Lumos

Chapter Fifty-Seven: "Inheritance" (II)

Her and George's assignment was couched at the very bottom. Diplomacy. Once able, they were to network between neighboring Ministries to garner support for the ICW meeting and after it.

Essentially, Ron had taken the tangled mess of the ICW and dumped it in their lap.

Aberforth would handle the more hostile governances, and George and Hermione the more neutral and friendly ones.

The coddling was impossible to miss, but with the baby, it was miraculous they were letting her help at all.

Percy had slipped a note in at the end: "Hermione—we must stall and dissuade these dignitaries from recognizing Vane's Ministry in any official capacity. Bearing this in mind, do try not to piss them off any more than necessary."

Aberforth added below that: "Do what you like. If they're cowards, being rude won't change a thing."

"Are you sure you're up for it?" George asked.

Hermione nodded. "Yes," she said, because pausing to ask herself that question wouldn't lend any help. They didn't have a choice, did they?

And this—it was the least she could do. Every day they remained safe in the cabin while the rest of the family dodged curse blasts felt like nettles under her skin.

George hesitated, then nodded back, reaching for her hand.

#

July 24, 2003, 6:09 p.m.

Mum and Dad's quiet conversation hummed in the sitting room, and Hermione wiped her ink stained hands over her hair. The humidity flushed it into a bushy mess, and she wanted a band to hold it back from her face before supper.

When she tried the doorhandle, however, the cool metal jarred without turning.

Locked.

Hermione's face scrunched, and she tapped her knuckles against the door. "George?"

No answer.

Very well. If he needed time, she'd respect that.

Hermione ventured down the hall and obtained a hairband from Fleur, who was wiping her face with a disposable towelette from a crisp package labeled "Selkie's Stream Facial Tissues."

When she'd finished with it, the wipe evaporated into her cheek, leaving strands of gossamer behind.

The Selkie on the front winked as Fleur tucked the wipes into her trunk. "It is for the best that you've been offered the diplomacy position," Fleur was saying. "My ties with France are not an advantage with some nations."

Hermione nodded in distraction. Fleur's headband felt a bit too snug against her temples. On their way back down the hall, her and George's room door creaked open.

She quickly dismissed herself and ducked through it.

George was shuffling back to the table. Every downturned angle spelled defeat.

A solitary, half-full vial churned on the table, magic sizzling against the cork.

It wasn't stable.

Hermione frowned. "Did you try to tamper with it?" she asked.

"No." The reply was so bleak that her face heated.

George smacked the vial into a dustbin. "Thought about writing it all out, as far as I can recall, but that idea's even more rubbish."

Oh dear.

"And then I thought I might just pull the faces and locations free, but leave the rest." Bitterness drenched his voice, and he turned to pace towards the window. "Pensieve spell shattered before I could manage it."