Disclaimers: Dark themes, police state ideas, mention of spousal abuse on and off-screen, death of minor characters, graphic imagery and violence, frank sex discussion, copious bad language, bashing the fucking Weasleys and Dumbledore, liberties taken with mythical history.
***
The Port of Dover was packed as usual. Freight lorries, coaches full of Summer holiday makers and the cars of private travellers lined up on the Kent coast to board ferries to make the short crossing into continental Europe. It hardly seemed the most auspicious place for magical people to make the same journey, too, but this was the only acknowledged route in or out of Magical Britain these days.
Hermione was eager for an explanation about this, and she had been assured that she would get one ... just as soon as they mopped up these hapless Death Eater guards, who they had stumbled upon when trying to reach the Port. The silly fools had been blocking their way, and the trio of Team Potter members were just now finishing off the last of them.
Neville drove the Sword of Gryffindor into the face of a Section Seven Agent fallen at his feet. It was a mercy, really, after Myfanwy's Blasting Curse had cracked his skull, leaving his body twitching and writhing rather disgustingly. Hermione, meanwhile, was busy transfiguring the tonsils of the Death Eater garrison commander into a large spike, which promptly burst free through a tear in his throat.
The sounds of his gargling for air, through a rush of blood, was really quite satisfying.
"I so wish I had your imagination for things like that," said Myfanwy, nodding approvingly at Hermione's handiwork as the Death Eater guard crumbled to the ground. "I'm more of a blunt force trauma, bludgeoning sort of girl myself."
"But you do it with such artistry!" Hermione grinned back, nodding at the three corpses turning cold behind her
"Well, that was fun!" Neville quirked, reaching down for a bit of Death Eater robe, which he used to clean the blood from his sword. "They actually put up a bit of a fight, too. Good for them!"
Hermione chuckled. "It broke up the monotony at least! You know, I'm surprised the crossing point is Dover. Seems too obvious, too open."
"That's sort of the point," Neville explained. "When the European Council of Magic decided to raise Movement Wards around Britain they still faced a huge problem ... the methods of travel used by Muggles. They last thing they wanted was for Dark Witches and Wizards to slip into Europe on planes and trains and ferries.
"So they decided to use the existing border controls. Airports were quite easy to police, mainly because you need passports, documentation to board flights. Most magicals don't have such paperwork. And if they managed to acquire fake documents ... or used hoodwinking magic to get around being without them ... and got into the airport proper, they wouldn't get very far.
"An elite team of Swedish wizards ... who were good at modifying Muggle technology with magic ... were tasked with getting into every airport in Britain and enchanting the security checkpoint gates with magic-detecting Charms before the Wards went up. That way, if someone passed through one, it would alert a special unit who were able to track the signal, and dispatch a Broom-Mounted Hit Team to board the flight once it left British airspace and arrest the magical before they could get anywhere.
"The Swedes were successful, but one of them was caught on the last mission. He didn't confess to what he was doing ... even after stringent interrogation ... and Riddle falsely concluded that he was simply trying to escape the country. So, as usual with his paranoia, he had his Death Eaters erect their own Wards around airports, to alert them of Magical Movement in order to prevent future escape attempts. He was convinced that there were European spies everywhere, so he made it illegal to travel abroad without his own hand-signed permission ... which he never gave out once, so far as we know."
"But this is a seaport," Hermione pointed out. "We don't go through electronic security here."
"No, but it is the only point in the Restriction Ward where a doorway of sorts was put in," Neville replied. "The E.C.M. have often needed to send ambassadors and emissaries to Riddle, and this is where they cross into Britain. Section Seven controls the magical access point on this side, while members of the French Magical Legion guard the border in Calais.
"Now, the only way I know of for a person to leave going the other way is to be wearing that ring you are currently sporting. Assuming it allows you through the Ward at all, you will then have to make the crossing into France in the Muggle way ... by passenger ferry. But as soon as you pass through the Ward, the French will know you are coming ... and they'll be waiting.
"I'm not going to sugar-coat this for you, Hermione ... what you are doing is extremely dangerous. Only the most desperate of situations would have made me agree to this in the first place. Once you step through that barrier, you are on your own out there. Not only that, but the French will detect an unscheduled breach in the Ward ... Harry always arranged his exits with his contacts beforehand ... and for all we know they might read that as an aggressive move.
"And when you add to that the possibility that Ron and Riddle will probably be tracking you via your wedding ring now, they will likely alert their sleeper allies on the continent, and they will be on the hunt for you, too."
"Great," Hermione fumed, crossly. "So both my allies and my enemies are the bad guys. Wonderful."
"I never said this would be easy," Neville offered, apologetically. "If there was any other way ..."
"But there isn't. I'm all we've got," Hermione huffed, bluntly. "Isn't there anyone I can trust?"
"Only yourself," Myfanwy advised. "Until you reach the International Confederation of Wizards conference and announce who you are, you need to be cautious and treat everyone as a potential enemy. If they're not one of us, they could be one of them. So take no chances. To that end ... here, take this."
Myfanwy reached into her battledress and drew out a short, thick club, which she handed to Hermione.
"What's this?"
"I call her Fiddler's Bane," Myfanwy grinned, wickedly. "There are a lot of deviant wizards out there ... Muggles, too ... who might fancy fiddling with a young witch travelling on her own, and you cant always rely on being able to quick-draw your wand. This handy weapon is the bane of such intent. The club is imbued with a highly focused Bludgeoning Charm, so even the daintiest of taps will shatter the firmest of encroaching wrists. You'll get twelve hits out of it before the Charm wears off ... hopefully you wont need them, but just in case ..."
"Thank you," Hermione smiled, slipping Fiddler's Bane into her jacket sleeve. "So, what's my itinerary?"
"The ICW Conference is currently in session in Vaduz, Liechtenstein," Neville informed her, before handing over a pocket map and a pack of travel documents. "It's approximately a twelve-hour trip via Muggle modes of transport from Calais, but you'll have to get passed the magical checkpoint first. Once you do, we've purchased open-ended tickets for you for trains first into Belgium, then into Paris, before the final route on to Vaduz. Travel only by day, and don't be afraid to change trains if you think you're being followed.
"We've booked you into a hotel in the middle of Paris for tonight. Use it, then travel onto Vaduz first thing tomorrow morning. Take your time, and stay calm ... if you panic and rush you'll only draw the attention of any eyes that might be looking out for you. Remember, you're trying to look like a regular tourist, so just try to act like one."
"Okay," Hermione gulped, suddenly fretful with the seriousness of the situation. She'd never heard Neville's tone so grave and concerned. She shivered nervously as the sound washed over her prickly skin.
"In that pack I gave you are your travel papers," Neville went on. "Until you get to the Conference, your name is Lizzie Brooks, alright? Try and get used to using the name in your mind. You should only need to use it once, when you check-in to the hotel in Paris, but it never hurts to be prepared."
"Lizzie Brooks, Lizzie Brooks," Hermione nodded, trying out her first ever alias. It stirred a wild sort of adrenaline in her as she thought about it, that she even needed a secret identity at all. It was quite exciting, really, to be breaking the rules.
"Last thing," Neville added. "Did you bring your old DA coin? I remember Harry saying you still wore it."
"I have it here," Hermione replied, tapping the front of her jacket. The coin was hanging loose on a long chain that ran right between her breasts, quite safe and out of sight.
"Good. They still work, you know, but Harry has removed anyone nefarious from the Charm. You can contact us using yours. Let us know when you are safely in Paris, or if you run into trouble at any time. We wont be able to offer much help, but we can give advice or guide you to safety if you get lost or something."
"I'll keep that in mind," Hermione replied. She sucked in a deep, steeling breath. "Right, I think I'm ready."
"Dont think you are ready," Myfanwy advised, staunchly. "Know you are!"
Hermione nodded, her determination fortified. She really liked Fan, she hoped she would be as fierce as the Welsh Shield-Sorceress some day.
"Okay. Here I go," Hermione declared. "I'll be in touch."
"Good luck," Neville smiled, or tried to ... his worry turned the whole thing into a sort of pained grimace.
And then, with a final encouraging squeeze of her arm from Myfanwy, Hermione turned and walked purposefully towards the Great Ward around Britain ... and she passed straight through as if there were nothing there at all.
* * *
Hermione's first thought, upon reaching the other side, was one of girlish elation.
It considers me a Potter!
The thought settled on Hermione with extraordinary warmth, and she decided to ignore the more rational explanation ... that the Ward was simply responding to the ring on her finger rather than anything speccifically to do with her. She grinned like a loony as she made her way towards the Muggle port, practically skipping as the joyous nature of the implication crashed into her. The Ward Barrier had let her pass as a Potter ... as though she really was Harry's wife!
She felt a lot like that already, of course, but this official validation somehow made the whole thing feel a lot more real. It was as if she had taken a huge footstep towards that most cherished of goals, and that she would be sifting through wedding dress options and organising bridal showers within a matter of weeks. It was such a cheery thought that Hermione almost forgot what she was here to do.
But she hitched her focus back on as soon as she was amidst people again. She felt stupendously paranoid being surrounded by strange faces ... she had not been out of sight of at least one familiar friend for over two months now, after all. But as she queued patiently with the other foot passengers to board the Pride of Dover, she couldn't help but hear Myfanwy's warning echo in her ears.
If they aren't one of us, they could be one of them.
The thought put Hermione on hyper-alert. Every one of her senses seemed sharpened ... she heard everything, saw everything, even smelt the overpowering scent of Chanel Number 5 from the woman in front of her. She used to wear that perfume, herself, until Ron replaced it with a bespoke eau de toilette made from his own pheromones, to ward off potential love rivals.
Toilet water, indeed! Hermione chuckled to herself as she remembered, then swiftly discarded, the annoying memory.
Hermione's burgeoning fears were quickly dispelled as she boarded the ferry without ceremony and made her way up to the passenger deck. She couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement; after all, it had been years since she'd travelled anywhere and she'd always loved the water. She hoped Harry would buy her a little boat after the war, so they could tour the waterways of the Blue Palace grounds together. It would be so lovely.
Hermione even had a name in mind for her little gondola ... the HMS Harmony. It would be perfect.
But, for now, she had to put such pretty dreams aside and focus on the darkness of the present. Hermione wandered around the shops and food court of the boat awhile, before moving out onto the deck as the ship set sail, watching as it passed out of the port and off into the openness of the English Channel. The colossal length of the White Cliffs of Dover seemed to wave Hermione goodbye, as the ship gunned away from England and headed off towards France.
Hermione, feeling calmer now she was settling to task, decided to grab herself a tea and just watch the sea pass as the brief voyage progressed. She soon grew used to the bobbing and rolling of the ship, getting her sea-legs quickly as she ordered her favourite Earl Grey with some pecan plaits for a late brunch. She luckily found a single person booth with a nice view out across the Channel and slid into it, pulling out the pack of paperwork Neville had given her with the goal of learning all of it by heart in the hour-and-a-half it would take for the ship to reach Calais.
"So, Lizzie Brooks," Hermione whispered to herself, as she turned the pages of a detailed alternate-persona document Neville had prepared for her. "Who are you?"
It turned out that Lizzie Brooks was a newly-qualified linguistics teacher, travelling to Europe to practice her language skills in the Francophone countries. Hermione appreciated that ... she'd always been good with languages, and her frequent holidays to France with her parents when she was a girl had given her a solid command of conversational French, so she could act that role if she needed to. It eased some of her latent worry.
But, just then, someone passed right by her booth ... just a little too close for Hermione to be comfortable with.
Hermione snapped her head around the seat facing her ... but saw only a member of cafe staff offering coffee refills to customers nearby. Hermione sat back and commanded her heart to calm down, her rapid breathing, too. But, she thought bluntly to herself, she had better get used to this paranoia ... it would be her travelling companion from now until the moment she crossed back into the safety of the Blue Palace, so it wasn't going anywhere.
The Channel crossing passed without incident. Hermione read, and re-read, the documents Neville had given her, cringed at the awful photo in her fake passport and huffed over who had taken it, then memorised the name and address of the hotel she was aiming for. La Maison Belle, 6 Rue de Rouge, Paris du Nord. It was near the large train station in that part of the French capital and so shouldn't be too hard to find. That calmed Hermione, too, and gave her hope that this might all go ahead without serious incident.
That was until she disembarked from the ferry in Calais ... and realised she was being followed the moment her feet touched French soil.
Now, quite how she knew, Hermione couldn't describe ... but she undoubtedly did. She felt a surge of prickly anxiety as soon as that first blast of French early afternoon sun hit her, as though the attention fixed on her was carried on the coastal breeze. She had been expecting to be approached by magical French security, she just thought she might have had a little more than thirty seconds after ariving to prepare herself for an interrogation.
The problem was, as much as she knew she was being watched, Hermione couldn't tell from where. Unsurprisingly, there were no bright neon signs saying 'Magicals -This Way' and so Hermione wasn't sure which direction to go. She recalled Neville saying she'd have to cross the magical French border before heading towards Liechtenstein, but she didn't have the first clue about how to find it.
So Hermione just followed her instincts, drifting towards a rotted and derelict sort of jetty a short way along the road once she'd left the Muggle Port of Calais. There was no particular reason to head in this direction rather than any other, but Hermione did feel a sort of pull towards the forgotten pier, in the same way that tourists were fascinated by ancient tombs or megalithic monuments. Maybe this had the same mystic power as one of those.
Hermione pulled herself up onto the damp planks of the old pier and looked around ... there was nothing here, she must have gotten this all wrong ... and then two pairs of rugged hands grabbed her roughly from either side of the pier.
Hermione didn't even have time to be afraid, for what happened next shocked her as much as the poor security guards on the receiving end of it. For as soon their aggressive hands touched her, Hermione felt a wave of dense magic erupt from the ring on her finger. It crashed through her body and violently repelled the two security wizards who were attempting to manhandle her. They were thrown bodily backwards, easily ten feet away, where they slammed into the decking of the pier.
One jumped up and attempted to fire a containment spell at Hermione. Ropes uncoiled from his wand and raced towards her, but the ring responded again. It sent out a gout of fire, which manifested into a flaming dragon head and incinerated the ropes before they got anywhere near. The second guard fired off a Stunning spell in his panic. That was a mistake. The ring simply pulled Hermione's hand up and absorbed the jet of red light, concentrated it, then sent it arrowing back with ten times the original force.
The last Hermione saw of the guard was his flailing body, disappearing over the railings of the access stairwell to the wooden platform a further twenty feet back.
Hermione was giddy on power now, emboldened by the heady protection of the Potters, that was encasing her like an impenetrable field of armour. She felt it throb and pulse all through her like an electric charge. She felt supreme, devastating ... invincible, even. She would have backed herself in duel against Tom Riddle himself in this state. And she could feel Harry amongst it all, too ... his protective aura was swirling all around her. She closed her eyes at his signature, wishing it was his touch, but feeling utterly safe under his care.
And Hermione knew instantly that Neville had been wrong about all this ... she wasn't alone out here, as he'd insisted ... because Harry was right there beside her. Even if he was actually inside her.
With a surge of courage that made her knees wobble a moment, Hermione moved forwards to face the one guard still blocking her path. He was young, much younger than her. Maybe still a teenager. And he looked petrified, with wide, staring eyes and a pitifully trembling jaw. Hermione actually felt sorry for him ... it looked like this might have been his first day on the job.
"Parle Anglais?" Hermione asked.
The guard nodded nervously.
"Good." said Hermione, switching to English. "I am not here to hurt you, or to fight with you. But I don't have the luxury of you wasting my time right now, so I will disable you if you force me to. I have to get to the International Confederation of Wizards Conference in Vaduz on a matter of urgent business. You will open the portal to continental Europe for me. Do you have the relevant clearance for that?"
The guard nodded again, but didn't move.
Hermione frowned at him. "Then get to it! I've bested you and you friend without even drawing my wand. You do not want me to do that."
With a raspy little squeak, the young guard jumped up. He darted away from Hermione and tapped his wand against a seemingly random patch of air. Suddenly, a large wooden booth materialised on the jetty and the teenaged guard hit some configuration runes on a control panel, then motioned Hermione forwards.
"Thank you," she said, offering a comforting little smile. "Oh, and tell your friend I'm sorry. I hope he isn't too badly hurt."
Then a surge of magical energy cascaded all around her, and Hermione stepped through into the vast expanse of France.
* * *
The first task was to find the train station, which wasn't all that hard, as the little pictures on the street signs pointed Hermione in the right direction. She was actually heading back towards the port, which made sense, and she soon found herself in the Gare du Calais, checking timetables and fishing through her purse for her tickets and some extra Euros, just to buy some snacks for the journey.
Within the hour, Hermione was aboard her first train and heading out of Calais towards the Belgian border. The coach rumbled along and was only sparsely populated, mostly with other lone travellers, and Hermione felt quite secure as she watched the rugged countryside pass by. She whiled away the time by making her way through a bag of chocolate covered peanuts that she'd purchased, trying to decide which coloured shell she found the tastiest, and jumping every time someone moved along the aisle, including totally startling the ticket collector as she came along to stamp Hermione's travel pass.
In no time at all, it seemed, Hermione was leaving her first train at Brussel-Centraal station and was waiting for her connection to Paris. She bought an overpriced takeaway latte and sat on a bench on the platform, watching the astonishing length of the Eurostar train as it gunned away from the platform opposite. The station was in fairly poor condition; graffiti-daubed signs adorned the high-rise buildings nearby as well as the station waiting rooms, the toilets were in need of a good clean and the whole place had a dark, dingy sort of feel to it.
Hermione certainly didn't want to be staying here for too long, but her train wasn't due in for a good fifteen minutes, so she had no choice but to wait it out. The station was strangely quiet at this end, away from the hustle and bustle of the main hub in the middle. Hermione could hear litter rustling on the platform, as the breeze caused by passing trains stirred the air. It made her look around as each sound stood out loudly to her, exciting her thrumming paranoia each time.
And that was when she saw him.
How she knew this individual was following her, Hermione couldn't tell ... but she just certain that he was, as though Harry's spirit had been watching out for her and had spotted this tracking wizard nearby. He was sat on a bench a good distance away, too far from her to be overly suspicious. But there was nobody else around, nobody else who had turned up so early for this train.
Hermione felt her skin tingle like it was statically charged. She watched the wizard for a good few minutes, without it seeming like that was what she was doing. She was good at that, at stealthy observation ... after all, she'd perfected the skill by secretly looking at Harry during their years at Hogwarts without him noticing her doing it. It was a talent that came in handy now.
The wizard was thick set, burly, his face half-obscured by a wide-rimmed hat ... and he never once turned the page of the broadsheet newspaper in his hands. Hermione shivered slightly, as she realised that he was watching her in that same way that she was subtly observing him. Neither moved, neither looked directly at the other ... but the attention of both was fixed intently on the object of their scrutiny.
Slowly, the platform grew busier as the train approached. Hermione rose early, hoping to snag an empty compartment on the old-style train. It reminded her of the Hogwarts Express and she was surprised to find such trains still in use. Swatting the thought aside, she boarded the train and found a deserted compartment, pinning her nose to the window to look out along the platform as the train left the station.
And she noticed her follower was no longer in his seat. With a thrill of fear Hermione realised a sobering fact ... he must have boarded the train with her!
Settling back into her seat, Hermione freed her wand and placed it into her jacket pocket, lodging her hand alongside it. Her heart was thumping in her chest, and every sound outside her compartment caused her to attention pique in sharp anticipation. It would take three hours to reach Paris ... and Hermione knew she'd be on edge for every single second of it.
After half an hour of being alone, Hermione began to calm. She jumped a little when the train conductor came to check her ticket, but the further along they went the better Hermione felt. Then, about an hour into the trip, the compartment door opened. An elderly woman was stood there, with a carpet bag in her hand.
"Excusez-moi, mademoiselle, ce compartiment est-il gratuit? Partout ailleurs est plein."
Hermione smiled up at the old lady and replied in her best French. "No, this compartment is free. Wont you sit down?"
"Merci!" the woman smiled toothily back, before explaining that her previous compartment had contained a screaming baby that was driving her mad, so she just had to move.
Ten minutes later and the door opened again. This time it was a young man, who had apparently also had enough of the crying baby. He spoke in rapid, irritated French with the old woman about the situation, as clearly they had shared the previous compartment together, and he sat down.
But what was odd, was that he had moved across the entire compartment to sit directly opposite Hermione.
She shuddered slightly as his knees knocked against hers as the train jerked. He apologised in French, and Hermione guessed from his accent that he was actually Belgian. There was just that something in his lilt that told Hermione he wasn't a French national. Then he spoke to her properly.
"Good afternoon, Miss. Are you heading into Paris, too?"
"Yes, I am."
"First time?"
"For many years, yes."
"Ah, if you like I can tell you all about the best spots!" the Belgian exclaimed. "From the Louvre to Montmartre, Notre Dame to Versailles ... I know it all!"
"Pardon me," Hermione replied in French, trying to sound as polite as she could. "But I don't really know you, and I don't feel up to conversation today. I'd like to pass the journey as quickly and quietly as possible, so could you please not talk to me? Thank you."
"Ah, English, huh?" the Belgian smirked. "Where is that famed English hospitality? I thought you were all supposed to be English Roses, like Keira Knightly and that ... what's her name ... Emma Watson?"
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Not all of us are like that. Some of us English Roses have thorns ... can I make myself plainer?"
"A feisty one, eh?" the Belgian chuckled. Then he leant forward and put his hand on Hermione's knee. "You know, if you just play nicer, we might all have a better trip."
Hermione grabbed his wrist and twisted it firmly away from her. She riled angrily at the Belgian. "Put your fingers on me again ... and I'll snap each one of them in turn, am I clear?"
"Will you now? That would be very unwise."
Hermione snapped her head to her right. The old woman was now sitting next to her, invasively close. Only now, she wasn't an old woman anymore ... she was a strong, overly-aftershave scented Spanish man. Hermione swallowed hard as the Spaniard spoke close to her head, his hot spit flecking her cheek disgustingly.
"This can go easily ...or it can go hard ... Mrs Weasley," the Spaniard crooned suggestively, reaching across and taking a turn at grabbing Hermione's thigh. "You decide."
So she did.
Reaching down to her side, Hermione pulled out Fiddler's Bane ... and cracked it firmly into the skull of the Spaniard. The impact, magically enhanced by the Charm in the truncheon, was so fierce that it caused the Spaniard's eye to pop out of his socket, as he was knocked cold and slithered down to the floor.
The Belgian roared in anger as his colleague hit the deck with a heavy thud. He lashed out a hand to slap Hermione ... but his palm was deflected by an unseen force, which sent it upwards and he harmlessly struck the air a foot above Hermione's head. Incensed further still, he leapt forward, pinning Hermione's arms to her sides as his knees pressed into the crook of her elbows.
Unable to move, Hermione couldn't get any purchase on the club to fight off her attacker. She screeched in frustration, which only seemed to embolden the Belgian. He grinned wickedly at her ... then his hands shot to her waist and began fiddling furiously with the buttons to her jeans ...
"No! No!" Hermione yelped in anguished desperation. "Help me! Someone!"
And it was her wand that responded.
Amazingly, without Hermione's hand being anywhere near it, the wand in her pocket moved, poked out of the access hole and pointed right at the Belgian's chest. The spell that erupted from it shattered his ribcage as it drove him powerfully away from Hermione and into the roof of the carriage. His head collided on the way down, first with the luggage rack and then with the shelf of the window. Hermione heard a sickening snap with the second impact and watched as the Belgian twitched and jerked unnaturally in front of her.
For the collision with the window ledge had broken his neck.
Hermione huffed angrily as she stood up, straightening her jacket and re-doing the top button of her jeans. "That is the last time a man gets the jump on me! I sweat to Merlin! Apart from you, Harry ... you can jump me whenever you like! Thanks for the save, honey!"
Hermione felt her DA coin glow warmly between her breasts as though Harry were responding to her in the only way he was able. She grinned at the sensation and moved to the Belgian, taking his head between her hands ... and utterly breaking his neck, just to be sure.
"Cunt," she seethed, as the Belgian's last breath seeped from his lungs. She drew her wand and scored a jagged z-shape into his forehead ... the Potter calling card was delivered. "Now ... for you."
Hermione turned to the unconscious Spaniard and placed her wand to his chest. She flicked a deep Severing Charm into his body, cracking his ribs. She repeated the process three more times, until she had six shards of bone at her command on both sides of his sternum. Then she used her wand to turn them, so that they were facing directly into the Spaniard's lungs ... then she drove the jagged fragments into the fleshy organs. The Spaniard gasped out in pained surprise, then his lungs began to fill with blood. Hermione watched until little crimson bubbles popped at the corners of his mouth and trickled down his chin. Then she knew her work was done.
One more lightening-bolt cut later, and Hermione turned coolly to her would-be attackers ... and spat out her adieu at them. "Enjoy Paris, gentleman. I hear it's a killer city."
Then she left them to die in peace, and set off in search of a fresh compartment.
* * *
Hermione arrived at the Gare du Nord in Paris in late afternoon. A quick scout of the surrounding streets allowed her to soon locate her hotel and she hurried inside. It was typically Parisien ... chic, well decorated, comfortable. It would do very well. Hermione took out her reservation and strode up to the front desk.
"Ah, welcome Mademoiselle Brooks," the girl on reception swooned. "Your room is all ready for you. Number 212, second floor. Do you require help with your luggage?"
"Oh, I have no luggage, thank you," Hermione replied. "I am only staying overnight ahead of an early meeting tomorrow morning."
"Very good, Mademoiselle. Will you be requiring breakfast?"
"No, thank you, I shall be leaving very early."
"Very well. The dining room is open from seven p.m. this evening, and dinner is included with your reservation. Have a pleasant stay, Mademoiselle."
The reception girl slid over the key card and Hermione hurried off to the nearest lift and headed up to her room.
The bijou hotel was comfy and warm. Hermione felt relaxed as soon as she was in her room. She kicked off her shoes and socks, digging her toes into the squashy carpet underfoot. She breathed deeply to herself, satisfied that she had made it this far. She decided to take a long bath, thinking about what had happened on the train and wondering if anyone had found the bodies yet, and if whoever had sent them after her would soon dispatch a new set of potential assassins.
As she swirled her bath water and waited for the tub to fill, Hermione also mused over the fact that she felt no remorse for killing those two young men. What did that say about her, about the type of witch she was becoming? As if in response, both the Potter family ring on her finger and the gold Galleon at her neck grew warm, as though offering their unwavering support and validation for her actions.
That made Hermione grin wildly, and dispelled any sense of guilt she might have been in danger of feeling.
The bath water was warm, and the soothing bubble bath targeted Hermione's stress-heavy muscles. She stayed there for nearly an hour, only getting up in a panic when the hotel room door knocked. But it was only a spotty maid delivering room service and getting the suite number wrong. Still, Hermione was cautious enough to feel compelled to take her wand and cast a powerful Colloportus spell at the door, just in case anyone else tried to come in while she was sleeping.
That gave Hermione an idea. She visited the mini bar and took out a chilled bottle of Prosecco that she found there. Taking a glass, she poured out the sparkling liquid and moved to sit on the balcony of her room, enjoying the warm rush of Summer Parisian night air as it flowed over her flesh.
"Well, it's not When in Rome ... but Paris will do just as well!"
Hermione drank deeply and took in the view. The dark waters of the Seine flowed amiably nearby, while in the distance the rhythmic flash of the rotating light of the Eiffel Tower was interspersed with the dazzling eruption of light as the whole structure came to life in sequence. Hermione looked at the beauty of the city in fond reticence.
Then she lifted the Potter ring to her lips. "One day, Harry, you and I are going to come here and enjoy this properly. It will be ever so romantic ... perfect, in fact, for our honeymoon! Are you listening to me, Harry Potter, wherever you are? I don't care what it takes, or what I have to do, but I am so going to marry you! I swear it, if it's the last thing I do!"
Hermione watched the Parisien night for some hours longer, finished her Prosecco and then slid onto the soft sheets of her bed, wishing that Harry was there with her but more resolutely determined than ever to bring him back to life, so that one day they'd revel in this city as husband and wife. Then she decided that she might as well make use of her dinner reservation while she was here, maybe snag herself another bottle of wine while she was at it.
For it turned out that all this killing of Dark Wizards didn't half stir up an appetite in her.