The Faintest Trace of You by Ginger Baggins Chapter 3, 1993
Hermione tripped over a raised stone, stumbling a few paces
which sent the tower of books she had tucked under her chin
tumbling to the floor with an echoing crash.
And I told you to let me carry some, Harry muttered, waving his
wand and levitating them back into her arms, save a couple of
the larger ones which he took into his own.
Thank you. She replied quietly, feeling
somewhat embarrassed by her own stubbornness.
Usually, Hermione would have nothing but gratitude for
Harry's initial offer to carry some of her checked out books.
More arms meant more books, after all, and she was preparing
for her final exam of the year like it was a sport.
But earlier that morning, she had a rather unfortunate
interaction with Cormac Mcclagan, who had suggested that
her arms were too weak to lift the cauldron she was pulling
from the shelf. So her independence was born of
insecurity. It's fine.
Harry shrugged, kicking open the door and holding it open for her
with his foot. Let's just get these back to the
tower before we see Ron, otherwise he'll worry we can't
to read to. Oh bloody hell, look who it is.
Harry jifted his chin down the corridor as they entered it, and
Hermione followed his movement, her eyes dancing over each of
the meticulously carved alcoves before resting on the figure
standing at the far end. Drake and Malfoy stood with his
back to a large set of doors, which was still settling from
his entrance, with wide eyes and slightly dishevelled hair.
Her spine stiffened in an instant, her throat closed, and
all she wanted to do was drop the books again and March over
there. But she couldn't.
Not only was Harry and everyone else still under the impression
that they, Malfoy and Hermione, hated the very core of each
other, but she also hadn't spoken to him in almost two
months. They had had it out, just as she
knew they would. Admittedly, they had managed to
nurture a civil relationship for far longer than she'd expected.
Eventually, she considered their interactions to be friendly.
She stopped expecting to see him snarl and snap whenever she
entered the room, just as she'd stopped being all that surprised
by an increasingly wide smile on his face.
Instead, they had studied together, helping without
hesitation when one of them needed an extra ounce of brain
power. They'd read together books that
they'd respectively borrowed from the library, some of which
Malfoy's mother had sent him from the vast collection of his
ancestral manner. He had always let her fawn over
those ones, nothing but genuine excitement in his tone as he
told her about the vast expanse of wall to wall shelves that
housed ancient tomes. She'd desperately wanted to see
it, to run her fingertips across the leather spines of books and
smell the musty, earthy tones of the aged paper, but she'd known
better to ask. She would not be welcome at
Malfoy Manor. Over the many weeks of nights
spent in the back of their potions room, she'd almost
forgotten who he was and what he'd done.
Until that last night, when he'd made a disparaging comment about
Arthur Weasley and she'd snapped.
It was a rage not unlike what she'd felt when she struck him
across the jaw, though she managed to keep her hands firmly
pressed to her sides this time. She'd let it flood from her
mouth like a tsunami, hardly stopping to take a breath as she
categorized his every indiscretion, and he'd watched
her unmoving, eyes wide and unblinking without saying a
word. He didn't bulk when she called
him a spineless, invidious bigot.
He didn't flinch when she slammed her book closed and
tossed it back across the table towards him, and he didn't so
much as take a breath when she rose from the stool and loomed
over him, her fingers twitching for her wand.
He didn't apologise. He didn't try to excuse or
defend his actions, nor did he try to fix them.
He had just taken what she had to give him until she'd entirely
run out of steam and tore out of the room.
At the time, his inaction felt madding.
Did he not think it mattered? Did he not consider her anger
justified? Did he have nothing at all to
say for himself now that Hermione had spent 6 long weeks
doing very little with her free time but reflecting?
She considered the possibility that he remained so static
because he agreed that it mattered, that he found her
anger entirely justified, and that he knew there was nothing
he could say for himself that would make it any better.
She had grievances to air and he had responsibility to take, and
so they'd done just that and then gone their separate ways.
He'd avoided her like the plague ever since, darting down
adjoining corridors when he saw her coming, moving to the
opposite end of their shared classrooms, ensuring their eyes
never met during mealtimes in the Great Hall.
It was another side of him, not the one scarred with the need to
deride, not the one softened by the emergence of friendship, but
one wholly removed. Ever since Hermione had arrived
at Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy had been in her life, an academic
rival, an adversary, a blood sworn enemy, a secret
conspirator, a friend, and now nothing at all.
She was surprised to find herself so rattled by his
absence, just as she was surprised to find him so rattled
now halted at the end of the corridor, moon eyed and pressed
up against the doors as though trying to melt into the crack
between them. Harry muttered something that
sounded a lot like monk got him so spooked, but she could hardly
hear it through the ringing in her ears.
The entire world dialed down to focus solely on Malfoy, who was
now clawing at the door behind him to find the handle.
She wanted to call out to him, to reveal their secret
understanding and run over there.
To pull his hand away from the door handle and just hold it.
To tell him that it wasn't fine, not yet, but that she wanted to
read with him again. She wanted to share her quill
ink again. She wanted to bicker about who
was better at Arithmansi, even though it was obviously her.
She wanted to tell him that maybe, just maybe, if they could
nurture the seed of friendship that they had planted in the
corner of the Potions classroom, something precious could flower
and time, which would pass anyway, would turn their current
wounds into scabs. But she didn't get a chance to,
because Malfoy shoved himself back through the large doors and
hurried back the way he'd come before she gathered even half of
the courage she needed. You all right, Hermione?
Harry asked, looking her over. Did you hurt yourself tripping?
No, she said, dazed. I don't think so.
He shuffled the books in his arms and started walking again,
calling over his shoulder. Madame Pomfrey can check you
over when we go to the Infirmary.
Come on, if we piss about much longer, Ron will be fuming.
Ronald was indeed fuming. He was lying in his hospital bed
and eating what looked to be his third cup of chocolate pudding
while scowling at the door. His leg was still bound in a
fibreglass cast and lifted by a tower of soft pillows.
He had been in the hospital wing for three days now and would
likely be there until the end of the week, when his bones had
sufficiently repaired themselves, accelerated thanks
to the potions in Madame Pomfrey's arsenal.
For the first day, Ron had seemed almost pleased to be in
here. Long and dramatic sighs as he
stared at his leg, calls for cup after cup of pudding, for Harry
or Hermione to fluff his pillows or bring him juice.
It has grown quite old, swiftly after his siblings came to
visit. Now he was just bored and angry.
I thought you were coming to visit hours ago.
He called as they entered, Spoon's still in his mouth.
Hermione needed to stop at the library.
Harry replied and she smacked his arm for pinning the blame
all on her. He raised an eyebrow and looked
down at where she'd hit him. Ow, I brought you a book, Ron.
She said sweetly, ignoring the pleading look Ron sent Harry's
way and his silent mouthing of not another.
This one is a puzzle book. It'll help keep your mind
active. Ron took the book and turned it
over, his brows pulling together.
What's Sudoku? With more enthusiasm than she
actually felt, Hermione proceeded to spend the next hour
detailing the rules of completing A Sudoku, offering
examples, and eventually just completing 4 by herself, while
Ron stared at the ceiling and muttered something about how
he'd rather actually have his leg cut off.
Undeterred, Hermione left the book with him.
She and Harry parted ways as they left the Infirmary.
It was the last day of their studies and he had to visit
Remus, while she had to visit Mcgonigal.
As she stepped foot into the familiar office that belonged to
the stern but fiercely loyal head of her house, she found it
utterly empty. A note had been left on the
large, deep rosewood desk in the centre of the room.
Leave it in the drawl. She turned on her heel, scanning
the room for any lingering cat eyes, but found nothing.
Eventually, after much hesitation, she lifted the time
Turner from around her neck and dropped it into the drawer,
locking it with a quick collar portis for good measure.
The last thing anyone needed was for the device to fall into the
wrong hands, especially after everything that had happened
recently. Never a dull year, she mused
quietly, tapping the front of the drawer before swiftly
exiting, worried that another moment in that room would result
in her pulling the time Turner out of that drawer and running
away with it. Her walk back to the common room
felt easier, like a significant weight had been lifted from her
shoulders instead of the very minimal weight the Turner
carried. There had hardly been a moment
without it around her neck since the beginning of the school
year, something she was extremely grateful for in
hindsight. She pressed her hand to her
chest as she took the stairs too at a time, wondering how long
the phantom presence of it would linger without that device.
Sirius would be dead. Buckbeak would be dead.
Harry would be dead. It didn't bear thinking about,
and yet she thought about it anyway.
They had been so lucky this time, but what if she hadn't
been in possession of a second chance?
What if she'd not been there to howl at Remus as he transformed
to bring Harry to the lake? After?
You need to leave now. A sharp voice called from the
top of the stairway, and Hermione immediately recognised
it to belong to Percy Weasley. Not her favorite of the
Weasleys, but the one she usually found herself relating
to the most. She wasn't sure what that said
about her. He was standing in front of the
portrait that led to their common room, leaning over a boy
much younger than him, his eyes filled with indignation.
The boy was a bit shorter than Percy, but not by much.
He was arguing back something about his right to be there,
demanding proof that Percy had the authority to remove him.
Hermione ran up the last few stairs, already prepared to jump
in and defend Percy from Malfoy. She asked, short of breath, her
heart thundering loudly in her eardrums.
Malfoy turned to look at her, shock flooding his features,
followed immediately by smug relief.
He looked back at Percy and crossed his arms, letting his
shoulders rise and fall in a lazy shrug.
Looks like I don't need to go in there.
After all, He'd been trying to get into the common room.
That was unheard of for anyone in another house, let alone him.
What business do you have with Hermione?
Percy asked, eyes darting between them with suspicion.
I'm sure she has no desire to see your pointy little face, for
it's all right, Percy. She winced.
I borrowed a book for a potions project.
I'm sure he's just here to collect it and ensure I haven't
damaged it. It was quite remarkable how easy
lying had become over the last year.
She jutted her chin towards the next staircase, and Malfoy
nodded once. He set off towards it under the
watchful and somewhat astonished eyes of Percy, who finally
managed to pry his gaze from the retreating form of Malfoy to
look to her, a silent question in his eyes.
She smiled warmly in answer, and he seemed to accept it,
begrudgingly stepping through the portrait with little more
than a confused head shake. Malfoy was waiting for her at
the top of the stairs, his smug smile turning tense as she
approached. She grabbed his wrist and pulled
him through the first door she could find, a cobweb covered
storage room filled with boxes that she'd rather not know the
contents of. Malfoy kept to the corner, a
flick of his wand lighting the candles that dangled from the
ceiling in metal holders. The flames danced across his
face in hues of orange and gold, and she allowed herself an extra
moment to just take him in. She'd missed him.
Granger. He said roughly, hands pressed
deeply into his pockets. I was hoping I'd catch you in
the potions room tonight before the summer.
I can't. She replied quickly, electing to
ignore how his mouth twitched downwards at her refusal.
I don't have at the means to get that undetected any more.
Ah, you gave back the time Turner, yes?
I'm not taking. She stopped short, her eyes
widening to the size of saucers. Malfoy's eyes sparkled silver
under the flames as she realized what a truly terrible mistake
she'd made. No, I, I didn't, how did you?
He shrugged. It's the only way you could have
taken all your classes this year.
I'm surprised nobody else caught on.
Hermione opened and closed her mouth four times before puffing
out a strangled laugh, shaking her head and deciding it was
better to say nothing at all. She couldn't say yes, that would
be beyond imagination, but she couldn't say no.
He'd never believe her lies, so she said neither.
Look, Malfoy, I don't know why you came here.
I needed to see that you were all right.
He cut in without a hint of hesitation.
She reared back, brows furrowed, and spread her arms out to her
sides. You can see that I'm fine.
Malfoy's head tilted. There were rumours about Potter,
but there's never just him, is it?
She averted her eyes, knowing that she could hide no secret
within them. Of course there had been
rumours. There were always rumours.
Unfortunately for her, they tended to be correct.
Malvoy didn't press For more information like she'd expected
him to. He just stood there and watched
her, a curious expression upon his angled face.
Are you all right, Granger? He asked quietly, earnestly.
She swallowed once, and then nodded.
Yes. Ah, wee all right.
His question was hardly more than a whisper, tempting her to
step closer, to hear him better, but she did not.
I think so, she replied, feeling that last remaining weight fall
from her shoulders and watching with fascination as Malfoy
relaxed in much the same way. But I can't meet you in the
potions room any longer. It's too risky.
I'll find somewhere better, if you want.
His eyes met hers, and this time she did not look away.
OK. They remained there in a moment
that seemed suspended from time itself, lingering for longer
than it should. Neither of them moved closer.
Neither of them moved further away.
The truth was that she wasn't sure if they were all right.
All she knew was that she wanted them to be one day.
With that, she gave him one final smile and turned for the
door and reaching out for the handle.
But it never got there, for a long set of fingers wrapped
around her wrist. Before she could reach it, her
entire body froze like ice. Her eyes snapped to where he
held her wrist, but she did not tear herself free from his
grasp. Slowly, very carefully, he
loosened his grip and slid his hand down into hers until they
were palm to palm. He squeezed lightly and did not
let go, not even when she looked back up at him, not even when
she raised her eyebrows, not even when she squeezed back.
Have a good summer, Granger. He said, and then he removed his
hand from hers and his presence from the room.
She stood there long after he'd gone, trying to understand what
on earth had just happened, what on earth he'd meant by it.
It took her an embarrassingly long time to realise that her
hand was not, in fact, empty. Within it was a folded piece of
paper. After physically shaking herself
back into her body, she carefully unfolded the paper,
smoothing it out against her thigh before holding it up to
the light. It wasn't ink, it was charcoal,
smudged and shaped like Oh good Godric.
It was her. A drawing, not of perfect
likeness, nothing that pure blood sacred 28 parents would
fawn over, but it was undeniably her.
She was sitting in class, her nose pressed into the spine of
an open book, her hair wild and untamed and larger than life
itself. It wasn't crude at all, not with
horns on her head or overly exaggerated book teeth.
It was just her. How he'd seen her, he'd drawn
her. He'd chosen to draw her kindly.
She hadn't even known he could draw. 1998 days turned into
weeks, Weeks turned into months, and before Hermione knew it,
winter arrived. After letting her sit in the
hills of the Luthworth Cove for almost an hour, her escorting
wizard, who she now knew as Christopher, had quietly held
out a hand to help her to her feet.
She followed him silently, waiting for the feeling of focus
to click back into place. But it never did.
When they arrived at the camp, which was significantly larger
than she'd been expecting, she decided to save her
introductions for the morning after and collapsed into her cot
for the night. Camp life was different to what
it had been with Harry and Ron. The three of them had scraped by
with sheer will and determination, a common goal, a
loyalty that ran deeper than any of them could explain.
This was decidedly not that. Hermione got along well enough
with the others, all eight of them, but it was only
Christopher with whom she felt truly comfortable speaking.
Sobbing on a hill with someone went a long way to forming a
bond, she supposed. Christopher would join her by
the fire during the nights and share his pocheen.
He would tell her about his life back in London, about his
brownstone townhouse with hard wooden floorboards, his kitchen
tiled in soft lilac, his garden filled with wildflowers and
bumblebees. He told her about his son
Tobias, who was nearly four and obsessed with his toy broom.
He dreamed one day of catching the golden Snitch at a World
Cup, who loved to listen to his mother sing while she cut up
fruit for his lunch. He told her about Sarah, the
woman he loved with his very soul, how she had taken his son
to a safe house under Kingsley's order while Christopher had been
compelled to fight. He told her of how Sarah's
blonde hair would fall in tight ringlets, and how her hands
would dance across the ivories of their grand piano and she
would listen, her head tipped back to the night sky, watching
the constellations peer through the clouds.
She imagined Christopher, who was a tall, thin man in his late
30s with a nervous disposition and glasses that settled on the
bump of his nose, chasing his son through the house, socks
sliding on those hardwood floors to the blissful sound of the
Forte piano and laughter. Those imaginations would soon
morph into memories of her own, her mother humming as she tended
to the garden, her father picking her up and placing her
on his shoulders, the sound of familial delight echoing through
the home. The other Order members were
polite enough. They delegated the essential
work evenly between them, each of them cooked, cleaned and
reinforced the vast number of wards that surrounded their
little slice of land. It reminded her of primary
school trips to Carey Camp, long before she had a name for the
feeling, the difference that stopped her from fully
integrating with her peers. She was fortunate enough to be
given a tent of her own, possibly due to the weight of
her name, and she relished every moment she got to spend under
that silenced canvas. She spent her nights by the
lamp, reading the letters that Harry and Ronald sent.
Both were busy and lonely, desperate for a life they had
not yet won. She missed them so much that her
teeth ached with it, sometimes to the point that she had to
bite down into the flesh of her palm and let out a muffled
whimper. When she wasn't cooking or
cleaning or sitting by the fire reminiscing, she was working.
Every morning, three of them would venture out into the
surrounding area and look for any trace of their target.
Augustus Rookwood. From the Intel provided by the
Ministry, they knew that he had fled to this corner of the
country immediately following the battle, taking a small
number of devout followers with him.
All predictions had proved correct.
Small offsets of Death Eaters, usually led by figures
considered powerful during Voldemort's rule, heard
separated and spread. Now each were battling for a
seat that had been left empty. While three of them set off on
their pernicious scavenger hunt, the others would pour over
information and clues already discovered, trying to place the
jagged puzzle pieces together efficiently enough to plan the
next day's exploration. Every day they tried, and every
day they failed. After an unsuccessful week in
one location, they would admit defeat, pack up their tents,
tables and fold out chairs and move a few miles along the
coast. Thus far worse places we could
be, Christopher would tell her as they marched along the
Jurassic Coast, bending down to collect pebbles embedded with
fossils and shoving them into his pockets for his son, he'd
once informed her. Yes, she would think, feeling
the familiar wash of guilt, that she could not smell the scent of
roses in the same way he could. But they are also far better.
They're set up on the Isle of Portland, the sound of violent
waves crashing against the Cliff side, carrying on the wind that
frantically whipped her hair across her face.
They set up their campaign, silence, the ACT so routine that
it had become almost a procession, and buckled down for
a night beside the fire. Hermione did not stay up late
that night, opting instead to huddle under the tartan blanket
that had done well to keep her fingers and toes attached during
the winter in the Forest of Dean.
She pulled out that little slip of paper from the book at the
bottom of her bag and unfolded it, tracing each of the charcoal
lines with the tips of her shaking fingers.
Shelves filled with various odds and ends, a plush sofa overrun
with cushions of all shapes and sizes, and a fireplace big
enough for them to both sit beside.
It was just as she remembered, just as she saw it in her
dreams. She could almost feel the bite
of the cold walls on the skin of her back, almost smell the aroma
of citrus and firewood, almost taste the sweetness that they'd
shared on the tip of her tongue. Don't.
She listened to herself for once, and folded the paper back
into the book. The following morning she awoke
to the sound of giggling, which was about as jarring as the
dreams that plagued her slumber. She dressed quickly, layers upon
layers to battle the bite of the sea breeze, and headed out to
find the source of the disarming sound.
She found Emma and Catherine by the fire, taking turns to coat
themselves in what looked like a rather expensive and
painstakingly crafted bottle of perfume.
She almost tripped over herself in an effort to get there,
grabbing the bottle right out of Emma's hands and smashing it
amongst the flames, not flinching at the affronted
shriek of the woman. What the fuck are you doing?
Emma screamed, grabbing Hermione by the sleeve and yanking her
back. That was expensive.
It was also foolish. She hissed, turning her head
between the two women who were staring at her like she'd grown
her second head on her shoulder. I don't care how expensive it
is, it is a liability. You don't want a smell that
noticeable stuck to you, trust me.
The two women faltered, their wide eyes slowly settling into
horrified understanding. It wasn't their fault, they
didn't know, but she did. She knew.
She knew it all too well. War was not a time for the
simple pleasure of a floral fragrance.
I'm sorry, I didn't think, Emma began, but Hermione shook her
head. It's fine.
She said quickly, lacking the energy to lecture for once.
Just be careful. You shouldn't go near the edge
of the wards until it's washed off.
But I'm on patrol today. Catherine said, wringing her
hands together. Hermione pinched the bridge of
her nose and blew out a short breath.
I'll swap with you today. Catherine's frown deepened.
But you went yesterday, what does it matter?
She mumbled, and then louder. You can take my shift tomorrow
and share your mini cheddar's. Catherine's mouth quirked, her
eyes returning to their usual sparkle, and Hermione was once
again reminded of just how young they all were.
Too young to be removed from their families, to be huddled in
tents and planning arrests. Too young to be worrying about
the consequences of wearing perfume.
Thank you, Hermione, Catherine said, reaching out to clasp her
elbow and squeeze. She was lucky to be grouped with
these people. They were kind, they understood
her need for space and silence and did not begrudge her seeking
either. She should make more of an
effort with them. Did Harry have anyone to talk to
in London? Was he staring at the walls of
the Ministry and feeling like a caged bird?
Was Ron spending his nights by the fire in the Scottish
Highlands? Was he hungry?
Was he cold? What about Draco?
She pulled her arm out of Catherine's grip and stifled a
smile and went to Christopher in the planning tent.
Today they would scout a quarry and nature reserve on the island
known for its displays of quality Portland stone.
An elderly wizard in the Hidden Tavern located 2 towns over in
Dorchester informed Emma yesterday that a man of
Rookwood's likeness had been asking about the limestone, so
it was an obvious next step for them to visit.
Perhaps they would find the bread crumbs they were searching
for. Perhaps they would find nothing
and another week of aimless wandering would ensue.
They, Hermione, Christopher, and Martin, who was the youngest of
them all, set out immediately after breakfast, trudging up the
steep hills of the island and breathing in crisp air.
Hermione could taste the salt in her hair as it blew over her
cracked lips, and she had to fight hard not to linger in the
memories of beach holidays with her parents, buckets and spades
and castles built from sand. Her mother would collect shells
for decoration and her father would provide advice on
structural stability. Together, they would build a
home for the crabs. She'd not seen many great
castles back then, nothing to the scale of Hogwarts, though
she supposed it did not matter. They all crumbled the same way.
Do you know that you can't say rabbit here?
Christopher said as they approached the quarry entrance.
It's taboo. Martin raised his eyebrows.
Taboo. Not like that.
Taboo. Christopher corrected with a
sharp laugh. Just local superstition.
Explain. Hermione asked, pulling out her
water bottle and sipping. It's an unwritten rule that you
don't use the word here. Back in the days of quarrying by
hand, the sight of one of those little creatures would send
everyone packing for the day. It meant an increased risk of
landslips. They wouldn't return until the
land had been inspected. That seems inefficient.
She muttered. And ridiculous.
What do they call them here if they can't say Rabbit?
Martin asked, jogging to keep up with the long strides of
Christopher's legs as they passed by Limestone towers
underground. Mutton.
Christopher laughed, shooting a toothy smile over his shoulder.
All furry little things. Anything except rabbit, really.
If the locals overheard us saying it now, especially in a
quarry, they would. Hermione stopped walking.
Martin stopped jogging. Christopher stopped speaking.
The entire world came into a complete standstill as her brain
struggled to process what had just happened.
Martin screamed. Hermione's legs wobbled as she
lunged for her friend, and Christopher fell limp, blood
gushing from his temple where a chunk of Portland stone had hit
him with considerable force. Protego Martin bellowed,
deflecting another chunk of rock, followed by a curse that
shot over Hermione's head. She didn't hear him.
She didn't hear any of it. She could only hear the gargled
sounds coming from Christopher, who was heavy in her arms.
His skull was entirely crushed on one side, his eye gouged and
unmoving, his teeth all but shattered.
She didn't dare try a healing spell, not with the injury so
dire, so deep in his brain, so unquestionably fatal.
Christopher tried to speak, but Hermione shook her head.
Don't, she whispered, clasping his hand in hers.
Don't just breathe. He tried to do just that, but
they were the strangled breaths of a dying man grasping for his
final taste of air. Hermione couldn't feel a thing,
not a single thing, as she held him closer and pulled what
remained of his glasses from his face, smoothing back his hair.
Christopher tried again, determined.
Sarah. She felt nothing.
You'll see her again soon, you just need to hold on until we
can get you back. Catherine will be able to help
if I can. Just.
Christopher, who had very little energy left to spend and even
less time to spend it, used it all to raise his hand to her
hair, wrapping a single curl around his blood coated index
finger, and his mouth, though split and broken, dripping with
blood, quirked at the corner. Sarah.
He asked once more, so quietly she almost didn't hear it.
She closed her eyes, deciding it would be crueler not to lie.
Her hand covered his and held it as tightly as she could for as
long as he had left. Yes.
She smiled at him. Yes, it's Sarah, your home.
Tobias is in the garden, he is safe, I am safe, you are safe.
It seemed so slow, even as the world around them erupted into
chaos. The others arrived, notified by
the Protean charm in Martin's hand, and spells flew past her
ears with a deafening roar. And yet she heard none of it,
saw none of it, felt none of it. Christopher's hand dropped, but
she didn't let go, not until the dust settled, not until
Catherine kneeled opposite her and checked for his pulse,
solemnly shaking her head. When she found nothing but
increasingly cold skin, she looked up from the body in her
lap and out to the surrounding stone pillars.
She saw it almost instantly, watching from atop a perfect
square cut of Portland stone. A rabbit.
With help, Hermione managed to get Christopher's body back to
their camp, where they covered him with blankets that could no
longer keep him warm, and placed him inside his tent, which could
no longer offer him shelter. I'll write to his wife, Martin
said, pressing a hand on her shoulder as he passed her by.
No, she wanted to say, let me tell her.
Let me tell her that he thought of her with his final breath,
that he was with her even if he was with me.
But she couldn't get her mouth to work, so she merely nodded
and watched him leave. She stood there at the entrance
of Christopher's tent for what felt like an hour.
The rain began and stuck her hair to the back of her neck,
washing clean lines through the blood on her skin, coating the
grass beneath her with it. Instead, she kept staring at his
unmoving body, covered as though it could possibly make anyone
believe he was resting. She stared, and she felt
nothing. Oh, my knee.
Emma called from the other side of the camp.
We need you. Her brows pulled together and
she turned slowly, stiffly, to face her camp mate.
What for? We need your input on the plan.
The plan? The plan was to get Christopher
back to London. Back to his wife and his child,
where he could rest in peace, maybe bury him in the garden
where he could watch his son grow throughout the summers, or
at a family lot where people could visit at any hour of the
day and keep him updated or wait.
Hermione said, nodging herself free from her thoughts.
Do we know where Rookwood went? Emma nodded once.
Yes. And there it was, a flicker, a
spark, a hand bursting out from the surface of the water.
Finally, there in the rain, covered in the blood of her
newly found and newly lost friend, she felt something
beyond the ache of absence. It bubbled in her chest,
spreading down the length of her arms and bursting from her
fingertips. Rage.