FIC: Of Dreams and Dragon Lords (Chapter 2) by LadyWhizbee
To: ladychi
Title: Of Dreams and Dragon Lords
Author/Artist: ladywhizbee
Pairing: Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione, Neville/Hannah
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,007
Summary: To know that one has a secret is to know half the secret itself.
Author's Notes: Dearest ladychi I apologize for the delay in posting this second chapter. RL has been quite busy. However, do know that I am diligently working on this gift for you, and I will post it for you as quickly as I can--even if it takes a bit of time between postings. xxx LW
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ladychi asked for a 'plotty drama with mystery, adventure and intrigue'. After I came out from hiding under my bed, I quickly realized that this request simply could not be done in one chapter so I've expanded it to six. I hope that you don't mind. If it is at all helpful, this story does include Charlie Weasley (his muscles), and dragons, of course. *G*
I owe a huge debt of gratitude to stmargarets and magglenagall for their wonderful advice and beta help. Also, megan29 for her help with the Romanian language.
And finally, thank you r_becca for creating such an inviting place to play.
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Chapter One - community.livejournal.com/takingitinturns/29211.html
*****
Rules of Secrecy
Hermione Weasley’s office at the Ministry is a source of comfort to her on most days. It’s bright, clean and organized. She has a lovely cabinet behind her chair for her most treasured books, and to her left a large window that, when Magical Maintenance is content, lets in the most glorious sunshine.
Her business robes are crisp and fashionable as well, tailored to fit her slender frame, and she has learned to tame her hair by tying it back into an elaborate knot. Something Ginny taught her once. She likes it this way.
The Ministry also has rules, which are comforting in their own way. Procedures to follow as well as routines, and while she spends most of her days reviewing those same rules to find infractions on the rights of humans and magical creatures, she still respects them. They are the rules.
These constants in her routine help her when her husband is away on assignment. She can stay busy doing things of great importance, and clear the worry and anxiousness that would otherwise fill her head. It’s comforting to be at the Ministry. Distracting. People need her here. They pepper her with questions and her brain stays active all day.
At night, though. At night the disquiet seeps in, filling her head with things she’d rather not remember. Memories float to the surface, reminding her that bad people don’t follow rules-they break them-and that they don’t care who they hurt in the process. And she knows that if she were out there with Ron-adrenaline pumping-her courage would sustain her. But in the quiet of her home at 2 am, her courage wavers and worry percolates, trickling through her veins like a poison.
It’s this weakness that she despises and works very hard to keep at bay. She is successful most of the time. After all, she is a Gryffindor.
A light knock rattles the glass pane of her office door. “Mrs. Weasley?”
“Yes?” Hermione looks up from her parchment to find Margaret Jenkins, secretary to the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, standing at her door. She automatically smiles.
“Madge! Come in.”
Madge nudges the door open and returns her smile as she always does, matronly and warm. Hermione thinks of a confession Minister Shacklebolt's once made that he thinks of Madge as the grandmother he never had, and now that Ron works for the department she knows this to be true. Madge’s hugs would compete with Molly’s any day. So would her homemade sweets.
But this visit to Hermione’s office is unusual. Madge is usually so busy with Auror business that she rarely makes house calls, warm or otherwise, and Hermione swallows, attempting to squash the nervous flutter of her stomach.
Madge softly closes the door behind her and slips into the chair across from Hermione’s desk. Straightening the chain on her silver glasses, she pauses before shifting slightly in her chair. Worry etches her face.
“I have something for you,” she says simply before slipping her hand into the pocket of her cardigan, carefully pulling forth a slip of newsprint. Her fingers clasp it tightly, and she does not reach out to pass it to Hermione yet. “I’m not certain that I should show you this, but I just-well-you mustn’t tell a soul. Will you promise me?”
“Yes, of course,” Hermione says immediately even though she has no idea what she’s promising.
Madge nods. She shifts her gaze back to the door to make certain that it is still closed and passes the paper to Hermione. “There are several who would disapprove strongly of showing you this-but I can’t help it. You were involved so heavily last time, and if nothing else the Rules of Secrecy cover you as Auror Weasley’s wife-so really, I think you need to see it.”
It’s folded in half, creased carefully in the center and Hermione unfolds it just as carefully smoothing out the center crease. The headline immediately captures her attention.
A New Dark Wizard Attacks the Innocent
Hermione’s skin begins to tingle and apprehension fills her lungs as she scans below the headline to the moving photo.
A group of people-clearly wizards-are completely encased, being burned alive, by a coiling snake of Fiendfyre. Arms flailing, each wizard attempts various spells to escape it. If the newspaper produced sound, their dying screams would be horrific. Hermione sickens; unable to watch it any longer she pushes the article aside, its words unread.
“The MLE confiscated this article from the Daily Prophet before it hit the streets,” Madge says in quiet tones so that no one will overhear her. “They were going to print a story on what happened the other night-while your husband and Auror Potter were on night duty-but we stopped them.”
Madge swallows hard, her gaze avoiding the photograph altogether. “It won’t stay out of the press for long-mainly because of the deaths-but for now we have some time.”
Gruesome or not, it is no longer standard procedure for the MLE to stop the press from printing anything. Hermione pulls the paper back to her and tries to read the article without looking at the photo, but she can’t avoid it long enough to focus on any of the words. It’s nauseating.
“Why, Madge?”
“Because of this,” she replies, pointing to another smaller photo further down the page.
Hermione has to squint to see it properly. The image is so small and distorted, it looks as if it was taken by an amateur. The night sky is pitch-black, but as she watches words begin to appear one at a time, scrolling in looping font across the inky-black sky:
Bring me Harry Potter or More Will Die
As soon as the words stop the suspended sentence shape shifts into a large dragon with a spiked tail, but it is no normal dragon. This dragon has three heads, each breathing deadly fire. And just as Hermione is able to register what she’s seen, the entire vision disappears, dissolving into the night sky. Her heart pounds.
Oh, Harry.
Madge clears her throat. “Officially, the MLE would like to get a better handle on this before it becomes public knowledge, so only a few people know.”
“The Minister?”
“Yes, he knows.” Madge allows herself a small smile. “He had to be restrained from trying to apprehend this foul person himself.”
Hermione attempts to smile, too, but she’s not certain it actually reaches her face. Her throat is scratchy, dry. “So Ron and Harry-they’ve gone to track down the thing that did this?”
“Yes.” Madge nods, the light in her eyes dying. “But not just them-there are several who’ve been assigned.”
“I see.” Like a moth to a flame, Hermione’s gaze migrates back to the horrifying photo of the wizards engulfed by fire.
She can almost feel the heat of it, a flash memory on her skin. The intense heat-scalding hot-and the fear, terrifying fear. How desperately she wanted to escape the Room of Requirement.
“Madge, if these were truly wizards-all of these people-caught in this fire, why didn’t they Disapparate?”
“That is one of the biggest questions,” she says with a nod, worrying her bottom lip. “They should have been able to, but something held them there. Not one of them escaped.”
Hermione looks up from the paper. “May I tell Ginny?”
Now it is Madge’s turn to look uncomfortable.
“Mrs. Weasley, I can’t-I mean-you know the rule.”
“Yes, but Harry and Ginny are engaged now,” Hermione presses. “They’ll be married soon, so she’s as good as Harry’s wife already. She should know what’s going on-particularly in regards to Harry.”
“The Rule of Secrecy doesn’t make exceptions for fiancées, and until it does I’m powerless.” Madge sighs, her expression pained. “I want very much to tell her, poor dear, but if it leaks out that she knows something she shouldn’t they’ll sack me, Mrs. Weasley. I’m already nervous showing you what I have, and you’re a wife! I can’t be taken away from my kids. They mean everything to me.”
The Aurors truly are Madge’s children. She has no one else and Hermione flounders, torn between the rules and what is right.
“Mrs. Weasley, you promised me,” Madge whispers.
“Yes, yes I did.” Hermione takes a deep breath and her vision clears with an inkling of an idea, a way around this, percolating in her head. “I will keep my promise, Madge. Don’t worry.”
*****
The biting wind slices down Diagon Alley as Ginny steps out of Madam Malkin’s shop. The darkness of the evening settles over her like a blanket and she pauses to let her eyes adjust. Burrowing her nose deep into her muffler, she begins to walk, listening to her heels clip smartly on the cobblestone street. There are only a few scattered people now as most of the shops are closing for the night and it’s cold, bitterly cold. The two garment bags she holds, containing bridesmaid’s dresses for Hannah’s wedding to Neville Longbottom, create a nice barrier against the wind, and the warm fires at Hannah’s entice her to carry on at a quick pace.
Another gust of December wind howls and so do Ginny’s muscles. Gwenog pushed them really hard today-all day. Her shoulder is killing her, the ache of it resonates all the way across her back and down her arm to her wrist-but she knows it will be worth it, worth it in the end. They have a huge match tomorrow, against Puddlemere, and they have to win if they want to play in the exhibition games for the International Quidditch League.
But even with the pressure of her upcoming match, she is glad that she was able to make it in time to pick up her alterations-and Hermione’s-for Hannah’s wedding. Ginny smiles despite the aching cold. Now they’ll be able to model their bridesmaid dresses for Hannah, and she will coo over them with generous smiles and warm hugs.
Neville is so lucky.
The wedding is set for New Year’s Eve. She hopes that Harry and Ron will be back in time as Neville asked them to stand up with him over a pint in October. Harry had been red-cheeked and thrilled it would be a shame if…
No. Ginny lifts her chin against the cold. They will be back in time.
The street lamps flicker overhead, and Ginny slips in and out of the quivering pools of light. As she turns the last corner toward the Leaky Cauldron the wind dies, hushed and silent, and her cheeks warm slightly. Hannah’s isn’t far now. She can just make out the sign up ahead.
Her garment bags slip, and as Ginny struggles to reposition them a soft flowery scent fills her nostrils. It’s pleasant but foreign, like gardenias and coconut milk. It’s certainly not native to London. Glancing up, it's then that she notices a different chill tickling her skin-a fog moving in.
No, not fog.
It doesn’t move like fog-smoke, maybe?
She isn’t certain. It’s hypnotizing, though, the way it weaves, multiple tendrils of white twining in and out, back and forth, and up and down towards where she stands, motionless.
An audible hiss fills her head but not her ears, and she shakes her head in confusion. Something deep within her feels as if she should understand what the smoke is saying but she can’t, much like a language she once understood but then forgot. Slowly the tendrils separate, fanning out across the alley like snakes, hunting for something, smelling for something. And then in one strangling moment she realizes…
Her…
They’re searching for her.
Gasping, she breaks out of her trance, stumbles backwards and grapples for her wand-panicking at her ignorance. What is wrong with her? Why is she just standing there like a Stupefied idiot?
The tendrils of smoke weave rapidly, interlacing in a fine labyrinth of a design back and forth across the alley, advancing closer still. As her fingers grip her wand the air turns into something tangible, a gossamer web, a very tangible silken thread that tingles and clings like a net and Ginny knows that she will not be able to Disapparate unless she escapes it. Even worse, even worse than being trapped, she can feel the smoke (which has yet to touch her) seeking, wishing, longing for her heart. It’s evil. Pure evil.
Powered by her fear, she runs. Breaking free and through the outer edge of the invisible mesh that holds her she turns the corner only to run into something solid.
Human.
A firm grip circles her upper arm like iron, and without thinking-defense mechanism, Quidditch instinct, whatever it may be-she wrenches, thrashing and kicking, successfully breaking away, and twists on the spot.
It’s in that moment of Disapparating that she dares to look at her assailant and is nearly thrown off course. Clenching her eyes shut against the gruesome giant of a man, she focuses on her destination and disappears. The feel of his vise-like grip burns her arm, but it becomes a memory as she is squeezed into tight Apparition.
The warmth of the Leaky Cauldron washes over her as she arrives, welcoming and wonderful, and she breathes deeply. Her heart races madly, thudding in her ears, and she wheels to watch the heavy oak door willing that man-that horrible man with his pocked face and emotionless eyes-not to have followed her here.
“Ginny!”
Hannah rushes up to hug Ginny, radiant as always. “My goodness, your cheeks are freezing! Come over here-the fire is warm.”
Ginny follows willingly, like a doll. She lets Hannah rub her arms and pamper her by spinning her in front of the fire, but her head spins, too, and her ears prickle, waiting for the door of the pub to burst open with a thud and that same evilness to fill the air-fill her head, fill her heart. What if that man comes to the pub to warm up too?
“Hannah, has Hermione arrived?”
“Oh, yes. She’s here-should I take you to her?” As she turns her cheerful eyes from folding Ginny’s cloak to her face, her expression sharpens. She glances from Ginny to the door and back again. “What’s happened?”
Tight-lipped, Ginny shakes her head.
Without a word, Hannah takes her by the elbow and leads her down a slender corridor towards the private rooms. The sounds of the reveling guests in the main hall soon become muted, distant, and it’s only then that Hannah murmurs in her ear, “I have a pot of hot tea for you, and a fire. Hermione’s waiting. She’ll want to know what’s happened.”
“I’ve brought the dresses…from Madam Malkin's.”
“Later, perhaps. My wedding is hardly important at the moment.” Hannah slinks an arm about her waist. There’s no generous smile, warm hugs or cooing over bridesmaid’s dresses as Ginny had planned, but instead quiet serious eyes. Certainly no wedding fluff. “After you’ve had some food, we’ll take a look at them then, yes?”
Ginny nods as Hannah guides her into the room. It’s her favorite private room-the one with the wide beams and whitewashed walls. There’s a potted flutterby bush in the corner that makes a pleasant rippling sound, like water in a brook. It almost comforts her.
“Ginny! Thank goodness.” Hermione smiles, putting her newspaper down beside her tea. The fire roars behind her. “I was beginning to worry.”
“Sorry-Gwenog kept us late today.” Ginny lays the garment bags across the back of a chair and Hermione stands.
“Oh good, you brought the dresses.” Hermione rushes forward to inspect them but stops short, gasping. “What’s happened?”
“She’s just about to tell us.” Hannah rings the bell for their food and settles Ginny into a chair, pouring her a cup of steaming tea. “Here, drink this.”
Ginny’s stomach rolls at the thought of drinking anything at all, but she knows she should and will. Her hands are shaking so much that she clamps them together in her lap instead of reaching for her cup. Clearing her throat, she glances up at their watchful eyes and finds the tablecloth much more soothing to study. Finally she speaks quietly, telling them everything. By the time she is done, Hermione and Hannah look just as pale as she feels.
“You could feel it?” Hermione whispers. “The smoke?”
“Yes, it was dreadful. Pure evil.” Ginny shudders. “And even though it didn’t touch me-I could feel it reaching out to trap me like a fly in a web.”
“What do you suppose happened to that man?” Hannah asks wide-eyed.
“I don’t know-I don’t want to know.” Ginny finally takes a sip of tea, but it hardly stops the bile rising in her throat.
There is a knock at the door. Their dinner has come and Hannah rises to tend to it.
“You should tell Madge,” Hermione leans forward and whispers to Ginny while Hannah is occupied at the door.
It is then that Ginny notices that Hermione is ashen, visibly shaken, and Ginny feels as if she should comfort her somehow but can’t quite spare the energy yet.
“She would want to know-needs to know,” Hermione adds, looking quite distressed. “Maybe even Minister Shacklebolt.”
“The Minister?” Ginny blanches at this. “Why would he need to know?”
Hermione’s mouth opens and then closes, as if she can’t quite find the right words. Ginny seizes on the silence.
“I suppose I should tell Madge.” Ginny leans in, picking at a spot on the tablecloth. “But I’m not sure what I would say-I don’t think I could properly identify the man, and I don’t know what the smoke was-just how it felt. What would I tell her?”
“That you were attacked,” Hermione says simply, urgently. “You have to tell her, Ginny. Whoever he was-whatever he was-he wanted you.”
Ginny shudders at the bluntness of her words. It’s true, though, and she knows it.
“Yes, all right.” She nods. “I’ll speak with her, but it’ll have to wait until after my game tomorrow. Gwenog expects us to report at 7 am.”
Hermione nods. She seems content with this, though a frown still worries her forehead.
“Stay at my house tonight.”
The independent part of Ginny recoils at this idea, but the larger whole of her feels relieved not to need to go home to an empty flat.
“Okay, all right, I will.” Ginny pauses, biting her lip. “Hermione, have you heard anything about Harry and Ron? There wasn’t anything in the Daily Prophet about the Fiendfyre attack, and Harry didn’t tell me anything before he left. Have you found out anything at all from the Ministry?”
Hermione swallows and glances nervously at Hannah, who is speaking at length to the waitress about a mistake in their order. She leans towards her.
“Everyone is being extremely close-lipped about it. No one is talking.”
“Not even Madge?”
Hermione flutters her hand over her tea. “Well…”
“What did Madge say?”
“She, well, she didn’t say much-but she’s nervous, extremely nervous, and the Ministry is hiding things.”
“Hiding things?” Ginny’s long suppressed loathing of the Ministry begins to rear its ugly head again. “What are they hiding?”
Hermione shifts in her chair, coloring slightly. “Oh, Ginny…I don’t…I can’t really say.”
“You can’t say?” Ginny can feel the heat rising in her cheeks. “Or you won’t say?”
“Ginny-”
She cuts her off. “I’m not a child anymore, Hermione-nor am I an underage witch-so please don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not patronizing you, I just can’t-”
“Well, here we are.” Hannah sweeps in and lays out the food. It’s steaming hot and smells wonderful, and both Ginny and Hermione retreat from each other, sinking back in their chairs.
Ginny’s frustration soars, but yet the pleading look that Hermione is giving her across her mounded plate of food speaks volumes. Ginny swallows hard, knowing that she needs to give Hermione a chance to explain. And she will. Once she’s had a glass of wine. Or two.
“I think they finally got everything right.” Hannah bustles around, taking her place at the table. Her eyes sparkle again as she places her napkin on her lap. “Let’s eat, and then once we’re done I’d love to see your new dresses. Maybe that will help us put that horrible man behind us for a while. Yes?”
Ginny and Hermione smile at Hannah, but when Hannah tucks into her food and Ginny dares to catch Hermione’s eye, she sees her own thoughts mirrored back.
As wonderful as it would be to forget what happened tonight…in truth, they both know it’s only just the beginning.
*****
The brittle air bites angrily, nipping at Harry’s ears, chapping his face and making him wish for the thousandth time today that he could be anywhere else but in the middle of a mountain forest, camping.
Camping.
It’s a bit more luxurious this time. They have food, for instance. And proper heat to warm the tents. They also have several more people in their party to keep watch at night, to gaze at sophisticated equipment during the day, and help decipher whatever it is that they should do next.
But still.
The snow is thick, the wind is cold, and Harry does not want to be here.
“Tea?”
Harry turns from studying the rise of the mountains, to find Ron holding out a flask in his gloved hand. He nods, taking it from Ron.
“Thanks.” As he uncaps it, steam licks and curls around the opening before whisking upwards and disappearing into the night air.
Ron steps up, joining him on the perimeter of the camp watching the woods. “Seen anything?”
Harry’s eyes water as he force-swallows his first sip of scalding hot tea. Shaking his head, he coughs as he speaks. “No, and I don’t think I’m going to either.”
Ron rocks on his heels in an attempt to keep moving, keep warm. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
The camp behind them is bustling with people. Large spotlights light it so brightly that it nearly looks like day, and people rush about busily in the pursuit of something that Harry has long lost interest in. He runs his hand through his hair, impatient.
“Why are we here, Ron?”
Ron shrugs. “This is the Dragon Labyrinth, yeah? The place where hundreds of dragons come to nest, raise their young, and come back to die.”
“Yes, but why are we here?” Harry presses.
“Because of the symbol-the dragon, the message. It brought us here.” Ron pauses, studying him closely. “Why? What’s up?”
Harry shrugs, and turns to look out at the empty forest. He absently kicks at a clump of snow with his boot. “I dunno. It just feels-”
“Weasley!”
A loud voice rings out across the compound and both turn. A small pack of men approach. They are backlit from the camp which makes it impossible to discern faces, but Harry can tell that one man is Moorhen by the way he walks. The rest are obscured by their heavy winter gear and snow boots. Harry frowns. Another man is limping.
“What is it, Moorhen?” Ron steps forward, slightly in front of Harry.
“This man-” Moorhen stops short in front of them, gesturing briskly over his shoulder. “This man claims to be your brother. Is that true?”
Harry squints, trying to take in the faces that he really can’t see in the glare of the camp until one steps forward.
“Charlie!” Ron sounds just as shocked as Harry feels. Ron pummels Charlie in a hug. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Oh, you know. Dragons.” Charlie grins over Ron’s shoulder. “Hiya, Harry.”
“Hey, Charlie.” Harry grins back.
Charlie steps around Ron and claps Harry on the shoulder.
“Let’s go someplace warm and talk.”
Chapter 3