The Faintest Trace of You by Ginger Baggins Chapter 5/19/94
Hermione, like any girl her age, was not immune to insecurity.
Her hair was too bushy. Her teeth were once too large,
her eyes were a rather unremarkable shade of brown, her
skin was littered with freckles that were difficult to cover
with muggle makeup or glamour charms.
She'd worked hard to not let those insecurities bother her,
focusing instead on all the ways she was remarkable.
She was a witch, powerful and capable of things beyond
imagination. She was whip smart and she could
read circles around almost any of her peers, could out charm
her professors, and brewed her first batch of Polygy's potion
at 12. She was brave, she was loyal,
and she cared deeply and was cared for in return.
But even with all the affirmations in the world, she
still caught sight of her reflection and turned her head
quickly. She still asked Madame Pomfrey
to continue shrinking her front teeth after a misfired spell of
Malfoy's hit her during a particularly pathetic fight with
Harry, and she still spent an ungodly amount of time applying
sleek easy into her hair and wiggling into a floaty, gorgeous
dress that her mother sent her after she'd written a desperate
plea the prior week. Her efforts had not gone
unnoticed, not even by Harry and Ron, who looked as though they
had been hit several times over with the Confundus Charm.
When they spotted her at the top of the daunting stone steps,
Harry had blinked at her rapidly while Ron's jaw had fallen
slack. Any thought of attraction
between them was decidedly unwelcome, but it had
nonetheless filled her with a sense of confidence and power to
be looked at twice. It wasn't just them though.
Padma had thrown her a slapstick worthy double take before
smiling and telling her she looked radiant.
Seamus told her that she looked well fit before his date.
Lavender slapped him hard on the chest, but it wasn't until she
placed her hand into the upturned and waiting palm of
Victor Crum that people really took notice.
Whispers of is that Hermione Grange of with.
Crum followed them as they weaved through the crowd and
took their place on the dance floor.
Victor had paid them no mind, smiling warmly at her as his
hand came to rest on her lower back, guiding her to step closer
to him as they waited for the music to begin.
Ready. He asked quietly, his thick
Bulgarian accent dripping with charm and warmth that made her
feel like the only person in the ballroom.
The music began and so did their dance.
Victor LED with practised ease, spinning her in graceful
circles, his eyes crinkling every time a sharp giggle
escaped her lips. She could feel the burning
stares of her classmates as they swept across the floor, shock
and Glee from her friends, confusion and bitterness from
her adversaries. Her me own?
Victor asked quietly, cutting through the noise, his hand
curling tighter around her waist.
You are looking lovely. She took her chin to hide the
blush that lit up her face. Thank you, victor.
He winked as he dipped her, and she let out a delighted squeal
as her stomach dropped. They danced for three
back-to-back songs, pushing through while other couples fell
to chairs and took off their shoes.
Hermione so rarely let herself be this carefree.
Her hair was beginning to curl, beads of sweat were collecting
in her collarbone and running down the dip of her spine, and
her feet were almost entirely numbed.
But she was laughing and spinning, dizzy with innocent
pleasure. Her only respite came when she
stopped in front of the table where Harry and Ronald sat.
Neither of them seemed to be having nearly as good of a night
as she was. Harry was scowling, no doubt
wishing he was the one twirling Cho around instead of Cedric.
Or perhaps his mind had wandered once more to the mysterious egg
they had yet to crack. Ronald was fighting the overly
ruffled collar of his ostentatia stretch robes, no doubt wishing
to be literally anywhere else. Hermione did not have the time
to appease them tonight, so when Victor returned with two drinks
and offered another dance, she did not refuse him.
This dance was blessedly slower. His arm curved around her back
and pulled her into him, and she rose on her tip toes to rest her
head on his broad shoulder. It was comfortable, nice even.
His thumb pulled away from their interlocked hand and ran
soothing lines along the bones of her wrist and she didn't stop
him. Her, me orn.
He muttered, his breath travelling down the bridge of
her nose. I will write after I return.
She smiled and nodded into his shoulder.
Neither of them spoke again. The songs wound down into
silence, and the swaying stopped.
Victor stepped back and bowed to her, pressing his lips to the
knuckles of her hand, still held by his.
It was only once he'd departed the ballroom that she noticed
how empty it had become. A few students remained at the
tables, almost all of them falling asleep into their
crossed arms. She bit down on her lip so that
she wouldn't stand there, grinning to herself like a
maniac, but it took some considerable thought not to.
Victor was a true gentleman. He listened to her, he enjoyed
her company. He complimented her stuffy
clothing and wild hair. He spun her around a ballroom
all night without the expectation of anything in
return. It would be easy, so very easy,
to fall for him. They could write throughout the
school year and visit each other in the summers.
He would be gentle with her, despite his brutish appearance.
He might kiss her. He might cup her face between
his broom calloused hands and tilt her mouth to his.
She might enjoy it. Except that wasn't what she
wanted. It had been beyond enjoyable to
wrangle herself into a pretty dress and turn around a dance
floor with him, to rest her head on his shoulder and imagine a
life in which she could live so completely in that moment.
But she could not live in that moment.
Not in reality. In reality, her mind was so
often lost in thoughts of someone else, someone who was
likely already back in his dormitory with his friends, or
tucked into an alcove pressing cinnamon kisses onto the mouth
of his girlfriend. The thought made her stomach
twist into a perfect sailor's knot.
She turned over her shoulder and scanned the room, half hoping to
find him, half hoping that he, Draco Malfoy, was standing in
the far corner with Theodore Knot and Pansy Parkinson, but he
was not looking at either of them.
His hand was clasped, white knuckled and shaking slightly
around a glass of wasail. His mouth was pressed into a
hard line, jaw clenched and pulsing.
His eyes were locked firmly on her, unblinking, glistening with
fire that she could not decipher.
She let her mouth lift into a subtle smile and he seemed to
relax slightly in return, his shoulders easing an inch.
He eyed the door at the far left of the ballroom, which she knew
would lead to a long, dark corridor and eventually a
severely underused courtyard. His head tilted towards the door
and she nodded once. He said something clipped to
Pansy, who threw her hands up in exasperation before grabbing
Theodore by his tie and dragging him to the drinks table.
Malfoy placed his glass down with a hard clunk as he passed
another table and marched across the ballroom, not sparing
another glance in her direction and pushing through the doors
without a second of hesitation. Deciding it would do well to
wait an additional few minutes before following him out,
Hermione turned for the drinks table instead and almost ran
directly into the looming body of Blaise Sabini.
She clenched her teeth and stared at him.
He let out a long sigh and stared back.
She needed to say something or anything to get past him, but
the look on his face told her that any attempt she made to
play nice would only be dismissed.
Instead, she offered him a tight lipped smile, and the returning
roll of his eyes was notably the most expressive she'd ever seen
his face. The consequences of getting
caught following close behind Malfoy suddenly paled in
comparison to the consequences of trying to converse with
Blaze, so she turned on her heel and made for the door.
Malfoy was in the courtyard, leaning against a cobbled wall
underneath a fire lit sconce. He smiled at her as she
approached, and he looked so disarmingly beautiful that for a
moment it felt like the whole world halted on its axis.
Suddenly, her feet didn't hurt anymore.
Her body was alive and thrumming with the incandescent joy of his
company, which had become somewhat of a lifeline over the
course of the school year. Tuesdays and Thursdays were
nights that she longed for when she sneaked down to the Room of
Requirement seeking a place to find him.
They'd sit side by side on the two seater sofa or stretch out
by the fire. They would complete homework or
practice spells or more recently, just talk.
She would tell him about her parents dental practice and he
would ask follow up questions until she placed a palm over his
mouth and begged him to stop. He would tell her about holidays
he'd taken with his parents to other magical communities across
the globe, even going so far as to request the photographs from
his mother which showed a grinning Draco and reserved
Lucius on the backs of camels or standing outside other ancestral
estates. He'd become quite proficient at
regaling her with tales without sounding like he was bragging,
although he was fallible and still slipped into that pompous
persona every now and again. Now, though, she begun to find
it quite endearing. Grainger.
He said, pushing off the wall and holding out a hand to her.
She took it without question, letting him pull her into an
embrace. They didn't often touch like
this, save for a few arm squeezes or thigh taps whenever
one of them finished an essay or performed a particularly
challenging spell. And yet it felt like the most
natural thing in the world to settle against his chest.
You didn't save me a dance. I didn't know you wanted one.
She counted, even as they began to sway to the sound of the
rustling leaves. His head dipped, his lips close
to her ear as he whispered. Of course I did.
What would Pansy say? She replied, mentally kicking
herself or indulging in her unwarranted jealousy.
She felt him sigh, felt his arms tighten around her, felt his
throat work as he tried to formulate a response.
She did not look up, pressing herself closer to him as they
shifted awkwardly from left to right, wanting to hold on to
this moment before it could slip away.
If I'm being honest, I don't really care about her opinion.
Hermione frowned, finally lifting her head from his chest
to look at him. They were so close, noses almost
touching, and she could see a world of emotion in the depth of
his silver eyes. In that second, under the dim
light of the sconces, the wind blowed strands of platinum and
dark brown hair until they twined together, Victor Chrome
might as well never have existed.
Why are you dating her then? She whispered, already knowing
the answer she'd asked him before the second he'd informed
her of his relationship. Through a grimace, he swallowed.
Because it's expected of me. It was his answer for
everything. Expectation.
The weight of his family, the responsibilities of his name,
his commitment to his social circles, the desires of his
parents. He measured his life in gold,
sealed approval. Hers was not enough, she knew
this, but the stab of disappointment that rippled
through her rib cage could not be denied.
It's expected of me. She'd heard him say it too
often, His treatment of her in years past, his rivalry with her
house and her friends, his disdain for the people and
places she loved. It may have been due to
expectation, but he seemed all too capable of living up to it.
It was difficult, especially on nights like this one, to
reconcile both versions of the boy she knew.
The one who curled his lip and made snide comments about
Ronald's robes. The one who rested his chin on
the top of her head as they slow danced in the courtyard.
I don't like talking about this, She admitted quietly.
She didn't want to ruin whatever it was they shared.
The thought of sleeping through a Tuesday night without event
filled her with dread. She wanted to keep a hold on
this, even if it was only with the tips of her fingers.
He seemed to agree. He turned his face to press his
nose into the crown of her head, considerably more intimate than
any contact they'd shared before now.
And yet, it felt exactly right. Neither do I.
He sighed. Then let's just stop.
She gasped as he gave her a light shove in her right
shoulder and spun her around, using his other arm to steer her
into rapid circles. Her laugh was loud, and it shook
her entire body. Her hair, now curly and frizzy
once more, flew over her shoulders as she threw her head
back and cackled at the stars. It was a beautiful night, made
even more so by ending it here in perfect company.
Once her laughter died and her breath settled to normal, she
twirled back into him and held onto his arms, grinning up at
his Crescent moon eyes. There was a flash of something
in his features, that cheeky glint snuffing out like a candle
flame, and her grin fell into a frown.
What is it? She asked, lifting her hands to
settle on his shoulders, not blinking as his dropped to rest
on her waist. Your teeth.
He started, brows pulling together.
I'm really sorry, Granger. I didn't mean I know.
She cut in, shaking her head. It was an accident.
You've already apologised too many times.
Not enough. He grumbled, thumbs gently
caressing her ribs. You made them smaller.
My parents had been trying to shove braces in my mouth for
years. If anything, that saved me from
another summer of arguing about it.
She shrugged, but he did not look convinced.
That ugly, persistent voice of insecurity bent down to whisper
in her ear, and she felt cold. Do you think they look bad?
He stopped moving, his brows smoothing out, his expression
completely flat, and she bit her lip as she waited for him to
confirm that she'd gone too far, made them too different, too
small, too no. He said firmly, eyes dropping to
the lip still caught between her teeth and staying there.
You are beautiful, Granger, always have been.
But you do smile more now, so it's not bad.
She blinked at him, unable to speak for what must have been an
hour somehow shoved into the span of a minute.
You are beautiful, he'd said not.
You look beautiful. She hadn't known how important
the distinction would be until right then, couldn't have
expected the Whirlpool that would appear in her stomach as
those words absorbed through her every paw.
Thank you. She whispered, feeling lost, or
maybe feeling found. You are too.
I know. He smirked, and she welcomed the
much needed levity. This suit was quite literally
made for me. She rolled her eyes.
I don't doubt it. What about this dress?
He asked, pinching the fabric of her skirts.
It's very blue. Well, yes, but I was going to
say striking. Good striking or bad striking,
Granger? She laughed, crossing her wrists
behind his back. My mother is an exceptionally
busy woman, and a lot of our conversations are in passing,
especially now that we live such different lives.
But every year we plant periwinkles in the garden
together. We don't talk much while we do
it. The silence is nice, kneeling
with our hands in the dirt, planting flowers that don't even
bloom until spring. It's really nice.
Sounds like it. He agreed earnestly, 1 palm now
resting on the small of her back.
I can share so little with her. She tries to understand my life,
but she struggles. They both do.
Hermione shrugged sadly. But we always have that.
I wish you could see the gardens at the Manor.
He said, temple resting against hers.
Maybe I'll ask my mother to plant periwinkles this year.
She smiled and let her head fall against his shoulder, pressing
her face into the soft silk of his shirt, inhaling his rich
scent. They could have been anywhere,
on any planet at any time of day.
She wouldn't have noticed. The entire universe existed in
the arms they'd wrapped around each other.
Comets collided with every shift of their feet.
Stars reached supernova as the tempo of their breathing sinked.
My feet hurt. She whined, relishing in the low
rumble of his returning laugh. I bet they do.
He hardly let go of you all night.
Jealous, Malfoy? She asked without thinking,
pulling back to wince up at him apologetically.
Sorry, I didn't mean I am. A bit, yeah.
They both slowed to a standstill, staring at each
other merely inches between them.
His expression was open, honest, vulnerable.
She could feel the heat that flooded her cheeks, could almost
see the constellation reflecting in her own eyes.
Really. He nodded once.
I don't know how to explain it, but I feel like we have an
understanding. I look forward to our nights.
You've got me wishing away my weekends.
She beamed from the inside out. So do I.
That room, knowing you'll be in there, it's comforting.
It feels like home. Home.
He nodded again, lips curling at the corners.
That's what I find myself asking for.
A place to come home. A place to come home. 5 words
seem to encapsulate every single emotion she had for the boy
still locked in her embrace, for the feeling she sought whenever
he wasn't there, for the contentment she experienced when
he was. It felt like a central piece of
her puzzle fell into place. Malfoy, of all people, had
become another home for her. Home.
She said it again, with certainty this time, and the
softness in his eyes assured her that he'd understood her
confirmation. Whatever this feeling was, it
was shared between them. It happened so quickly that she
almost didn't register it. He moved, ducking his head down
to level with hers, and turned his face to press a swift, warm
kiss to her cheek. He was at arm's length within
milliseconds, her hands still raised where his shoulders had
been, her lips still parted in surprise, the skin of her cheek
still tingling with the lingering sensation of his
affection. Supernova, indeed.
Tuesday. He asked, the tips of his ears
pink and his hands clenched into fists at his side.
Tuesday. She agreed quietly.
He nodded, shoved his clenched hand into his trouser pocket.
A spark of envy flickered as she considered the depressing lack
of pockets in her own dress, and pulled out a folded piece of
paper. No napkin.
He held it out to her, and she took it carefully.
Don't stay out too late. He said, turning to exit the
courtyard. You'll catch a cold.
She watched him leave, her heart in her throat, staring at his
shrinking back until the shadows obscured it, until the sound of
his well polished shoes against the stone flooring faded into
nothing, until she heard the heavy door to the ballroom open.
Only then, in the total privacy of midnight, did she unfold the
napkin. The sketch was crudely drawn,
clearly having been scribbled in a fleeting moment of
contemplation, but the subject was unmistakable.
Her dancing, laughing, her hair curled out of its potion.
Her dress swished at her waist as she twirled.
Her arm lifted above her head as she turned under it.
Her teeth were just a touch larger than in real life.
She traced the lines of it with her index finger, feeling the
emotion pool in the waterline of her eyes.
Had he drawn this while sitting beside Pansy?
Had she seen it? Why did that thought thrill her?
Why did it matter? Why, why?
A chilled breeze blew across her bare shoulders and turned her
skin into goose flesh, a not so gentle reminder that she needed
to get inside. The night was over, her feet
were aching, and the thought of a warm shower and soft bed
sheets pulled her away from the courtyard.
She did not see Malfoy, nor any of his friends as she hurried
through the ballroom and into the castle halls.
She tiptoed past young couples engaged in ferocious and quite
frankly unhygienic snogging in the alcoves of corridors.
She bid good night to Nearly Headless Nick as he bowed to her
on the staircase. She waved briefly to some first
year Gryffindors who were still studying by the fire in the
common room, and when she was freshly showered, her hair back
into its natural unruly state, her eyes no longer surrounded by
a coal and shine, her skin soothed with acne, repelling
charms and moisturizing serums, she climbed into bed and
unfolded the napkin again. Under the dim light of her Lumos
lit wand, she took in every little detail she could find,
every hint of an uneven surface, every smudge where his hand may
have brushed against fresh markings.
She touched her fingers to her cheek, her mind like a
kaleidoscope. Her mouth curved with a smile
that remained even as she slipped into oblivion. 1999
Amicus Cairo was a Death Eater. Unlike many others, he did not
possess the desire for power that most had.
He did not scheme and not bid to upheave the seat he served, he
only sought to provide that seat with blood.
He and his sister rarely stepped out from the shadows of their
masters, only when the opportunity to delight in a bit
of torture arose. All too happy to play lap dog so
long as he was allowed to keep his sharp teeth.
He had somehow avoid to capture after the First Wizarding War,
content to live his life in hiding instead of searching for
his master, who forgave him, perhaps out of necessity after
his untimely return. And by some cruel twist of fate,
he had thus far managed to evade capture after Voldemort's death,
despite how fervently she'd been searching for him.
All she had to show for months of searching was a headache and
several vague descriptions from several potential witnesses.
It was ceaseless. She woke, ate, dressed,
patrolled, ate again, and slept intermittently.
Her patience had long ago ended, instead morphing into a resigned
acceptance. Amicus Caro was better at hiding
than she was at seeking. She looked down at the letter in
her hand, a brief note from Ron expressing his disdain for
Scottish winters, and stuffed it back into her pocket.
Arabella, one of the three new camp mates she had been
stationed with for the last six months, was walking a hurried
pace ahead of her. They'd been out on patrol all
night, as they always were, and were now returning empty handed,
as they always did. You roll your ankle or
something? Arabella called over her
shoulder, not slowing. No, why?
Hermione replied. Then why the fuck are you
dragging your feet? Let's go, I'm hungry.
Out of the three, Arabella disliked Hermione the most.
It did not matter, not in the grand scheme of things, for
Hermione had very little interest in the opinions of the
witch. She was taller, older and
stronger than Hermione. She smoked a pipe and coloured
her hair neon green. She had a gift for
Transfiguration, which afforded them each a slightly more lavish
cot than the roll outs they had started with.
Above all else, she did not care who Hermione was, what she had
done, or who she was friends with.
The other two, David, a writer turned Aura, and Scott, an
inventor turned Aura, were cordial enough.
Even after six months of trailing the Jurassic Coastline
together. She knew next to nothing about
them, and she did not want to know.
Nevertheless, she picked up the pace and scurried after
Arabella, the promise of breakfast carrying on the breeze
as they marched through the seaside town.
They passed the Guild hall that had stood since the 1800s,
stopping at crossings while double Decker buses squeezed
down narrow streets which must surely involve some level of
magic, and brought the top windows of the vehicle level
with the first floor windows of the Victorian style houses.
Groups of children cut her off on the pavements, giggling and
rambling with their arms around their buckets and spades.
She tripped and stumbled on raised stones of the cobbled
streets, clutching at the iron gates to keep herself upright.
It was a town like so many she had seen, filled with life and
laughter and promise. Pastel beach huts lined the
curve of the sand, blue waters lapped at the shore.
Seagulls dove for chips left unattended by unsuspecting
holiday makers. Christopher would have pulled
her to a stop and told her to absorb it all, to remember the
details of this life that made the fight worthwhile now.
Rabella, however, tutted over her shoulder and continued
walking. By the time they arrived at
their camp, Hermione was desperate to sit down, to find a
place to wash her hair, to not look at the back of Arabella's
head for a few hours. But respite was not waiting, not
at all, for they were met with a frantic David on the outskirts
of the wards. He ran to them, eyes wide and
arms waving. Hawaii knee.
He said, breathing hard. Someone from the Ministry is
here for you. She paused, her eyes sliding
over his shoulder and landing on the camp where a tall and thin
man, whom she did not recognise, was sitting beside the fire,
watched by them all. She caught his eye and he smiled
at her. She did not smile back.
Did he have papers? She asked, not breaking eye
contact. David nodded.
Signed by Kingsley himself. That was enough to break her
fixation. Her gaze rounded back to David,
brows lifting into her hairline. What?
I have no idea. David shrugged, hands resting on
his hips. He said you were needed in
London. Hermione shook her head, sucking
on her teeth. The Ministry rarely contacted
them unless they had information to share or new patrols to send
them on. In fact, the last time she'd
heard directly from them was six months ago when they'd given her
confirmation of Augustus Rookwood's location.
The officials who'd arrived to collect his body along with
Christopher's, hadn't even allowed her 5 minutes to bid
farewell to the others before throwing her a porky.
She'd been here since then, stuck inside of this twisted
summer holiday. Kicking up stones on Monmouth
beach, watching locals frequent the corner shop for milk while
the tourist frequented the same one for beers.
Listening to the gleeful questions of little girls who'd
convinced their fathers to let a woman in bohemian style.
Balloon trousers, rapthread and beads.
Intersections of their hair. There had been five of them to
start, but Eloise went missing while on patrol after two
months. Hermione and David searched and
searched, but found only her wand snapped clean in half.
To this day, none of them were entirely sure of what happened
to her. Perhaps she was taken.
Perhaps she was a hostage, whipped and tortured every day
for information she did not possess about the plans that did
not exist. Perhaps she was dead, lying in a
ditch somewhere with her legs bent unnaturally.
Or, in the most likely scenario, perhaps she had grown tired of
fighting for a world that could never exist again and snapped
her wand before disappearing. It had been the four of them
since then, Hermione, Arabella, David, and Scott.
They all got along fine enough, though she decided on day one
she would not make the same mistake twice by forming
unnecessary bonds. She had thus far sufficiently
kept them at arm's length. Hermione made her way to the
fire, and the Ministry worker stood with a strained smile to
greet her. She did not offer one in return.
Can I help you? She asked, crossing her arms.
He nodded. Miss Granger, the Minister has
requested your appearance, if you wouldn't mind taking my arm,
I can escort you. And what if I would mind?
The man's jaw went loose as she cut him off, his brows pulling
together, his eyes darting to the faces of her camp mates.
I'm not sure. What do you mean?
You've arrived here with no warning whatsoever and are
asking me to take your arm? She clicked her tongue to the
roof of her mouth as she shook her head.
I have no reason to believe this is not a trap.
He began rummaging in his pockets.
I have an official letter signed by.
When I was 10 years old, I forged my mother's signature on
an application for a library card.
Her smile was brittle. It is not very difficult to do.
No, no, it's. The man stammered, thrusting the
paper towards her. It's got a seal.
And if the Minister needs me, he knows where to find me.
Miss Granger, it is far too dangerous for the Minister to
come here in person, and yet he had no problem sending us here.
She mumbled under her breath, summoning a protein bar from her
bag and biting into it calmly, watching as the man's eyes grew
round her with panic. He was either new to the order
or just painfully sheltered. Miss Granger, I can assure you
that this is no trap. He stood up straight, tugging at
the lapels of his blazer, smoothing them against his
chest. How?
She asked, mouth still full and almost choked on her food.
How does Ron do this? His mouth opened and closed
three times before he finally found his words.
You can bring someone with you. We can't spare personnel.
You must have noticed that there are only four of us, and two are
needed for each patrol. I'll come with her.
Arabella said loudly, stepping beside the man and shooting a
warning glow at Hermione. What the warning was, she didn't
know. It's been months since we've had
any leads worth chasing. Missing one day of patrols isn't
going to change that. The man from the Ministry looked
at Arabella as if she'd thrown him a life ring, saving him
seconds before drowning. Arabella, however, was still
shooting daggers with her eyes. She wanted to ask what on earth
was going on. Arabella had always been
disinterested in Hermione, least offended by her standoffishness,
least willing to appease her. That disinterest had cemented
her begrudging respect for Arabella.
Until now. How long for?
Hermione sighed, looking back at the man.
You'll be back by evening. What?
Joy? Arabella cheered in monotone,
her face unmoving. Let's get on with it.
Hermione looked over her shoulder to David, who was still
shrugging, and Scott, who offered no more than a nod and a
slight nose scrunch. She rolled her eyes with gusto
and held out her hand to the man from the Ministry, waiting as
Arabella did the same. The second he grabbed them, the
world was spinning, bending and extending in sickening flashes
of mixed colours. Greens into Blues, yellows into
Reds, all melding together in a nauseating brown.
And then, just before she could close her eyes, the earth
settled below her feet in the form of green gradient tiles.
She had grown used to open skies and constant breeze that kept
her hair in her eyes. It felt wrong to be here now.
Cold, closed, brutal, right? The man, whose name had still
not been offered, stepped back and brushed his hands on the
front of his blazer. Miss Granger, if you will follow
me, do you need me? Arabella asked him, craning her
neck to look at the flow of Ministry workers filing in and
out of the fireplaces. Now that we've clarified, this
isn't a trap. The man winced at her
apologetically. No, I'm afraid that you won't be
able to join. Great.
Arabella was already turning away from them, quick steps
carrying her into the crowd. Where are you going?
Hermione called out, hands cooked over her mouth.
Arabella stopped just shy of a tide of workers, head turning to
peer over her shoulder, eyebrow raised in subtle disbelief.
Do you care? Did she?
No, she admitted, lowering her hands to her side.
And just be back by. Hermione looked at the man who
took his cue. 5 Arabella nodded once and stepped into the crowd,
getting swept out of view in mere seconds and left Hermione
standing with the No name Ministry man who was bouncing on
the balls of his feet. Miss Granger, we should, yes.
All right, follow me. She followed him despite knowing
full well where Kinsey's office was located and knowing exactly
how to get there. Some in the crowd stopped to
observe her as they weaved their way into the lifts, no doubt
wondering what Hermione Granger of all people, was doing here
alone. Even now, when separated by time
and space, the media still reported on her as part of a
trio, the Golden trio closing in from every corner.
Hermione Granger, the brain becomes the brown golden girl
kills Augustus Rookwood, heroes on the hunt.
Distance matters not. Potter photographed with the
Minister in London while pals scour the country.
The headlines were absurd. Anyone with half a brain knew
that it painted their separation as a sacrifice that they had
been all too willing to make on behalf of the greater good, As
though it was a choice, As though they had not wept through
the night before. It had been almost a year and a
half since she had last seen Harry or Ron, and the letters
which had once arrived daily had slowly dwindled down to
bimonthly arrivals. The truth was that they had very
little to say, little progress to report on and little in their
lives. That had changed after one of
Ron's letters was intercepted over Suffolk.
They had been instructed to keep their communications free of
information that could jeopardise their missions, and
so they had become almost entirely bare.
Loving, pleading, filled with the inescapable weight of
missing, but otherwise bare. The lift jolted as they stepped
inside, and Hermione turned her head to the floor.
She was wearing hiking boots, like she always did, that were
coated in dry and flaking mud. Her trousers were torn in three
different places. The cuffs rolled so that they
didn't drag along the ground, the waistband much looser on her
than they had been when she first bought them.
It wasn't exactly the attire one might expect to wear when
meeting the figurehead of Wizarding Britain, but it was
all she had. Her thoughts remained occupied
with the dreams of long, hot baths and soft woolen jumpers
paired with clean Muggle shoes, of fluffy socks and even
fluffier slippers, of knitted scarves that she could pull over
her head when caught in the rain.
It had been a long time since she had had those simple
pleasures. In you go.
The man who had surely forgotten that she was unaware of his
name, stopped outside the office doors, gesturing for her to walk
ahead of him. The Minister will be.
Oh. She pushed past him without
another word and walked through the door, eyes landing
immediately on Kingsley, who was standing behind his desk with a
patient expression. He looked exactly as he always
did, long purple robes straight elegantly across his shoulders,
deep set eyes crinkling in the corners with concentrated
effort. Miss Gurringer.
He greeted her, holding out his hand to the chair opposite him.
Please sit down. She did, offering him a quick
nod in return. Minister.
He took his seat behind his large mahogany desk and brought
his elbows up to rest upon it. How are you?
She sucked in a sharp breath. I shall we skip this part, if
that's what you want. She nodded again.
All right. He folded his hands in front of
him, unbothered by her clicked responses.
Shall we get started on why is Harry here?
She cut in, looking round the room on the off chance he might
materialize from behind one of Kingsley's old collector
cabinets. Kingsley leaned back in his
chair slowly. I am afraid not.
He left this morning. She let out a strained laugh.
You couldn't have let him wait until I got here.
It's been a very long time. He is attending on an urgent
matter. She brought her hands to her
lap, beginning to pick at the skin of her thumb.
What about Ron stealing squad land?
She frowned. It's unusual for only one of us
to be summoned anywhere, you see.
Ah, yes. He smiled tightly.
It didn't come close to reaching his eyes.
I can understand your confusion. No, you can't, but I only
require you for this. For what?
What now? She wanted to ask.
What will you have me do now? Have I not yet dirtied my hands
enough? Kingsley opened the top drawer
of his desk and pulled out a sheet of paper, twisting it and
pushing it towards her. She took it, scanning the words
scribbled in hurried scrawl and smudged ink.
It was a script of sorts. What is this?
He cleared his throat. It is a speech you are going to
deliver at 4:00 this afternoon. The laugh that shot out of her
was anything but humorous. No, I am not.
It has already been prepared. Kingsley responded calmly.
It was written and edited and edited again, I'd add by my
personal speechwriter, Reginald, I believe he came to collect.
You. She made a brief note of the
Ministry man's name, knowing all the while that she'd forget it
by dawn. All we require for you is to
read the words on that page. And I'm quite aware of how to
give a speech, Minister, though I'm still unclear as to why you
think I would. Kingsley shot her appointed
look. As you know, we have struggled
to make headway with the rests in the year since the Battle of
Hogwarts. There have been many failed
attempts and I am asking you to cover it up with platitudes to
reassure the public that we are closing in on.
But it would be a lie, wouldn't it?
We are no. Closer to the public is growing
restless and distrustful, which leaves us vulnerable to do.
You, I think offering them baseless reassurances will solve
any they need to know that we are delivering on our pledge to.
But it would be a lie, wouldn't it?
She was leaning forward now, her chest rising and falling rapidly
as her fingers curled into her palms, nails cutting into the
skin. Kingsley took a slow, measured
breath, composing himself instantly.
No, Miss Granger. It would not be a lie, she
reared back. Explain.
I told you that Mister Potter had been going to attend an
urgent matter. That was the truth.
One piece clicked into place. You sent him on a raid?
I have a high profile 1. He nodded slowly.
She scoffed, pressing her index finger into the paper between
them. I'm sure the pictures will look
pretty in the papers tomorrow, alongside one of these quotes.
Tell me, which do you envision? Hermione Granger, the brightest
witch of her age, a stickler for the rules, docile and attentive
and keen above all else to impress, would never have had
the gall to speak to Kingsley this way.
But she was not that person, Not anymore.
Maybe not ever again. Kingsley swallowed once before
leaning forward. Until she could feel the energy
between them radiating the particles in the air.
Hermione, I am going to be frank with you because you are smart
enough to understand the position that we are in.
He waited for her to agree, only pressing on after she gestured.
I sent you out to round up those remaining who were most loyal to
Lord Voldemort and bring them in alive so that the public could
witness justice being served in the correct manner.
So far, Mr. Weasley has delivered only one a new
recruit, not a name that could make further than the Backpage
of the Daily Profit. And you have violently taken the
life of Augustus Rookwood, almost losing your own life in
the process, and have now spent six months on the South Coast
with very little to show for it. She stared.
At him, unblinking, letting him continue.
Your actions and subsequent lack of action reflect poorly on the
Order as a whole. The public needs to know that we
are not willing to lower ourselves to the level of our
enemies, that we will not kill before we question that Hermione
Granger is operating with a clear head and is not, as the
papers suggest, a violent foot soldier.
So tell me. Are you thinking clearly?
A clear head was one thing. A clear conscience was another
thing entirely. Kingsley must know the
difference, just as she did. But there was some truth to
those headlines, wasn't there? She was a foot soldier.
Kingsley had made many lavish promises of high-ranking roles
within the order of putting her front and centre of his election
campaigns, of relying on her intellect instead of her wand
arm. And then he'd sent her on a
manhunt instead. But informing him of this would
do nothing to settle his concerns, so she sat up straight
her and met his eye. I am, of course.
Then let them know that our goal remains the same.
Let them know that they can trust us, that we are still
working for them. She picked at a small flap of
skin on her thumb and it began to bleed.
And you think this raid that Harry is on will be big enough
to back these words up? Kingsley sighed, running a hand
down the front of his robes. I hope so.
We lost many lives to obtain the information.
Where is it? Wiltshire, her blood.
Turned to ice in her veins. It was unlikely, surely they
would not have returned there, but she schooled her features
into a blank slate nonetheless before asking her next question.
Who is it with Any luck? Lucius Malfoy.
He said with a rueful smile and her stomach twisted inward.
We have it on good authority that has been hiding in a series
of interconnected buildings. I believe the muggles call it Co
operative. Housing.
She mumbled, and Kingsley nodded appreciatively.
Why would he stay in Wiltshire? That seems like a huge risk.
Hiding in plain sight, I believe.
Kingsley shrugs. It's worked so far, but that
will end tonight. Even if we cannot arrest Lucius,
we have a good shot at his second.
She did not want to ask, but she had to.
She had to. Who is his second?
His son, an old school rival of yours, I've been informed.
The apple doesn't fall too far from the rotted tree, does it?
Her teeth ground so hard she could hear little else but the
scrape of them. It does not.
This will be the most significant action we have taken
since the Battle at Hogwarts. It will show that we remain
strong, that the lives we have lost were not in vain.
We have them on the back foot, Hermione.
They did not suspect a thing. When Zari and the auras move in
tonight, we will finally be able to drag these Gowers out of the
shadows. Her throat felt painfully dry
tonight. Kingsley raised a tired brow.
You understand now why the speech cannot wait.
I see now and you understand why it must be you that delivers it.
He asked carefully. I understand.
His smile was bright and warm and unnatural as he pushed the
paper towards her again. Make your preparations.
Any edits you suggest will need to be approved by Reginald.
He will be accessible to you from the office next door.
She took the script. All right, good.
He pushed himself from his chair and she did the same until they
were level once more. Before she could turn and walk
out of the room. He cleared his throat, eyes
turning sombre. And I am sorry to hear about
Christopher. She blinked at him.
What? Gathering from your previous
rotation spoke very fondly of him.
She mentioned that you took it hard when he passed.
He explained gently. Catherine is here.
A spark of hope ballooned in her hollow chest.
She was, but not any longer. She was admitted to Saint
Mungo's after a particularly nasty curse quarter in the hip.
She managed to remain lucid for three days and spoke often.
Have her time with you. Her breath hitched, and then
Kingsley gave her a knowing look and she wanted to laugh.
She wanted to throw her head back and laugh until it turned
into a scream, scream until it turned into a groan, groan until
it turned into a SOB. But she did not.
She just swallowed it back down and turned her head.
Read it through, Find me if you need anything.
It was so easy to think of all the things she needed, or the
people she needed. He could give her none of them.
I will. She walked out of the office
with the script in her hands and her mind lost, spiralling,
caught in the current of everything that had managed to
go so painfully awry. Ronald was in Scotland
somewhere. She had no way of knowing if he
was safe, if he was well, if he was scared or lonely or shit,
just as angry as she was. Harry was trapped in London, the
poster child for the Order no longer a child at all and
therefore presented as a soldier, but not expected to act
like one. They were all being used, but
she could take something back. She could use them in return to
protect what she had left, even if it wasn't truly hers anymore.
The memory of the room where they had shared so many nights
washed away all the rest. The shelves that stored
everything they could have ever imagined.
The way the rungs would bite into her shoulders as he backed
her up against them. The sofa, which was faded and
pink and far too small for them both.
She could almost feel the ache of her knees where she'd spent
entire nights with her knees tucked beneath her, not wanting
to touch, not wanting to move. She remembered the manner and
the cold biting floors. That she had.
Writhed against in agony. The way he'd held her mind
through it in the same way he'd once held her hand.
The way he'd given her silent apologies and assurances.
The way he'd risked everything to get her off that floor.
She remembered the cabin in Cumbria, the bed they had
shared, the promises they had made.
The way he curled his fingers into her hair at the base of her
skull and held on like she was the only hope left attached to
his harness. The way he'd left kisses along
her collar bone, his fingertips on her hips, his spend between
her thighs. The way he'd breathed in her ear
so hungrily, so desperate. She could recount every chance
he'd given her, every door he'd opened, every time he risked
himself for her. And she knew, without a shred of
a doubt that she had to try. And so she made her edits.
Line after line cut through with red ink, and she did not bring
them to Reginald for approval. When the time came.
She was ushered into a small room with a hovering speaker
waiting to broadcast her voice across Wizarding Britain, to
place her in the homes of those magical folk who needed their
reassurances just as much as Kingsley said they did.
But when she grabbed the microphone from mid air and
brought it to her lips, it wasn't them.
She spoke to witches and Wizards of wizarding Britain.
My name is Hermione Granger, She began, trying to keep her voice
from trembling. Some of you may know me.
Some of you may have only heard of me.
Some of you may not know me at all.
For the latter, allow me to introduce myself.
I have spent the better half of my life fighting Lord Voldemort
and his ardent followers, alongside Harry Potter and
Ronald Weasley. I fought with my peers at the
Battle of Hogwarts, during which we lost many young and innocent
lives, but we were able to bring Lord Voldemort's reign to an
end. She took a moment, steadying her
breath, and continued. Since then, I have been working
with the Ministry to bring justice to those who remain
loyal to him or seek to obtain the power he once possessed.
This process has been slower and more arduous than any of us
could have anticipated, and has presented difficulties that no
one would have predicted. Bullshit.
I have had to make personal and moral sacrifices during these
months, but I can assure you that the goal remains as
consistent as ever, and I remain as dedicated to it as I have
been since the age of 11. She squared her shoulders,
lifted her chin, and closed her eyes.
In the darkness, she saw a glimpse of silver.
I know that many of you feel displaced, that you are waiting
to feel safe again, to have a place to come home.
I want you to know that we are working tirelessly to ensure
this country, this world, can become that place for you once
again. But for now, I urge you to stay
vigilant, Keep moving. Do not let yourselves grow
complacent, for danger still lurks around our corners, and we
must look out for it. In the meantime, Harry, Ronald,
and I will continue to bring justice to those who still serve
Lord Voldemort, whether that justice is served this month,
this week, or this evening. Keep your trust in us, in me, in
the Order, and one day we will walk in the sunlight together
again. Those final words tasted like
iron in her mouth. So false, so transparent, but
she had to give them what they wanted if she had any hope of
getting what she wanted in return.
She stepped back from the microphone, letting it float
back into its hook on the wall, and took a moment to feel the
thundering beat of her heart. It was all she could do, but
would it be enough? Kingsley was waiting for her
outside the office, his arms crossed at his chest, his
eyebrows raised. That was immortive.
Yes, well. She clasped her hands behind her
back to hide her trembling. You stress the importance of it
being me. I thought it would be best in my
words, and you failed to inform Reginald Doddis he wouldn't have
approved it. Kingsley pursed his lips and
blew out a hoof of laughter from his nose and shook his head
slowly. I am impressed.
The relief she felt was not enough.
She had no way of knowing if it had worked or if she'd just
shoved false hope down the throats of the country for
nothing. She opened her mouth to ask,
possibly even to beg that she'd be allowed to remain here until
Harry returned, but Reginald was already striding out of his
office and heading their way. Kingsley bid them a brief
farewell and she held her breath as Reginald escorted her to the
lifts, muttering under his breath that the speech was
perfectly fine before and butchered the opener.
She stumbled after him as they made their way across the
Ministry floor towards where they parted with Arabella
earlier that day. It was sparse on bodies now,
most people already returning to their homes or their stations
for the evening. She wondered how many of them
were in her position. Nomadic, alone, Arabella was
already waiting for them, but she was not alone.
Her hand was clasped with that of a pink haired witch with a
kind, round face who sat beside her.
Arabella leaned over to the witch and placed a slow,
lingering kiss on her lips. As Hermione and Reginald walked
over to greet them, Arabella pulled back, smiled sweetly at
the witch, and then dropped her hand.
Hermione felt a sharp stab of something cold.
Guilt, envy, both. She wanted to ask about it, to
greet the pink haired witch, to offer Arabella the opportunity
to stay. But she couldn't, so she didn't.
Instead, she gripped Reginald's sleeve and averted her eyes as
Arabella did the same. David and Scott wanted to know
everything. The second they arrived back at
the camp, the bitter winds hitting their skin like hail,
Arabella began talking to them, Reginald bid them farewell, and
Hermione ignored them all as she marched into her tent to cast a
swift Muffliato. There in the tent, lit up by the
oil lamps, kept glowing by her magic, which had taken from her
almost as much as it had given, she bit down into the flesh of
her palm and screamed, sobbed, wailed, shook with anger and the
consuming helplessness that seemed to have replaced her
blood. She knelt on the canvas floor of
her tent and let the venom drip from her eyes.
She stayed there, rocking and mumbling obscenities and broken,
desperate pleas for her efforts to just for this once, have been
enough. The moon had been long present
in the sky by the time she'd crawled into her cot, skipping
dinner and the niceties that were always served with it.
She slept like the dead, exhausted from the exertion of
repressing her emotions rung out from the catharsis of releasing
them. Sleep did not linger, though, as
she awoke before the sun rose to the sound of hooves kicking at
the canvas. When she opened her eyes,
Harry's diaphanous stag was waiting at her feet.
On any other occasion, the sight of the proud creature would have
brought her solace. It was a manifestation of her
friend, after all. But not on this one.
She sat up straight, hard in her throat, and waited.
Quite a rousing speech, it spoke, amusement laced in the
voice that she did not hear enough these days.
But I'm sorry to say, the raid was a bust.
The houses were emptied by the time we got there.
Someone must have tipped them off.
She let out a strangled cry of relief and fell back against the
pillow, smiling at the hole she'd cut in the roof one night
when she'd been determined to see the stars.
Be careful, Hermione. She eyed the stag cautiously,
watching as it bowed its head and faded into nothing.
Harry picked up on it then. She'd assumed he would.
He was never as oblivious as he made himself out to be.
She just hoped that he was the only one who had.
Well, she thought as she pressed her face into the pillow, not
the only one.