Summary:

Hermione hunts down Florizell Askew.

Chapter Text

London Mon 11 PM
NZ Tues 11 AM

Hermione had scoured every book that might reasonably contain information about Florizell Askew. Nobunaka's volume of Where Are they Now? seemed to be the last mention of her. But because the book was only two years old, there was a good chance that Askew was still alive and well, living as a shepherdess in New Zealand. Therefore, Hermione could find something better than a book: she could find Askew herself.

Nobunaka had given her a clue: Askew lived near a Muggle shop run by someone named William Spenser. With a little detective work, she had located the shop and marked out a three-kilometer radius around it. Askew had to live somewhere near there. And her house obviously wasn't Unplottable, as Nobunaka had been able to find it. So that meant Hermione could too.

After consulting the Ministry's global Floo network map, she found a location only thirty kilometers from Spenser's shop: a Wizard Inn called The Brindleboar in Northland.

Hermione dressed in Muggle clothing and packed lightly. She knew that Florizell would probably refuse to see her; showing up in Wizarding garb wouldn't help her chances.

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The Brindleboar was a small, sleepy place. When Hermione arrived in the Inn's lobby via Floo, the only creatures that even noticed were two elderly cats, and even they barely lifted their heads. She stroked one of the cats idly as she stood at the front desk, waiting for another sentient being to acknowledge her presence.

"Hello?" she called.

"Just a moment!" a voice trilled. A few moments later, a young wizard with a pompadour rose from behind the desk. "Oh, my. How long have you been standing up there?"

"Uh, not long," Hermione replied. Where had he even come from?

"Well I do apologize for the wait. Good heavens. And welcome to the Brindleboar. My name is Bernie. What can I do for you?"

"I'd like a room, please. And some directions, if that's possible."

"Of course, of course. You're in luck; the best room in the house is vacant for the next few days. It's the Gallant Room ... amazing views. Just amazing. It's a good thing you got here when you did; that room is almost always booked months in advance."

"Great," Hermione said, trying to hide the disbelief in her voice.

Bernie beamed, took her galleons and handed her a key. "It's just down the hall and to the right. First door you see. Now you needed directions?"

"Yes. I need to get here." She showed him her map and pointed in the vicinity of Spenser's shop.

"Hmm. That's a toughie. Let me consult with my travel expert on this one. I'll be back in a jiffy."

With that, Bernie descended beneath the counter once again. But before Hermione could even begin to figure out where the hell he was going, he was back again.

"Alright, here is what we've come up with," he said, giving her a piece of parchment. "When you leave here, walk about a kilometer down the main road. You're going to see a fountain. That's actually the gate into the Muggle world. Just climb into the fountain. Don't worry, you won't get wet," he said, noting Hermione's raised eyebrows. "When you get out of the fountain, you'll actually be walking out of a public toilet in the Muggle town square. Once you're there, you can get a bus that will take you two kilometers from where you want to be. From there, you're going to have to walk."

"Thank you."

"And here, take this." He handed her something wrapped in an old piece of flannel. "This is a portkey back to the Inn. So you won't have to go through all of that to get back."

"Wonderful."

"The portkey requires a deposit," he said, drawing the package back a little.

"Of course."

Hermione handed him a few more galleons, thanked him again, and retreated to her room.

It was a small room, but clean and cozy. Bernie had oversold the view a bit; the window looked out over a pleasant, but unremarkable, meadow. But Hermione had far more important things on her mind at the present. She left the small bag with her change of clothes on the bed and set out for William Spenser's shop.

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"Florizell Askew? You know you're the second person to come by here looking for her, don't you?"

"Am I?"

"Aye. Her sheep make the softest wool I've ever felt. Wonderful stuff. Got some things made of it right here if you'd like to buy some." Spenser gave her a large, gap-toothed smile. Figuring that he'd be more likely to share information with some lightly greased palms, Hermione purchased a long red scarf. He was right about one thing; it was incredibly soft wool.

"So do you know where I can find her?"

"Over yonder," he said, gesturing towards the west. "Follow that dirt path. You'll hit it eventually. But she mostly keeps to herself, you know. What business you got with her?"

"I just ... have to ask her something."

"She won't give out secrets about her sheep. Lord knows I tried."

"I appreciate the information, Mr. Spenser."

"And I appreciate your business." He smiled again and handed her the scarf, which she then stuffed into her bag. "Good luck with old Flory."

"Thank you."

The sun was hanging low in the sky. She'd never make it to Askew's by nightfall. Hermione weighed her options.

She decided that her best plan of action was to walk as far as she could before it got dark, and then find a secluded place. Once she found one, she'd memorize her surroundings and apparate there first thing tomorrow morning.

It wasn't a flawless plan, but it would have to do. She didn't want to waste time tomorrow. Not after reading what she'd read:

Log for Monday

A new kind of dream last night. This one was so stupid I don't even want to write about it. But I know you want me to. So fine. I was in a classroom somewhere (I want to say that it was a castle, but that doesn't make much sense ... even if I did go to a fancy private school, how many of them are actually in castles? And I don't mean like an old building from the 1300's, I mean an actual castle, with a moat and candles on the wall and ghosts. There are ghosts in castles, right? I think so. At any rate, where was I?). So I was in a classroom and was in some sort of argument with Black-Hair, and then somehow, I am turned into a ferret. It was humiliating. It is even more humiliating to write this. What a stupid fucking dream.

I am on my lunch break now. The last time I did this for you, I just wrote everything at the end of the day, but I actually find that I enjoy this a bit. I feel like you're reading it as I write it, even though I know that is not possible (It's not, is it? No, it's not).

Work was tolerable this morning. Clem told me that everyone in the office dresses up for Halloween, which is next Monday. I informed her that I would not participate in something so childish. I think I used nicer words, but I'm not positive. She really gave me the hard sell. She said that this year they were going with a Wizard of Oz theme. Fiona was going to be Dorothy, she was going to be Glinda, Rick was going to be the Scarecrow, Allison from human resources was going to be the Wicked Witch, and Johnny the IT guy was going to be the Cowardly Lion. They said they still needed someone to be the Tin Man. I said that if Tad dressed as a Flying Monkey instead of his proposed costume as the Wizard, I would consider it.

I don't mean that, of course. I have no intention of smearing my face in silver paint and wearing aluminum foil to work next Monday. But if saying it makes Tad don that Monkey costume, I will consider it a Noble Lie.

Tad cannot be the fucking Wizard. No fucking way.

The more I think about this, the more certain I become that I will call in sick next Monday. Thinking about Clem and Allison dressed like that is making my skin crawl. It's not even worth seeing Tad as a Monkey. Besides, if Tad doesn't take the bait and comes dressed as a Wizard, I will fucking lose my fucking shit.

Also, while I'm on the subject, I fucking hate those fucking decorations.

Fuck.

Back to work.

I thought the pumpkin was just as bad as the witch, but it's not. Not even close. Tad I.W. saw me sweating and ripping the edges of my papers, but I gave him the worst look I could muster and he shrunk back into his cubicle. Wanker. He cannot be a fucking Wizard.

I have to get out of here.

I told Rick that I thought I might be coming down with something and left early. I don't know if I'm going back tomorrow.

I need a run.

12 kilometers tonight. It was dark for the last quarter of it. I didn't mind.

My bed seems very cold without you in it, Granger.

Goodnight.

DM

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London: 8 PM on Tuesday
NZ: 8 AM on Wednesday

Hermione had made a smiley-face out of pebbles on the ground behind a large tree. She had also arranged four sticks so that they formed a square around the face, and put one large stone at the northwest corner of the square. It wasn't particularly artistic, but she thought it was rather clever on her part.

With both her artwork and its surroundings firmly in her memory, Hermione's apparation plot was a total success.

Sleep had been almost impossible last night. She kept the enchanted notebook next to her pillow so that she'd know immediately if he added to the log. At 1 AM, she heard words being scratched across the page.

Log for Tuesday

The fucking Decoration Witch fucking RUINED the fucking flying dream. Here is how: the broom. The fucking broom, Granger. I am flying on a fucking broom. I would think this is kind of funny, but fuck, it kind of makes sense. It feels like that's what I've been flying on all this time.

I knew I couldn't go into work after I realized that. Not with Her there on the wall flying on her sodding broom. Fuck. I called in sick. Fiona said I sounded like shit. She's right.

My body didn't let me run much. Maybe 5 kilometers. I jogged some, walked some, especially towards the end. It's cold out today, but it felt good.

Not sure what to do with my afternoon. I thought about calling you, but I don't really like telephones. Had to use one to call Fiona. That's enough for one day. Looked for owls in the park. Stupid of me ... they're nocturnal here. Maybe tonight?

I really feel like you're reading this as I write. Are you, Hermione?

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Hermione had wanted more than anything at that point to grab her quill and respond ... but she knew that was just about the worst idea she'd ever had. So instead, she swallowed a lump of tears, sipped water slowly, and waited for his ornate letters to begin appearing across the page again.
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Of course you're not. That's stupid. And what I wrote about owls? That is also stupid. But maybe not? I don't know anymore. I can't think right now. That itchy, bubbly feeling is driving me insane. Like I've got champagne underneath my skin. I'm going to go look for more sticks, I think. I will write more later.

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There had been nothing since then. She had to force herself not to compulsively check the book as she walked down the road to Florizell Askew's house, but every rustle of the branches or tall grass on the path sounded like letters being formed on a page.

It turned out that her apparation point was only half a kilometer from her intended destination. Florizell lived in tiny cottage surrounded by acres of sheep-dotted green fields. The wooden fence that enclosed the pasture was itself surrounded by a lush forest that stretched as far as the eye could see. Hermione's breath caught in her throat; she'd never seen anything quite so beautiful.

As she approached the house, she realized that she hadn't given any actual thought to what she was going to say to the woman. Askew hadn't wanted to talk to Nobunaka. Would she even answer the door? This particular concern was obviated by Askew herself, who was not even in the house, but out tending the sheep in the pasture. Hermione tried calling out to her, but got no response. She was either too far away or Askew's hearing wasn't particularly sharp. Or, of course, Askew might be ignoring her.

She got as close to Askew as she possibly could without actually climbing over the fence, cupped her hands around her mouth, and called out once more. This time, the woman looked up. Hermione waved frantically, heart fluttering in her chest. Please, please, please. And then, to Hermione's great relief, the woman put down the bucket and walked over to her.

She could not have been much more than five feet tall. Her face was deeply creased. Wisps of grey hair protruded from beneath her blue kerchief. Her ink-black eyes scrutinized Hermione suspiciously.

"Yes?" she asked. Her voice reminded Hermione of a door hinge that needed oiling.

"Uhm, are you ... Ms. Florizell Askew?"

"Who is asking?"

"My name is Hermione Granger. I'd just ... I'd really like to talk with you. Just for a minute. Please. I'm sorry to interrupt."

"How did you get here?"

"I ... I took the path."

"How did you get to New Zealand?" She spat on the ground. "Do not lie to me, girl."

"I ... used the Floo."

She gave Hermione a look of pure disgust. "I want all of you to leave me alone."

"Please!" Hermione's voice raised several octaves. "I don't mean to bother you! I just need your help."

"Leave me alone, witch." She turned and began to walk back to her sheep.

"Please! Ms. Askew! Please! I ... I made the same mistake you did! With Vasily!"

Askew froze in her steps, but did not look back at Hermione. "Then you are a fool. Like I was."

"I need your help."

"I cannot help you."

"But ..."

She put the bucket back down and sighed, folding her arms across her bosom. "I can't help you, Young Miss. What makes you think that I could help you if I couldn't help myself all those years ago?"

"I ... I don't know. I just thought ..."

"You thought wrong. There is nothing I can do for you. Not now." She picked up her bucket again.

"Wait ... please. I came all this way ... please. Just one question." Tears had thickened her voice to the point where she barely recognized it.

"And then you will leave?"

"Yes." Hope sparked in her chest.

"And you will tell no one you were here?"

"Yes." The spark gathered into a ray.

"Alright. One question." She spat again. "But I guarantee that you will not like the answer."

"Thank you." She wiped at her nose with the cuff of her jacket. "Thank you. Ok." She drew a deep breath. "If you could do the spell differently, what would you do?"

"You stupid girl," the old woman said, shaking her head. "You understand nothing."

Hermione blinked, waiting for her to say something else.

The woman's black eyes acquired a harsh glow. "I would not do the spell at all."

"But ..."

"I answered your question. Now go." And with that, Florizell Askew turned back to her sheep and walked away, never once even glancing back at Hermione, who stood at the gate for fifteen full minutes.

She had come all the way here for that?

When she finally realized that Askew had no intention of giving her anything else in the way of information, Hermione cursed under her breath and returned to the dirt path.

Before she had even walked a hundred meters, she heard the tell-tale scratching of letters across a page. She stopped in her tracks and snatched the book from her bag.

Log for Tuesday (Continued)

You would not like to see what I just did.

You will not like it when I tell you about it.

I had to get the bubbles out. The inside out. The seething to stop.

It doesn't come out this way. That's not the way it works. I knew that, but I had to try.

This way didn't work, but I have another idea for tomorrow. I think I'll just shower and try to sleep right now.

I miss you, Granger.

-DM
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"Oh, Draco ..." Tears coursed down her face. What had he done? Had tried to make a wand? Hurt himself? Hurt someone else? Hermione's stomach began to churn. This couldn't go on much longer. If only Askew had given her some help! "I would not do the spell at all." What kind of advice was that?

Unless ...

Sniffling, sobbing, heart pounding in her chest, Hermione stuffed the book back into the bag and left the path, headed instead for the thick woods that surrounded Florizell Askew's cottage.

Hermione walked deeper and deeper into the forest until her feet were covered in blisters, but she had finally found what she had been looking for: a small clearing. She tied her new scarf around one of the thinner trees and arranged a small cluster of rocks into a pyramid. That would have to do.

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She gathered her things from the Brindleboar and gave the portkey back to Bernie. He tried to ask her how she'd enjoyed the glorious views from the Gallant Room window, but she didn't have time for that. Not after what she'd just read.

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Log for Whatever Day it is

Fucking Tower, fucking Broom, fucking insides. Fuck. I can't keep this up. No more work. Not today. Fuck Rick and Tad and fuck this ... if it's Thursday, I might be OK. If not, Fuck. I'm sorry, Granger. I have to try again.

She tried calling him on his cell phone, but he didn't answer. Not that she'd expected him to.