LAST TANGO IN PARIS Hermione read until her eyes burned and the torches guttered, then fell asleep over her notes in the big comfortable armchair by the fireplace and didn't wake up until the house-elf – one she recognised from her schooldays; his name was Meech, if she recalled correctly, and he'd been particularly disapproving of S.P.E.W. – tapped her on the shoulder. He'd just built up the fire again and moved her scattered books carefully to one side on the table, to make room for a covered platter. The platter smelled like breakfast, Hermione thought, and rubbed her eyes ruefully. Must be morning. “Thank you,” she said. Meech bobbed a short bow, but didn't speak. Most of them didn't, really, come to think of it. Dobby was a renegade in more ways than one. Hermione wondered briefly where he was and what was keeping him, that he hadn't come to see her yet, then shrugged, uncurled herself from the chair, and stumbled over to inspect her breakfast. Rashers and eggs – the former crisp to breaking point, the latter sunny-side-up and goggling at her like bulging yellow eyes. Hermione pondered the thought of Transfiguring them into scrambled, which she much preferred, then decided it was too much trouble and ate them as they were. She was just pouring herself a second cup of tea when Sal came floating through the bookshelf, a Perluceoed parcel under his arm. “Morning.” “So I'm told.” She pushed the teapot toward him. “Have you eaten?” He eyed the remains of her breakfast with a skeptical eye. “I'll pass. Find anything interesting since we last spoke?” “Actually, yes.” Hermione pushed back her plate and reached for her notebook. “I wasn't getting anywhere with the hemisphere approach,” she said. “So I went back to the issue of memory.” “And?” She tapped the notebook with the flat of her hand. “And I've got a theory. Which will be put to the test the minute I've taken a shower and figured out a little bit more about the MRI scanner. I don't want to take the time to go into it now.” “Fair enough.” Sal nodded toward the ghostly parcel now floating a half inch above the table. “Jackpot,” he said. “Take a look, why don't you?” Obediently, Hermione drew her wand. “Finite Incantatem,” she said, wincing as the parcel retangibilised and thudded onto the table, causing her tea to redistribute itself over her breakfast plate, the majority of her notes, and the underside of her bare forearm. “Ow! This had better be worth it.” “Oh, it is.” Sal floated a little nearer. “Got to hand it to that Linchpin, she's a clever creature.” He frowned. “Maybe too clever.” Hermione, nursing her injured hand, rolled her eyes at him. “You just don't like goblins.” “You're expecting me to deny it?” He flicked his wand hand, sending the book's protective covering of oilcloth spinning across the table. “Read the whole thing last night,” he said. “And quite a tale it was, too. Bit of a disappointment in one sense, though.” Hermione was already peering at the tiny, crabbed French script. “How so?” “Well,” Sal said. “Couldn't have been the last log, could it? Otherwise it'd have been on the ship when it disappeared, and we'd never have gotten our hands on it in the first place. This one's an earlier log – just earlier, judging from the dates.” “So the voyage isn't listed here.” “No.” Sal lifted his wand slightly to turn another page. “But look at what is. Fascinating little route they've got here, and as regular as the Sunday papers, too. Operated out of the French port city La Rochelle.” “La Rochelle,” Hermione repeated. “I've been there – once, a long time ago. With my parents. Not much to it now – though we did go down to the Old Port, which was interesting.” She frowned at the page. “Well, if de Fondant wrote this himself, he must have had a quill like a scalpel. I've never seen such tiny writing in my life.” “I'll summarise,” Sal said drily. “La Rochelle's the principal port, but de Fondant made regular runs to Greenland, the Eastern border of what's now the U.S., and Mexico. But this—“ he flipped to the last page—“this is the most interesting bit of all. Look at the date.” Hermione did. “Christmas Day,” she murmured. “1308.” “Exactly.” “That's just a few weeks before Philip excommunicated the Templars and tried to raid the Treasury.” Sal rocked back on ghostly heels. “Can't get anything past you, can I?” He looked smug. “So. Take a look at that last page, and tell me where the ship was headed next.” Hermione scanned the page, hesitating now and again to puzzle over an unfamiliar word of French. “You're kidding,” she said finally, and heard Sal chortle. “Not on your life.” Alain de Fondant's final voyage, if his logs were to be believed, had been to Scotland. If the Templar treasure existed, it was buried practically in their own back yard. ** Tempting as it was to get sidetracked by pirates and Templar gold, there was business at hand. And if she didn't do it, nobody would. Hermione finished her breakfast, mopped up the puddle of spilled tea underneath her plate, and went to go find Neville. This wasn't difficult, as he was in the first place she looked: seated next to one of the narrow quilt-covered beds in the Longbottoms' private ward, feeding his mother porridge with milk and carefully wiping dribble off her chin between bites with a gaily printed tea towel. “Hi,” he said, flicking her a quick glance as she came in. “I'll just be a bit longer. I don't think she wants much more. And I've already done Dad.” “I need to talk to you about the MRI procedure.” Hermione cast her eyes about the sunny little room. “This may not be the best place. Some of it's – um, tricky.” “Oh. Right.” Neville poured more milk into the porridge before refilling his spoon. “Josie said you'd probably want to do that today. She was reading the manual that came with it, all last night.” He insinuated the spoon between his mother's slack lips and tipped the porridge out of it in a gesture both practiced and gentle; watching it brought a lump to Hermione's throat. “She wanted to talk to you about the whole thing, actually. Moved all her morning classes to after dinner, so she could help out.” “Oh – really?” Hermione blinked. “That's nice of her.” “Yeah.” Neville gave his mother's chin a last thorough dab with the tea-towel, kissed her unresisting forehead, and stood up. “She's in the room where Dumbledore's keeping it. I'll meet you in there in a minute, okay?” Joséphine was indeed already in the MRI room; when Hermione came in, all she saw was a pair of shapely stockinged feet, hanging out of its end. “Trying it out?” she asked, amused, and Joséphine came sliding out, braids askew. “Something like that.” She looked uncharacteristically grim as she clambered out of the tray, swept the manual off its side table and proffered it to Hermione. “Have you read this?” Hermione nodded. “Once. I was going to go through it again before we started.” “Mind if I ask you a personal question?” “Mm.” Joséphine leaned closer. “How the hell are you going to get them to do it?” “Well, that's the thing,” Hermione said. “That's what I had to talk to Neville about.” “They've got to hold still,” Joséphine said, “for thirty minutes straight.” She consulted the manual, flipping madly through page after page until she found what she was looking for, and stabbed her finger at a paragraph. “There. There's a little red dot or something they've got to keep their eye on. I didn't see it when I went in, but that's because it wasn't turned on. But it's imperative that they don't move much of anything at all, for the whole half hour, and I'm not sure if either one of them can do that.” She slapped the side of the gleaming machine. “You heard this thing when it's turned on? It sounds like a rocket launcher on speed. Minute we turn it on, they're going to flip out.” “Silencing Charm?” “Would take care of the noise, sure,” Joséphine conceded. “But not the claustrophobia or the movement issue. Even people who are in their right minds sometimes have big problems with these things – let alone someone who doesn't understand, and can't be told.” She had a point. Hermione chewed on her upper lip. “Neville,” she said. “I was rather hoping he'd calm them down …” Joséphine was already shaking her head. “Maybe a little,” she said. “But he doesn't have any real control over them, Hermione. He does better than anyone else, but it's because he's so goddamn nice.” She lowered her voice. “Which I love him for. But I'm not so sure Slick's going to be an asset in this case.” “What do you mean?” “Too soft-hearted,” Joséphine said. “Think about it, chérie – what's going to happen the first time we fire this baby up? Frank's going to go spastic. And Alice …” She shrugged. “She'll probably wee herself, poor thing. And if I know Slick, which I do, the minute that happens he's going to shut us down and march them right back to that sunny little yellow sickroom. Where'll they'll stay, to the detriment of not only your research, but themselves as well.” Hermione considered this. “You're probably right,” she said. “So what do we do?” “Well,” Joséphine said, “that's the thing. See, I've got an idea.” ** By the time Neville joined them, they were deep in the middle of a trial run – Joséphine at the controls and Hermione staring up at the little red dot, sandwiched into the machine as neatly as the filling in an éclair. Apparently standard M.O. dictated that the subject of the test wear protective headphones, but they'd decided to experiment with the Silencing Charm instead. So far, so good. Staring at the red dot made her feel like she was developing tunnel vision, and her eyes felt dry, as if she'd forgotten to blink, but she wasn't otherwise uncomfortable. Joséphine had a point, though, she thought. The Longbottoms weren't going to like wearing that clamp on their heads. Or being shoved into this big, faintly-vibrating machine like a loaf of bread for the baking. And from the bevy of twitches and tics she'd observed in them just in the few instances they'd met, she wasn't at all sure they could lie still enough to let the scan work properly, even if whatever Joséphine had in mind could keep them from panicking. Which just went to show that she'd underestimated her friend's resourcefulness. “Everything okay?” Neville asked when she came sliding out a few minutes later. Hermione nodded and pasted on a smile. “Fine,” she said. “No worries. They're going to be just great.” He looked doubtful. “It's sort of – close – in there. Isn't it?” “Bigger than it looks,” Hermione lied, and shot Joséphine a warning glance. A moment later, the Potions Mistress had disentangled herself from the bank of controls on the opposite side of the room and was flowing toward them, oozing sensuality. Preoccupied as Neville was, he still couldn't help but watch her walk. “Hey, Slick,” she said, and leaned in for a kiss – brief, by Hermione's standards, but searing. “How was breakfast?” “Good,” he said, brightening. “They're getting used to the new room, I think. They ate a lot more today – both of them.” “Excellent,” Joséphine said, and draped one arm around his shoulder. “Don't look so nervous,” she said into his ear. “I was just over there at the controls, remember? This thing works like a charm.” “It looks like a torture chamber.” Joséphine arched a brow. “And Hermione looks like she's been tortured?” Neville bit his lip. “Well, no.” He was peering at the interior of the MRI scanner again. “But I can't imagine either Dad or Mum doing this. I think it's really going to frighten them.” “Neville, relax,” Hermione cut in, grateful to see that Joséphine already had him by the elbow and was dragging him gently back from the MRI. “Joséphine's going to give them some Calming Compound, just before. They'll be fine.” This was a lie, of course – anything that sedated the body would sedate the brain as well, and they needed the Longbottoms at full capacity for the scan. Still, it seemed to calm Neville down a little. “You're sure?” he said. “It won't upset them?” “They'll be just fine,” Joséphine repeated, backing him toward the door. “Look, Slick,” she said, sliding her hands up to his shoulders. “If anyone's going to be upset by this whole thing, I think it's you. Why don't you go ahead and bring in your dad, then go and wait with Alice until we're ready for her? If anything's going to get her panicky, it'll be not knowing where Frank is.” His eyes widened. “I hadn't thought of that.” When he was gone, Hermione let her breath out in a long sigh and sank into the nearest chair. “Whatever this plan of yours is,” she said, “I hope it works. Neville's not going to be happy if we send his dad back traumatised.” “Trust me,” Joséphine said. She was relaxed and smiling – one hand in her pocket, the other toying absently with the end of one thin braid. When Neville reappeared with his father in tow, she took Frank Longbottom gently by the hand and helped Neville settle him in a chair. “We'll take it from here,” she said, and kissed Neville swiftly, hard on the mouth. “Go make your mother comfortable. I'll see you in forty minutes or so.” For a moment after he was gone, neither of them said anything. “Well?” Hermione said finally. “What now?” “Hang on,” Joséphine said. “Give me a second. I've never done this before.” She swallowed hard, straightened her robes, and went over to kneel in front of Frank. “Sort of risky, when you put it in context,” she said. “But hey – all in the name of science, right? And Slick's worth it.” Hermione didn't like the sound of this. “Joséphine—“ she began. “What are you—“ But Joséphine had already raised her wand. “Hang in there, Dad,” she said, and took a deep breath. “Imperio!” Hermione's mouth fell open. **
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