
"I know," he replied, equally quiet. "Just keep me going for a few more days, Emily, that's all I ask." He handed the goblet back to her, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and returned to the matter at hand. "Arnold, I want you to work with our Legilimens on Ferrers. Make certain his memory's whole, and that he's telling the truth. When we find Nelson, I'll want the same done for him." His stern nod was a dismissal.
Shacklebolt waited unto Peasegood had left the office before he resumed. "If not for Gawaine's Obliviation, I would have accepted Swivingham's death as suicide. Hell, I still can't see how it could have been anything else. He was alone in his cell. No one went in that night, and there was a guard outside the cell block. He…"
"Did he have dinner?" interrupted Robards.
Hermione glanced at the analysts' preliminary report. "Yes, curried lamb."
"So someone could get into the cell," said Robards grimly.
"The Ministry house elves?" Hermione whirled on the Head of Enforcement, prepared to deliver a stingingly indignant lecture, but Shacklebolt cut her off.
"Our elves need not have been culpable," he pointed out. "They might have simply delivered his food, as usual - and the food could have been doctored. You know as well as I that there are potions that cause severe depression." Hermione nodded in agreement; Harry had described to her the potion Dumbledore had been forced to drink, the night of his death. "Which the flavor of the curry would've hidden. Swivingham could easily have been driven to suicide that way."
"We'll have to wait until all the autopsy tests are done, then," said Hermione, ceding the point. "I'll instruct Franklin to check for mood-altering potions." She glared at Robards. "I cannot believe the Ministry elves would murder anyone."
"I wasn't thinking of the Ministry elves, exactly," said Robards, not flinching before Hermione's glare. "There are six other elves who might welcome the chance to strike back at their former master. They were, after all, prepared to testify against him… maybe their change of heart went a little further."
Hermione was rendered speechless for a moment. But only a moment. "Not possible! I've worked with those girls…"
"If it wasn't elves, and it wasn't suicide, then it had to have been one of the guards on duty," Robards retorted. "No one else came into the cell block, and no one opened Swivingham's door!"
"It could have been done through the bars of the door," Hermione shot back. "A really powerful mood-altering spell, a solid Imperius Curse, an Hallucino Hex…!"
"Again, that means one of the guards. All of those spells require wands, and visitors surrender their wands before they enter the cell block. Only the guards are armed."
"It almost doesn't matter," ruled Shacklebolt. "What matters is that a prisoner in Ministry custody died last night! Bad enough if it was merely lax security on the part of Magical Law Enforcement - but your Obliviation, Gawaine, proves it was more than that. I think…" He paused, considering. "I think we must take Swivingham's story as fact. Lords of an international Cartel - who wanted Swivingham dead before he could spill their secrets."
"Which is all well and good, sir," said Robards, "except that the only evidence of such a Cartel was Swivingham's word. We hadn't a clue of their existence before that."
"I would imagine that we had clues, but too few to detect any pattern to them," replied the Minister. His manner turned formal, decisive, that of a born leader; only the tremor of one hand betrayed his body's weakness. "We need to work through the International Confederation of Wizards, see what other Ministries might have uncovered, pool our information. Mr. Robards, work with Mr. Kerricks to arrange a conference this week - give it your top priority. Thank you."
"Thank you, Minister," Robards and Hermione murmured, as they turned to leave.
"A moment, Madam Granger," added the Minister. He waited for Robards to exit before he softly said, "All right there, Hermione?"
Hermione nodded, half-smiling. This was no longer the Minister of Magic for the United Kingdom; this was her friend Kingsley, her comrade-in-arms from the days of the Phoenix, terminally ill but valiant to the end. "I'm fine, Kingsley. Oh, I was upset that we lost the chance to bring the elves closer to freedom, but…"
"But that day will come. There'll be other chances," nodded Kingsley. He paused, lost in memory. "We've worked so hard together, you and I, Hermione. We have made great strides… more opportunities for Muggleborns, goblins on the Wizengamot… have faith, the day will come." He held out his hand; Hermione clasped it gently. "But you know as well as I do, I won't be here to see that day. No," he spoke over Hermione's protest, "be honest. If I see Christmas, I'll be lucky. Hermione - will you be up to finishing the job? No matter who the Wizengamot chooses to succeed me?"
She understood what he was saying… and who he believed his successor would likely be. Particularly given the lead role the Department of International Cooperation would have in any investigation of the Cartel Lords. "Kingsley, trust me, if Blaise Zabini gets in my way, I will skin him alive and hang his hide on my wall. I'll reserve a place of honor for it."
"Good girl." Kingsley closed his eyes momentarily, as he let go of Hermione's hand. "Now, if you'd just send in my secretary… we're going to have to explain to the press exactly why the Trial of the Century has been cancelled. And I have to decide whether to maintain the suicide story - for now, anyway - or announce he was killed by persons unknown. A preemptive strike, as it were, so that we control the story before it leaks. Not that I'm looking forward to the Prophet's inevitable sneers about our security…"
"I'll leave you to it, then," said Hermione. As she made her way to the door, she saw the Healer heading for Shacklebolt's chair, a new goblet in hand.