Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Good afternoon, Ms. Roberts.”

“Good afternoon, Dr. Granger. The Minister is expecting you.”

“Lucky me. Got any sharp quills back there? I’ve got an eye that could use a good stabbing if it’ll get me out of this meeting.”

“Sadly no, I’m fresh out. And I wouldn’t dare hurt those honey-brown eyes anyway, the women of the wizarding world would never forgive me.”

The women shared twin smiles, their banter light but infused with a mutual attraction Hermione was hoping to act upon one day soon. The Golden Girl had always suspected the secretary was a bit of a fan if the shy smiles and pink cheeks Catherine Roberts displayed at their first meeting were anything to go by. Not that the uber-professional woman would ever say anything outright. At least not back then, when they were strangers to each other and long before they started feeling the other out for signs of interest, loyalty, and availability circling as if in some ritualistic courting display only they knew the rules of.

Since their first meeting, Hermione had made it a point to interact with the woman every time she had to visit the Ministry, even briefly, just to put her more at ease and slowly build rapport. Her efforts were clearly not in vain as the two women now shared a camaraderie built upon the mutual disdain of the slug walking around in a $3,000 suit and calling himself the Minister of Magic. Which reminded her that she needed to schedule a meeting with Professor Slughorn about the recent Wolfsbane troubles. Hermione sent up a brief apology to the Professor for mentally linking him, even briefly and only in her own head, to the aforementioned detestable slug.

Hermione shot one last reluctant look at the secretary adding an exaggerated slump to her normally perfect posture before throwing her a wink and gamely heading towards the heavy oak doors. The shiny brass nameplate sitting above eye level read, “PERCY WEASLEY” in a giant bold script and “Minister of Magic” in a smaller, more basic font as if the man himself was more important than the powerful position he inexplicably found himself in. Hearing the faint “Good luck” directed at her back, she cleared the thick door and spied the gastropod near his desk, a smoldering, purple drink in one hand and a newspaper in the other. Without looking up he directed a grunt to the room which she interpreted as an acknowledgment of her presence. As she came further into the dim office, he gestured to the two uncomfortably low chairs facing his desk, the right of which, she gently eased herself into.

She patiently waited for the man to shift his attention to her, well-versed in his not-so-subtle attempts to put her in her place as a civilian in his magical world, famous witch though she may be. His attempts at intimidation were heavy-handed, though some didn’t even notice the forced lower height of the chairs leaving the Minister in a more lofty position, their uncomfortable nature causing unprofessional fidgeting for the uninitiated victim. Many didn’t realize that the slightly too-high nameplate forced them to look up to read his name in quiet, inadvertent supplication. Most did, however, notice the dim lights that left his visitors slightly wide-eyed, their irises rapidly expanding pupils, cones and rods increasing their sensitivity to take in the maximum amount of light. It left them floundering for a critical 20 seconds, just long enough for Percy to throw them off-kilter with a quick question while they were distracted or pointing out something their eyes weren’t yet adjusted well enough to see. It allowed him to gain the upper hand instantly and it was just one more reason Hermione hated the slimy man. Today, though, he seemed to be trying out a new tactic; the “I’m far too busy for the likes of you so you’ll just wait until I’m good and ready” silence.

Hermione just sighed and examined her nails, ever attentive to their length for... reasons.

Finally, the man deemed her worthy of his attention and placed the folded newspaper down in front of her with a highly unnecessary flourish. Hermione was surprised to see it was a muggle publication, the still photos and uniform font making it immediately obvious.

“Have you heard about this, Hermione?”

“Yes, Percy, I have heard about muggle newspapers.”

“It’s Minister Weasley, or just Minister, Hermione.”

“Then it’s Dr. Granger, Minister.” Either they were on a first-name basis, or not. They had known each other for 15 years now. These petty games were tiresome but the pompous, insecure man appeared intent on continuing them. His attempts to gain the upper hand were the frantic scooping of water out of the sinking ship of his self-worth.

Sporting a thin-lipped smile and furrowed brow, he tried to take back control of the meeting, his methods appearing just as clumsy as he always had next to his more athletic siblings.

“Yes, well. This muggle newspaper has an article about a missing artifact.”

At Hermione’s less than engaged, blank stare, he clarified.

“A missing magical artifact.”

At this, she picked up the newspaper and examined the article Percy’s pointed chin gestured at, her back separating from the stiff chair, feeling sticky in the too-hot room. At the bottom of the front page was a short four-paragraph article beside a colored picture of a displayed artifact, typical of what you’d see in a museum brochure. The only thing of note about the photo, which would pass by unnoticed to anyone else, was the silky blonde hair of the person in the background, face mostly obscured as she (and it was undoubtedly a she) appeared to be engrossed in a nearby exhibit. Hermione froze, her muscles seizing her in place. She would recognize that blond hair and side profile anywhere. Fleur. Fleur, whom Hermione had shared one magical night with after the Yule Ball, sending her on a spiraling journey of self-discovery that landed her well into the land of lesbians. Fleur who had divorced her husband right after the war, citing a mutual decision that one look at Bill’s face showed was anything but. Fleur, whom no one had seen or heard from in ten years. Fleur. Fuck.

Hoping that Percy wouldn’t recognize that blond hair anywhere, she read the article, gleaning anything she could from it with fully dilated eyes flying over the black text. The missing artifact was an Egyptian Winged Scarab Amulet, turquoise in color, and dating from between 664 and 332 BCE. Interestingly, the amulet was in three pieces, an actual scarab beetle and two separate wings. However, the wings were not those of a beetle, but those of a bird, as was apparent by their shape and the indication of individual feathers. Several small holes featured in each indicated that at one time the winged scarab had been fastened to the wrappings of a mummy. Winged scarabs, meant to guarantee the rebirth of the deceased, were common funerary amulets. This particular amulet appeared to be made of turquoise, though the article stated it was made of faience, a type of fine tin-glazed pottery. The amulet had been on display at The Met in New York where it went missing the day previous, disappearing from its case overnight. Security cameras of the area showed a brief flash of light, origin unknown, before the amulet appeared to vanish into thin air, its glass display case undisturbed.

“Well, Minister. It looks like the Met’s security forces are in for an intriguing case. I’m not sure why you think this is magical in nature. Egyptian amulets have been studied at length and rarely, if ever, have been found to be anything other than well… old. And a doctored tape or bribed security guard could easily explain the sudden disappearance.”

“Did you happen to look at the picture, Ms. Granger?”

God, she detested this man. He made her hate her own name with his nasally delivery causing her shoulder blades to come together in a full-bodied cringe.

“Again, it's 'Doctor.' I did, but I’m obviously missing what you’re referring to.”

The red-haired man shifted towards her, though Hermione noticed his hair had gotten much thinner since she had seen him last, the combed-over strands clinging valiantly to his scalp like abandoned soldiers fighting to their last breath.

“Right there.”

His well-manicured finger appeared to point at Fleur causing her heart to beat so fast and so hard that she was sure it would pound itself right out of her chest. Before she could fully examine her body’s puzzling overreaction, the man continued pointing, his aim now much more focused as he pressed a finger into the paper, right on a faintly glowing circle on the glass display case, a subtle glimmer that could easily be the result of a camera flash or overzealous lighting.

“You must know something I don’t know because that appears to just be a reflection.”

“We, the Ministry that is, have been tracking this amulet for some time.”

At Hermione’s raised brow, Percy ignored the implied questions of how long the Ministry had been tracking the artifact and why and skipped to his next point.

“Our agents were there when the photo was taken and identified a clear magical origin to the light. They stated that it was some sort of diagnostic spell. The flash was brief, and the muggles didn’t seem to notice, but there was no doubt in their minds. They couldn’t tell who cast the spell and weren’t able to shut the apparition exit down in time to capture the thief.”

“So, you’re all jumping headfirst to the conclusion that the person who cast the spell is also the person who stole the amulet?”

Percy took in a long breath through his nose, causing a slight whistle and setting Hermione’s teeth on edge, her last ounce of patience flying out the window and she enviously wished she could follow it.

“A spell is mysteriously cast the day before the amulet goes missing. A coincidence is highly improbable. Surely, you’re smart enough to realize that.”

Thinking herself far too experienced with the Minister’s petty jabs to resort to a reply, Hermione surprisingly found herself with a retort heavy on her tongue. She let it fly with nary a reservation, more than done with his constant needling.

“Surely, you’re smart enough to realize that a curious witch or wizard could have wandered unknowingly into the exhibit and cast the diagnostic spell purely out of fascination with the amulet’s age and design. It would be ill-advised considering the location, of course, but it isn’t out of the realm of normal for those of us to which knowledge is a life-long pursuit.”

Percy may have taken a record number of NEWTs, but he ended his educational drive at Hogwarts, preferring to throw his hat in the political ring instead, an overinflated slug clinging desperately to established fighters, landing in the head office more through luck and slimy loyalty than any sort of intellectual prowess. Hermione couldn’t resist a calculated swipe at his super soft exposed emotional belly. Her stab was carefully calculated having honed her aim over many years of dealing with the man, exposing his weak spots one by one. Highlighting the temporary nature of his academic experience was a personal favorite of hers.

The Minister had clearly decided that this little back-and-forth display had gone on long enough, his eyes narrowing in a way that made him look more pained than the authoritative air she knew he was desperately hoping for.

“No matter the cause, we need you to get the amulet back. I am authorizing you to do whatever you need to.”

“Oh, you’re authorizing me, are you? Since when do I work for you? I left the Ministry a long time ago. There is a reason I am a consultant now. I say what jobs I take and when I take them.”

“We’re prepared to offer you 5,000 galleons for the safe return of the artifact.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?”

Percy’s smug smirk was enough for her to take back her easy-going acceptance, despite the money that would buy her a brand new, top-of-the-line potions lab as well as pay off her London flat. But blonde hair fluttered through her mind’s eye, its intoxicating scent being called forth from long-ago memories that were seared into her brain but bricked over with the sturdy materials of heartache and time. She knew she would pursue this with or without the Ministry’s approval. It might as well be with. And the reward purse didn’t hurt either, though its impressive size set off alarm bells in Hermione’s brain.

“I need time to get some affairs in order but I can set off for New York on Monday.”

“No, you’ll start today and you’ll start in Reykjavik.”

“Iceland?”

“Do you know of another Reykjavik?”

“My question was why Iceland, not asking clarification of if you meant Iceland.”

“Of course. Our trackers last identified its location in the capital, but the trace on the item has since been removed. We don’t know whom removed it or how.”

“Who.”

“We don’t know.”

“No, it’s… Nevermind. Give me everything the Ministry has on its location, history, and properties. I can leave tomorrow morning.”

Chapter Text

Percy Weasley was not a charismatic man.

He was a man who believed in order, proper protocol, and that power superseded both right and wrong. Though, ironically, that belief was born from a rigid, law-abiding and black-and-white view of the world that he possessed in his youth. It was turned on its head when his fierce loyalty to the Ministry put him on the wrong side of history. While he eventually tried to mend fences with his family, a last-minute convert to the efforts opposing Voldemort, his family never fully trusted him again. He could see it in their hesitation to hug him, their cautious words, and their forgotten invites.

It was… fine. He didn’t need them anyway.

Now, he was his own man, unhindered by the yoke a large family like the Weasleys inevitably burdened their members with. But the whiplash he sustained going from Ministry lackey to Harry Potter loyalist, and back to Ministry ladder climber had irreparably changed him.

Some things hadn’t changed though. He was still competitive to a fault, though he came up lacking in many areas, chief among them: popularity. Growing up in a big family, you had to carve out a niche for yourself with your siblings. He didn’t have the charm of twins Fred and George. He didn’t have the physicality and daring nature of Charlie nor the wit and handsomeness of Bill. He didn’t have loyal friends and worldwide fame like Ron. He didn’t have the athletic ability and easy camaraderie of Ginny, the apple of his mother’s eye.

What he had was a dedication to his schooling, receiving 12 OWLs, and his selection as a prefect and eventually, Head Boy. But Bill had done all that as well, without coming across as bookish or nerdy. Bill’s rugged allure even increased instead of diminishing after a werewolf attack left his face and body disfigured. He was even married to the stunning Fleur Delacour for a time! And anyway, after Hogwarts, Percy went straight to the Ministry so he couldn't even hang his hat on further education than his siblings either.

Percy didn’t stand out in a single way when compared to Molly and Arthur's other offspring. But he had one thing they didn’t have, political ambition. He had determined it would be the thing that saved him or damned him, whichever came first.

In his campaign, there were many points made by his supporters and detractors, none of which landed him firmly on one side of the political spectrum or the other, the disparate edges to which his opponents so desperately clung. As if having a named party would make them appear to have well-researched stances and opinions based on their strong moral compass when instead they just had a box they jumped into as long as it fit well enough.

It was noted that Percy was a member of the Sacred 28, but wasn’t on record as a blood purist, though he did work for some previously. He was a politician but no one could name one law that was bad (or good) that he had actually drafted or enacted. To hear him speak was mildly unpleasant, but he did make some good, generic points. He didn’t speak out for or against the creature policies of previous administrations, though there were whispers of his one-time sister-in-law being part creature.

Percy straddled the middle of the road, an expert in obfuscation while making emboldened if repetitive, pleas about unity, strength, and getting back to a more prosperous time. He was the dull, lifeless plain doughnut of candidates, the one you picked because all the good chocolate or sprinkled ones were taken and you despised the only other option available: jelly-filled. Blegh. The plain doughnut option didn’t make you happy but it at least kept you fed.

He was a relative unknown, though everyone knew his famous brother, Ron, a member of the Golden Trio. And it was this connection that allowed his blandness, to become an asset. When asked if he endorsed Percy for Minister of Magic during one drunken night at a tavern, Ron sat himself up a little straighter, arms anchored to the two fawning fans on either side of him. With an alcohol-induced gleam in his eye and a boyish grin some found charming, he stated, “Why not? We could do worse.”

This set off a firestorm of folks, who previously did not like either front-runner finding them too extreme, who said to themselves, “Why not?”.

Hermione would never forgive Ron for that one, off-hand comment that propelled Percy, if not to greatness, then at least to a podium where great people once stood accepting a handshake as the new Minister of Magic.

There were two things that people did not see about Percy Weasley. The first was the sheer number of backdoor deals made before Ron’s little comment turned stump speech turned the tide of the election. Percy wished he had known one comment would guarantee his success and thus, he could have avoided all those shady pacts. Not for any moral objection or regret, but because those deals decentralized his new power. He would have to answer to people who would otherwise be under this thumb. But he had a plan for all of that.

That was the second thing: his single-minded quest for a particular object. His brother Charlie, years ago, had told him a story that another dragon wrangler had shared, about a powerful amulet…

Chapter Text

Once she knew what, and perhaps more importantly whom, she was looking for, it felt almost too easy to find Fleur.

She should have questioned things a bit more before she ran headlong into her search for the stolen artifact, suspecting the elusive woman was somehow connected. Though Hermione was known for many things, caution and subtlety weren’t among them. If they were, she likely wouldn’t have found herself bound (duct tape, harsh but understandable) and gagged (kind but maddening and entirely excusable if Fleur hadn’t used a scarf with the blonde’s scent still trapped in the silk).

The damned woman had left Hermione trapped in her own fucking rented room.

Ten years Fleur had been gone and less than 24 hours after Hermione had first contacted Gabrielle Delacour asking pointed questions, she had encountered Fleur.

If only she had known it would be this easy.

Ten hours after arriving at Iceland’s Keflavik airport, Fleur had breezed right back into Hermione’s life like she hadn’t been a specter in it for over a decade.

Like Hermione hadn’t missed her the entire time.

Maybe Fleur knew. She always seemed to know.

Maybe the smirk she shot Hermione on her way out of the rented room while putting out the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door so no one could find Hermione any time soon was less about her easy triumph over the Golden Girl and more about remembering the last time they had been together.

Hermione hoped she remembered it with fondness.

What Hermione was not remembering with fondness was the less than helpful chat with Gabrielle the previous day which could be summed up with “So good to hear from you, Hermione. Why would I have heard from Fleur? You know I would have contacted you immediately if I had.”

Hermione felt more than a bit frustrated with the tight-lipped, filthy fucking liar.

Over the years, she had maintained contact with the younger Delacour, partly because she liked the impish Gabrielle but another (bigger) part was that it was a last-ditch effort to cleave to what remained of a threadbare connection to Fleur.

They exchanged holiday cards and yearly visits with topics remaining firmly in benign areas and common interests.

It was nice.

Gabrielle had grown into a smart, independent woman with a top-notch education and magical abilities that impressed even Hermione’s high standards. Their discussions were lively if a bit reigned in.

Fleur would have been so proud of Gabrielle… was so proud of her, as apparently they still kept in such close contact that Hermione’s inquiries about Fleur’s whereabouts led to a near-instant meeting with Gabrielle’s older sister.

TEN HOURS EARLIER

After she arrived at Keflavik Airport, Hermione hired a car to drive to Reykjavik, as Percy’s trackers had last identified the missing artifact’s location in the capital city, though the trace had since been removed. As she suspected, the location was a port key terminal, likely used to throw the Ministry off the trail. The bearer could have taken another journey to any number of international locations once they removed the trace. The likelihood that those responsible were even still in Iceland was near zero.

However, Hermione had done some digging and wanted to check in with a local researcher based near Reynisfjara Beach, a stretch of black sand and pebbles guarded by sheer volcanic cliffs along the southern edge of the island. During the quick three-hour drive to Vik, Hermione stopped off for some picturesque photos, attempting to cheer herself after confirming that the trip to Iceland was likely a colossal waste of time. She felt a bit silly taking a photo of herself with the hidden waterfall to her rear, a rainbow peeking out on the edge of the framed scene.

But she couldn’t deny, it was a beautiful shot.

While she could have driven back to Reykjavik later that night, she rented a room at a small bed and breakfast close to where she was meeting the researcher, Anna Ódinsdottir, at 5 pm.

Wanting to freshen up her admittedly tousled appearance, Hermione took a quick shower. She intended to look her best because she was a professional and not because her quick Google search had turned up a recent photo of the researcher showing her to be a fit blonde in her early 30s and possessing a near lethally gorgeous smile.

Nope.

Professionalism.

After finishing her shower and returning to the main part of the room in a bra and boy shorts while squeezing the moisture from her notoriously troublesome locks, Hermione was surprised to see a figure calmly perched on the edge of the bed.

Mostly because that figure was one Fleur Delacour.

While her body froze, Hermione’s mind was whirling, eyes darting to the dresser where she had left her wand but which now sat empty.

“Hello, Hermione.”

“Fleur.”

“That’s it? Just my name?”

“What should I say after ten years?”

Fleur sighed. “I knew you would be mad.”

“I’m not mad, Fleur.”

“No?” Even after all this time, Fleur could see right to the quick of her, every subtle inflection a blaring alarm for Fleur’s sensitive ears.

“Okay, yes. I’m fucking mad. Where have you been?! And why are you caught up in this stolen amulet case?”

“It’s a bit complicated.”

“No shit. And give me back my wand.”

“Ah, no. Sorry, Hermione. I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you’d stop me from doing this.” Fleur followed up with a modified binding spell, leaving Hermione to land back on her ass in an armchair she had thoughtfully placed to the side in preparation, the damp towel falling to the floor.

After restraining a magically docile Hermione to the chair, Fleur softly said, “I must leave you now, my dear. Please do not follow. And watch your back. Not everyone is as they seem.”

“Is that a threat, Fleur?”

“No, my sweet Hermione. It is a warning.”

Pulling the scarf from around her own neck, Fleur tied it snuggly but not painfully over Hermione’s mouth, effectively muzzling her as the trapped woman bit against it.

When Fleur bent towards her, Hermione couldn’t stop her eyelids from fluttering closed. As she felt Fleur’s lips brush against her forehead, she cursed the hold the woman still had on her.

“Be safe. Be well.”

The wide-eyed fury on Hermione’s face didn’t quite have the effect she was hoping for as a retreating Fleur smirked at her before placing the door hanger on the outside, ensuring Hermione’s incarceration would be lengthy.

If grunts could adequately convey rage, Hermione would have given the equivalent of a dissertation. However, she knew the effort was futile. She needed to find a way out of her predicament and fast.

Fleur’s presence there meant that either the stolen artifact was still in Iceland, or there was a hot trail to follow. She didn’t know how the woman was involved, but it was clear she was somehow tied up in it all, no pun intended.

Either way, Hermione needed to free herself and quickly.

She’d always been able to think on two separate tracks. It helped to allow her mind to form complex solutions while engaging the part of her brain that might offer roadblocks or inadequacies in an unrelated task. In this case, it meant that while she worked on a solution to escape, she was also thinking about Fleur Bloody Delacour.

Okay, the woman’s middle name was actually Isabelle, but Hermione would find a way to get the Ministry to change it. Somehow. Surely there was a form or something…

It had been some time since she let the blonde have free reign of her mind as those were the memories she kept most locked away, buried deep. The mental attic she used to store her thoughts and feelings about Fleur had grown so much over time that it challenged the very structure of her imagined house, its bulk pressing against the beams and warping the shape of her. It made the mask she wore sit ever so slightly off-kilter, her features no longer perfectly aligning.

Hermione resented it.

She resented how after all this time it still allowed Fleur to so easily peek past it, glimpsing through the eye holes and seeing flashes of bared teeth behind the painted-on smile. The blonde’s sharp gaze bent and slipped through the gaps like smoke.

It left Hermione feeling spied on instead of seen. It was invasive and frustrating because Fleur was the only person Hermione had ever wanted to be seen by.

There was a time she had felt that, as if they shared a special bond. Circumstances stood in their way but it had always seemed like those were temporary and their connection would endure.

What a fool she had been.

thump

The mental exercise had worked.

While her critical mind was occupied, her body had played through a long-ago-seen video of how to escape when your ankles were bound. Fleur had kindly (stupidly) dressed her before attaching her to the chair and Hermione had wriggled out of the loose joggers and freed one foot, its bare bottom thumping triumphantly onto the wood floor.

Now, she just needed to get her other, more tightly bound foot or a hand free.

Easy peasy.

There was a knock on the door and a soft, “Dr. Granger?” from the other side.

A scarf-muffled grunt came in reply.

“It’s Anna.”

As the door opened, Hermione thanked the small-town bed and breakfast host with an apparent laissez-faire attitude toward security for giving a random visitor a key to her room.

“Is everything okay? I… Oh!”

Using her now-free foot, Hermione beckoned the startled visitor to her in an awkward hurry-up sort of swooping motion.

A woman of taste, Anna decided to free Hermione’s mouth first and a thank you was quick to come.

“Of course. But what in the world happened?”

“That’s a bit tough to explain right now but suffice to say this wasn’t voluntary.”

Anna raised a cheeky eyebrow but didn’t verbally respond to the opening.

Now biting back a grin, Anna pulled out a pocket knife and cut Hermione’s hands and ankle away from the chair.

Once fully freed, Hermione gathered all of her badly damaged dignity and held out her hand.

“Professor Ódinsdottir, I am Dr. Hermione Granger. Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, a formal introduction. How lovely.” The researcher’s eyes were twinkling as she grasped Hermione’s hand in a firm press of palms.

“Now, about your research on selkies…”