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Roman Holiday Chapter Twenty-One “So,” Harry said, and the tone of his voice gave Hermione an uneasy twinge of foreboding. “Tell us all about it.” The three of them had commandeered the armchairs by the fire in the Gryffindor common room - which, in the absence of Fred and George, seemed oddly subdued - and drawn them into a half-circle. Hermione looked from one curious, avid face to the other and tried out her most innocent expression. “All about what?” Ron struck his forehead with the heel of his hand. “About what, she asks.” He rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Hermione. Lucius Malfoy, that’s what. Did you curse him, or didn’t you? What’s the scoop?” Hermione shrugged. “No need to pull a Skeeter, Ron. There’s not much to tell.” She shrugged. “He chased me. I cursed him. I got on the Knight Bus and it brought me to Hogwarts. End of story.” “Hah!” Ron shouted, making two fourth-years look up from their game of wizard chess and scowl at him. “So it’s TRUE,” he continued, sounding half-gleeful, half-disbelieving. “You really did it.” Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The fourth-years were openly staring now. “It’s supposed to be a secret,” she hissed. “Keep your voice down!” Ron was not to be swayed. “Did he gurgle?” he demanded. “Did he drool? Did someone step on him?” More thoughtfully: “I would’ve. If I’d been there.” She tried not to laugh, with only partial success. “Honestly, Ron ….” Harry, in the meantime, was looking contemplative. “Why?” he asked suddenly, and mistook Hermione’s suddenly hunted look for one of confusion. “I mean, why would he come after you? That makes no sense to me.” “Obvious, isn’t it?” Ron, on a roll, spread his hands theatrically. “I mean, Hermione’s a Muggle-born, isn’t she? And first in our class?” He shook a triumphant finger at them. “Now tell me - who’s right behind her? Who hates Muggles? Whose father bugs them about their grades?” Harry considered this for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right,” he said slowly. “I heard them - Malfoy and Malfoy - in Knockturn Alley, right before second year. And Draco was in trouble about his grades … only his grades aren’t that bad, are they?” The two boys exchanged significant glances. “That slimy git,” Ron hissed. “Isn’t it enough he buys his way onto the Quidditch team, without having his thug of a father try to assassinate anybody smarter than he is?” “Wait a minute,” Hermione said desperately. “You think Draco put his father up to it?” Oh, this was bad, she thought. This was very, VERY bad. “But that’s impossible!” Two heads swiveled abruptly toward her - one red, one black. Hermione’s stomach sank into her shoes. Big mistake, Granger, she thought wildly. They’ll never buy it now. Damn it, why couldn’t she have been born a better liar? “Impossible?” Harry asked, looking genuinely bewildered. “Why’s that?” “Um …” she began, and saw Ron’s eyes narrow with the beginnings of suspicion. And then inspiration struck. The best lies contained a grain of truth. “Because,” she said, putting on her best Impatient Face, “he TOLD me why he was there, and Draco had nothing to do with it.” She took a deep breath. “He wanted me to tell him where you spend your summers, Harry,” she said quickly. “He said you aren’t listed in the student directory. And I think there must be some kind of protective magic around your uncle’s house. Maybe even the Fidelius Charm.” She paused. Did they believe her? “Or maybe it’s Unplottable,” she added for good measure. “It could be that, too.” “No, it couldn’t,” Ron said. “Because we found it that summer, Fred and George and me, with the flying car. And Dad even hooked you up to the Floo Network, a couple of summers ago. Remember, Harry?” “Well, yeah. But maybe …” And that was it … they were off into a heated discussion of the possibilities. Hermione wasn’t listening - she was too relieved. She hoped with all her heart that she would never be called upon to be a Secret-Keeper. It was much, much harder than it looked. ** First day of classes. Breakfast in the Great Hall. Hermione slung her bag under her chair, slid into her seat, poured herself some pumpkin juice and was plowing through her cornflakes when the post arrived. “No Daily Prophet?” Ron asked, his mouth half-full of blueberry muffin, and Hermione shook her head. “After what happened two years ago? No thanks. I’ll read the library’s copy, but I won’t spend my money on that libelous rag.” She reached for a piece of toast. “Hermione, you’ve got an owl,” Harry said, pointing. “Not the Daily Prophet, either … letter from home, maybe?” “Maybe,” Hermione said absently, but she had to fight to hide a smile. Over at the Slytherin table, Draco was very pointedly opening his Charms textbook. But their eyes had met for a split second, and she knew he was watching her. Here goes, she thought. Operation Secret Admirer is underway. She slit open the little pink envelope, pushed her cornflakes toward the owl who had brought it, and drew out a small, plain white card. “Who’s it from?” Harry asked, and Hermione schooled her features into puzzlement. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s unsigned.” Given Draco’s sense of humor, she didn’t know what to expect - some half-sarcastic version of “Roses are red, violets are blue …”, maybe. Or perhaps an obscene limerick. Instead, he’d excerpted Matthew Arnold. God knew where he’d found the book, Hermione mused; Madam Pince didn’t stock a lot of Muggle poets. Interesting. ** “Oh,” she said softly, reading it again, and - only partially in jest - sat back in her chair to fan herself with the envelope. At the next table, she saw Draco’s lips twitch behind his textbook. Parvati, who had been watching Hermione with great interest since the arrival of the owl, seized this opportunity to pluck the card from Hermione’s plate. “Ooooh!” she squealed a moment later, her eyes racing over the words, and showed the card to Lavender. “Hermione, how exciting! You’ve got an admirer!!!” “Let me see that,” Ron snapped, and snatched the card. “What’s this? ‘The hopeless longing of the day’? What a load of …” “Look, Hermione,” Harry interrupted. He was reading over Ron’s shoulder. “Part of it’s in code, looks like. Bunch of numbers in rows. Some on the back, too.” Hermione reclaimed the card and studied it more carefully. “Hm,” she said. “Interesting.” “Interesting,” Ron echoed darkly. “That’s one word for it.” “Who do you think it is, Hermione?” This from a very giggly Lavender. Hermione shrugged. “No idea,” she said, gathering up her books and pushing back her chair. “Somebody who knows me pretty well, I guess.” “What makes you say that?” Harry asked. She shouldered her bag and sent him an amused look as she turned to go. “They’re giving me homework already.” ** Ten minutes into History of Magic, Hermione pulled out the little card. Usually she’d be taking notes. Usually she’d be the ONLY one taking notes. But Professor Binns had apparently mistaken his sixth-year class for his fifth-year class today, and was repeating the lecture he’d given them last year. And even she drew the line at writing THAT down again. She studied the back of the card. Above the series of numbers was a tiny drawing of a skeleton key. Well, that was easy enough. The key to the code. She copied the numbers down on a scrap piece of parchment, tucked the card away, and studied them again. Random order, it looked like. Numbers one to twenty-six. Aha, she thought. One for each letter of the alphabet. But why mixed-up? Hermione dug out the card again and copied down the second series of numbers, careful to duplicate the spaces between the groups. Maybe it was easy, she thought. A equals 1, B equals 2 … No. That wasn’t it. She erased her first effort surreptitiously and went back to the key. The first number was 16. Okay. 16 equals 1 equals A. 17 equals 2 equals B. Let’s try that. No. She erased again and glared at the card. Then she glared at Harry, who was highly amused by the whole process and watching her out of the corner of his eye. Quick glance up at Professor Binns. Make eye contact. Nod. That should take care of HIM for the next half hour, she thought. Now. Let’s try one more thing. First number. 16 equals A. Second number. 22 equals B. Third number. 7 equals C. Etcetera. Bingo, she thought, and slid the key and the coded message to the far side of her backpack, so Harry couldn’t read over her shoulder. The note didn’t take long to decipher. ** Ten p.m. tonight? I’ll pick you up at the portrait hole. Send your reply care of “The Wizard’s Guide to Dark Prophecies.” Write in code. I have the key. ** Parvati, who had noticed her copying out the numbers, leaned over and whispered something to Lavender at the next desk. “Did he sign it?” Lavender mouthed while Professor Binns was writing on the blackboard, and Hermione shook her head and turned her palms up. More whispering, interspersed with giggles. Hermione slid the decoded note under the desk and pointed her wand at it. “Incendio,” she whispered, felt it flake away to ashes in her hand, and sat back, smiling to herself. This could be fun. ** |