The Faintest Trace of You by Ginger Baggins Chapter 2, 1993
For someone with a rigorous schedule and the advantage of a
time Turner, Hermione ought to have been better at getting to
class on time. She'd mostly gotten the hang of
using it over the last couple of months.
She'd learned the castle walls like never before.
A quick Sprint down 1 corridor to avoid herself.
A swift duck into an alcove to escape detection by classmates.
A serendipitous group of peers to jump in the middle of while
rushing between classrooms. And yet here she was, barely
making it to her desk on time. Bloody hell.
Ron gasped as she dropped into the chair beside him, her stack
of books hitting the table with considerable force.
Where did you come from? Ron, she feared, was the only
person who noticed her impossible timetable.
He'd questioned it once or twice, and she'd so far managed
to brush it off, but it was clear that he didn't believe a
single excuse she gave him. Fortunately, he was also a
teenage boy, and therefore not particularly difficult to
distract. All she had to do was suggest
that Padma had been asking about him, and his attention would
swiftly shift to fresh curiosity.
Did you bring your essay on the Goblin rebellion?
She whispered, a classic focus shift.
Yeah. He mumbled, chin jutting towards
the paper laid out in front of him.
Thanks for helping again. Not at all.
She smiled warmly, placing her own essay down.
The tips of his ears turned pink as he looked back to Professor
Bin's, translucent and hovering by the blackboard, preparing to
begin what was undoubtedly another lecture about a
rebellion he'd already told them about in several prior classes.
History of Magic was usually an opportunity for Hermione's mind
to rest, for she'd read tomes upon tomes of magical history
over the years. She quite literally knew it all.
Professor Binns instructed them to open their books to the
correct page and read along with them, inciting a chorus of
groans from the lines of overly tired teenagers who had no
intention of following a single word he said.
Hermione opened her book mindlessly shifting through the
pages to find her place when something small and light hit
her on the back of her head. Hermione was a muggle born witch
in a world of pure blood prejudice.
She had wild hair and front teeth too large for her mouth.
She spoke loudly and frequently and always, always answered a
question even when she wasn't the one being asked.
She was no stranger to ridicule or balled up pieces of paper
being thrown at the back of her head, which is how she knew
exactly what it was and exactly who had thrown it.
The paper had hit the floor by the foot of her chair, and she
carefully, without rousing the ghostly apparition of Professor
Binns, bent down to scoop it up. Malfoy hadn't exactly been
friendly since the night they brewed the pain relief together,
but he'd also not been entirely unpleasant if he saw her coming
in the hallway. He opted to go the other way
instead of sneering or hurling insults, and when she couldn't
stop herself from speaking up in class, he remained notably quiet
about it, not a single mocking cackle when she'd turn and catch
his eye, silently seeking clarification on his behavioural
change, he'd merely raise a premused brow in return and turn
back to his conversation. Except now, today, here in their
afternoon History of Magic class.
When he'd thrown the paper at the back of her head, she peered
over her shoulder to where she knew he would be seated,
expecting to find him with a wicked smile of sadistic
delight, wedged between crab and goyal while they patted him on
the back and fawned over his brutal brilliance.
But when she found him, he was not smiling at all, nor was he
sitting between his usual goons. Instead, he was frowning at her,
his eyes darting between her face and the note in her hand,
urging her to read it. And beside him, Blaze Zabini
watched them with a cautious curiosity.
She unfolded the note and glanced at Ron to be sure he
wasn't watching. He was falling asleep into his
palm, a slight gathering of drool forming at the corner of
his mouth. She scrunched up her face in
mild disgust and turned back to the paper.
How did you get here? She shrugged at him, but it was
not enough. He shook his head, pointing to
the paper again, demanding an answer that she could not give
him and quite frankly, did not owe him.
They were not friends. They weren't really even
acquaintances. Every interaction she'd had with
him since their very first day within the castle walls had been
utterly abhorrent at best and painful at worst.
Every interaction except 11, where he'd apologised, brief as
it was, before he'd taken hold of her hand and soothed the palm
she'd used to take her revenge. She picked up her quill and
scribbled a reply. None of your business, Malfoy.
She flicked her wand and sent the note back to him, ignoring
the narrowed stare of Blaze as it arrived on Malfoy's desk.
She'd never sent one back before.
It must have been odd, even more so when Malfoy unfolded the
paper and she saw his mouth twitch into an almost
imperceptible, but they're all the same little smile.
She watched him hide the note under his book as Professor
Binns floated by, still droning on while the rest of the class
struggled to keep their eyes open.
As the professor returned to his post, Malfoy pulled out the note
and began writing, shooting it back much more carefully this
time, as though he didn't want it to hit her, which was
confusing. Aren't you supposed to be in
ancient ruins? Her eyes widened at the words,
because yes, she was. She would be there right now,
watching Professor Bathsheida babbling, dissecting the runic
alphabet. Except that for her, it was an
hour ago. She could understand Ron's
confusion over her timetable. He'd seen the impossibility of
it with his own two eyes when she left her planner lying open.
But Malfoy, of all people, had absolutely no reason to know her
schedule. She grabbed her quill.
Are you keeping tabs on me? She sent it back with a touch
more force than necessary, and his reply came back almost
instantly. Yes, insufferable.
Well, don't. A minute later, the paper hit
the back of her hand while she attempted to catch up with the
class reading. If you don't tell me, I'll just
keep asking. She hoped that her irritation
could be felt with every stroke of her quill.
Seems like a waste of time. It hit her shoulder this time.
For you as much as me. Spare us both and tell me now.
When she decided not to respond, he followed up.
Don't ignore me. She did ignore him, so he sent
another Granger again. Does Professor Bince know that
you wrote? Half of Weasley's essay.
She ground her teeth together and focused on the book.
Ron was now softly snoring beside her.
Harry was up ahead and seemed soon to join him in slumber.
In fact, almost everyone in the room except herself, Malfoy and
Blaise Sabini were bowed low over their books, nodding off.
Another note hit the back of her head.
It felt sharper. I wonder how many house points
he would deduct if he found out. It would only take. 5 for
Gryffindor to lose the lead. The breath she let out was shaky
and shallow. She fired one rueful glare over
her shoulder, where she found him wearing a smug, victorious
smirk, and picked up her quill. Ron mumbled something that
sounded like he was scolding Scabbers for nipping at his
fingertips, and she glanced up to make sure Professor Binns
hadn't noticed before continuing with her reply.
What exactly do you want? His reply hit her on the elbow
not a minute later, and his words seemed entirely too self
satisfied for her liking. Come.
To the classroom again tonight. At midnight, she had to bite
back the scoff that threatened to shoot out.
Why would I do that? Blaise continued to watch them
float the paper back and forth, his frown trained onto the side
of Malfoy's head, but Malfoy didn't spare him a glance in
return. Because I asked nicely.
She wasn't sure if she preferred this version of Malfoy to the
one she'd known for years. At least his spite was
predictable. This was unprecedented.
I'm busy. I have homework to do.
It was 1/2 truth. She'd already completed her
Charms homework and the time Turner afforded her enough hours
to get everything done and still have a full 8 hours of sleep.
But writing a second draft seemed preferable to sitting in
the dark with Malfoy again, didn't it?
Perfect. So do I bring it with you?
I might even let you copy mine. There was a strange feeling
bubbling in her chest, one that seemed to expand and bloom with
unfamiliar warmth. A laugh, she realised.
Draco Malfoy had just made her laugh, as small and quiet as it
was. She had hardly any reasons to
trust him, and plenty to suspect him.
This was likely to be a trap, a reason to bring her to the
dungeons where he could, if she didn't even know any more, spill
her filthy, blurred in sacrifice.
There was a plethora of reasons for her to say no to him, to
spare herself further ridicule and potential even harm.
To stay within her common room, where it was safe, where the
people welcomed her and the textbooks beckoned her.
But the memory of that night over the cauldron emerged once
more. She could almost see how his
cruel facade had slipped, as though it were happening in
front of her right now. She wanted to know if it was
real, if he was being honest, if this version of him smirking and
joking and curious was who he really was when nobody else was
watching. She wanted to know that person.
She wanted to know his likes and dislikes.
She wanted to understand why he felt the need to bury himself
between layers of rotten entitlement and hatred.
So instead of writing back, she turned to look at him again,
caught off guard by his concentrated stare already
locked onto her. She nodded, and he took to his
chin to hide his smile. What the hell was that?
Against her better judgement, she asked Harry to borrow his
invisibility cloak, not wanting to risk any runnings with Missus
Norris. He was withholding at first,
wanting to know exactly what she planned to use it for, but his
suspicion soon died when she lied about wanting to check out
a book from the restricted section of the library.
He brought it out to her an hour before she was due to meet
Malfoy and warned her to not damage it, which was beyond rich
coming from him, the boy who lived to RIP holes in every item
of clothing he owned. The cloak was significantly
heavier when it was only her beneath it, but she hurried down
the hallways anyway, taking extra care to not trip over the
fabric on the staircase while it shifted and stretched out her
journey by 15 minutes. It was almost like the castle
discouraged students from wandering the floors at night.
She hid from the ghosts as they drifted by, usually caught up in
a debate with themselves over something trivial that happened
in their lifetimes. She ducked into a storeroom to
escape Peeves. She didn't know if this cloak
only shielded her from the living, and there was not an
inch of her that trusted the poltergeist to let her go
without commotion. Eventually, she arrived at the
door to the classroom, which was already ajar.
She checked the corridors one more time before peeling off the
cloak and bundling it into her bag, not wanting to explain it
to Malfoy. She found him waiting at the
same table they had brewed at only a few weeks prior, his
homework laid out in neat piles, his quill scribbling furiously
as he sat back in his chair with his arms crossed.
You're late, he mused, and she rolled her eyes.
Pick somewhere closer to my dormitory and maybe I'll get
there on time. But it's so much more fun to
imagine you lurking around the castle breaking all the rules.
His smile was simpering and soft.
When his lip curled, it wasn't in bitterness or repugnance, it
was with something akin to liking.
She took the seat opposite him and began pulling out her own
homework, muttering under her breath as she piled it beside
his. Not all the rules.
They studied until 2:00 in the morning, comparing notes
whenever any of them faltered. Malfoy even corrected an answer
on her potions assignment without even a hint of
superiority. It was easier, so much easier
than she'd expected to be in his company.
He didn't apologise again, but he didn't form his words with
venom either. He spoke to her like they were
old friends, like nothing terrible had ever transpired
between them. Like he hadn't wished death upon
her only the year before. She resented him for it.
She wanted to push the tip of her quill into his neck and ask
him what kind of game he was playing.
She wanted to demand so much more from him than he was giving
her. She didn't want to sweep his
hatred under the rug, nor the way he'd made her feel, nor the
way he'd routinely hurt her friends.
She wanted to watch him cry like she'd cried.
At the same time, she wanted him to laugh again, like he had when
she'd drawn a line through an incorrect passage of his
Herbology homework. She wanted him to whisper
brilliant under his breath again, like when she'd shown him
her astronomy project. She wanted his shoulders to ease
further, the way they'd slowly been for the last two hours they
were in that room. It was a tidal wave of
contradictions, and she could not make sense of any of it.
She would have to, eventually, since he'd quietly asked her to
meet again the following Tuesday night, and she'd agreed without
taking the time to consider it. They'd have it out and she'd
win, and then this bridge building between them would burn
to Ash and Ember. But not tonight.
Tonight she returned to her dormitory and curled up under
the weight of her duvet. It was late and she would be
exhausted during morning classes, but she did not even
consider using the time Turner to get back the hours, deciding
they had been spent. Well, 1998 A month had passed
since the three of them landed in the garden of this cottage
and each day seemed to pass slower than the last.
It was long enough for them to have found a routine.
Ron was teaching himself to cook.
Harry spent most of his days pulling up weeds in the garden,
and Hermione made it her mission to read all of the old books
that lined the walls of the cottage.
The scent of vanilla lignon offered some small comfort.
Each of them took turns keeping up the wards around the
property, checking them a minimum of three times a day,
often more, just to be sure it wasn't right and it wasn't fair.
They'd heard very little from Kingsley or anyone else about
how long they were expected to stay, or where they were
expected to go next. His visits had been
frustratingly short and clipped, bringing with him only the
promise of a plan that had yet to exist.
They wanted to return to help but the offer was sharply
refused. It's important that you remain
here for now, he said. Offering nothing more than
ambiguity, Hermione wondered if this was some kind of
punishment. They had gone rogue, after all.
They'd not only hidden from Death Eaters for the last year,
but also the Order and the wizarding world at large while
they haunted down Horcruxes in secret.
She couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if they
hadn't taken off, what Kingsley's wartime strategy
would have been, and what part they would have played in it.
Perhaps banishing them to this cottage and not allowing them
the proper time to reconcile and grieve with the people they
loved and fought for was his way of sentencing them.
Harry swore softly as his thumb caught on a thorn and Hermione
peered over her book to watch him suck at the blood.
He was moving flowers from the front garden to the back, where
he and Hermione held a makeshift service for the fallen.
Just over a week ago, Ron had been permitted to attend Fred's
funeral, but the other two were sternly instructed to remain
behind. After a fair amount of uproar,
they'd given up the fight and waved Ron off with as much
encouragement as they could muster.
Instead, they planted a tree in the garden that afternoon,
despite the pelting rain, and said a few words over the mound.
When Ron returned later that evening, he did not even make it
over the threshold before the emotions burst from him in
unrelenting waves, and Hermione hated that he'd felt the need to
hold it in until he was back with them.
She and Harry carried him inside and sat with him by the fire
until sunrise. As far as Kingsley was aware,
Ron was the only one who had left the cottage grounds in the
month they had been there. That wasn't true, of course.
Hermione had manipulated the wards one night so that Harry
could sneak away to see Jinny. He'd not returned for almost 2
days, by which point she and Ron were waiting at the windows with
nothing but worry swirling in their guts.
It did something wonderful to him, the time he spent with
Jinny. His eyes sparkled a little
brighter upon his return. His smile pulled a little wider.
His slumber became a little less disturbed.
Ron only blanched at the love bite on his neck once or twice
before Hermione shot him a look that warned him to drop it.
Hermione managed to get away for two nights when she'd found
herself under a starlit sky in Cumbria, listening to the winds
blow through the trees as she curled up beside.
Don't think about it. She dropped her book on her lap
and pressed the heel of her palm to her sternum, rubbing in firm,
symmetrical circles, trying to push down the feeling of utter
loss that lingered there. Those two nights had been a gift
she could never have asked for and somehow got anyway.
One day, far from now, she might be able to think of those hours
without any nausea. Kingsley arrived every Monday
morning at 7:00. He would accept a cup of tea
from Ron before setting it down on the table, where it would
remain untouched until he left, leaving one of them to
unceremoniously pour it down the sink.
He always arrived alone and never stayed long enough to eat
or tell them anything other than to keep doing what they were
doing, which was, they tried to argue, absolutely nothing.
Today was a Saturday. The morning passed slowly and
without event, and the sun was surprisingly unhidden by cloud
cover, offering them the smallest touch of warmth.
Hermione intended to fill her time by lounging on a garden
chair and reading an old battered copy of In Search of
Ireland and watching Harry dig around the soil while Ron coated
the kitchen in flour in his third attempt at making olive
bread. Which was why it shocked her out
of her seat to see Kingsley appear by the garden gate, three
large bags by his feet. Harry.
She called, waiting for him to turn around before she pointed
to the Minister who was now making his way up the garden
path. He's got bags with him.
Good. Harry pushed himself to his
feet, rubbing the dirt from his hands onto the front of his
jeans. And looks like the holiday is
over. She snorted.
Some holiday, I'll warn Ron, she said, leaving her book behind as
she took off into the cottage. Ron was indeed covered in flour
and cursing at the dough for being too lumpy.
The cookbook hovered by his face as he needed with vigour.
He didn't look up from her as she entered, too lost in
concentration. She cleared her throat, and the
cookbook fell onto the counter with a resounding thud.
Blimey, Hermione. He chuckled, flicking some flour
her way. Don't sneak up on me.
She hadn't intended to. They all knew better than to
take each other by surprise these days.
He continued to work the dough, blissfully unaware that their
time here was surely over, and part of her wanted to leave him
in that bliss for a moment longer.
But that moment did not exist, so she crossed her arms and
leaned against the door frame. Kingsley is here.
His head snapped up, kneading colted.
But it's Saturday. She shrugged.
He's got bags with him. The dough instantly forgotten,
he straightened up to his full height and moved to the sink,
cleaning the mixture from his hands with quick scrubs.
So we're leaving. Your guess is as good as mine.
He scoffed. That's never been true.
Ron was still towel drying his hands when Kingsley appeared in
the doorway with a warm smile. Harry stood right behind him,
his furrowed brows confirming that he'd not gotten any
information out of the Minister in the two minutes he'd been
alone with him. And they'd all find out together
then? T.
Ron asked, breaking the silence. Yes, please.
Kingsley nodded. Ron used magic to boil the
water, clearly just as eager as she was to find out the news
Kingsley had come to deliver. They settled around the cramped
coffee table and Harry and Hermione perched cross legged on
the sofa while Ron and Kingsley took opposing armchairs.
Moments passed in silence, during which time she shared
apprehensive glances with her friends, who returned them in
kind. Finally, after what could only
be described as hey, Lifetime, Kingsley took a sip of his tea,
a move which had all their eyebrows raising, and let out a
long sigh. Firstly, his baritone resonated
through the small room with tremendous authority.
As a man, as a friend, and as a wizard, I appreciate everything
you 3 have done over the. Last year.
Her frown deepened. This was beyond unusual.
They'd conversed with him numerous times since the battle
ended, why was he now speaking as though they did not know each
other? Kingsley took another sip of tea
before he continued. However, as.
Minister for Magic and Leader of the Order of the Phoenix.
I must also express my deep frustration.
With the way that you. Went about it.
A sharp sounding laugh came from Run of all people, who was
shaking his head in disbelief. We couldn't exactly wait around
for orders, mate. You didn't wait around for
anything, Mr. Weasley. And the repercussions from your?
Lack of patience. Are much more dire than we could
have anticipated. It's only hold on.
Harry cut in, his hand rubbing against the stubble of his jaw.
What's repercussions? He's dead, isn't he?
Kingsley's returning look was sympathetic and mildly
patronising. Unfortunately, yes, the.
Three of them reared back united.
Gasps of unfortunately echoed through the room.
Kingsley placed his mug on the coffee table and held up his
hands, beckoning them to let him speak.
The three of them shared a look of furious bewilderment, but
fell silent once more. Let me explain, he started.
While you were on the run, the Order put together a detailed
plan of action, one that was voted on and agreed by all.
The priority was not to kill Voldemort, but to kill his
influence. You don't understand.
Ron was shaking his head. It was always about killing him,
from the start. We did it.
He's gone. What does influence have to do
with anything? Hermione's blood ran cold.
He'd been right. She could hear his voice as
clearly now as it had been that night, warning her that things
were far from over. A lump the size of a Pebble
formed in her throat, and she couldn't swallow it down.
She promised herself that she wouldn't think of it, of him,
but it was an impossible task, especially now.
She, as well as Harry, should have seen this coming.
Ronald, who had grown up surrounded by the whimsy of
magic, might be excused for being so blind to the
possibility, but Hermione and Harry had lived enough of their
lives in the Muggle world to know better, to draw
comparisons, to pull from precedent.
Harry caught her eye, his green irises a stark contrast to the
surrounding white, and all she found within them was panic.
They turned their back to the Minister in slow dawning horror.
You didn't just kill him, you immortalised him.
Kingsley said, rubbing at the Ridge between his eyebrows.
An idea doesn't die with this artificer.
It lingers. He was unstable.
At the end, Harry said, still clinging with daring hope to the
possibility that this was truly over, and Hermione felt her
heart crack straight down the centre.
Even his most loyal followers thought he was.
Oh, convenient then that you solved that issue for them.
Kingsley said, and Harry's spine stiffened.
Oy. Ron barked, leaning forward in
his armchair. And he died for you, as did my
brother. Don't sit there and scold us.
If we didn't kill him, he would have killed us.
Think about what he would have done to Hermione, to all witches
and Wizards like her. Think about what you already did
to. Mr. Weasley, no one is arguing
that you were on the right side of this.
Kingsley interjected, having the sense to at least look mildly
apologetic. What I am saying is that the
ripple effects of his demise are exactly what we were trying to
avoid. We martyr to him.
As soon as the words left Hermione's mouth, all heads
turned to her, but she could not lift her eyes from her hands.
The hands that had once held whispering rockets, that once
sent violent magic to the base of her wand, that had pressed
Ron's flesh together after his grisly, splinching hands that
had hurt and healed and hurt again, all for nothing.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to take every ounce
of magic in her veins and send it flying, turning the table
into splinters and the curtains into threads.
But she didn't. She just twined her fingers
together and stared. Yes.
Kingsley said, eventually pulling attention back to
himself. You rattled them by taking away
their master, but like you said, they were already beginning to
turn on him. This opens a space for new
leadership subsections of his followers that see this as an
opportunity. Not a defeat, of course.
It all made sense. It had happened so often before.
Manifestations of violent extremist groups that outlive
their leaders, breaking off into subsections, scattered but
always growing, always recruiting, always there.
Both sides had incurred great losses over the last year.
They were limping dogs that needed a place to hide and lick
their wounds. But they would soon grow hungry
again. He'd warned her.
He'd warned her they were doomed to do this chance forever, stuck
in orbit, awaiting collision. We've traced.
Some of the more prominent followers to various locations
across the UK. The French minister is currently
working to identify any that might have crossed the Channel,
although all international flu networks have been.
Suspended, Kingsley was all business now, his posture
straight, his hands clasped in his lap.
They are regrouping, likely coming with new strategies.
It will be extremely difficult to keep up with them now that
they are independent. One group may not reflect the
plans of another. Even Ron had slumped back in his
chair now, eyes vacant, skin grey.
Harry, on the other hand, was still looking fixedly at the
Minister, as though he were about to offer them a solution.
But Hermione knew better. There was no solution to offer.
They were at war, just as they had been a month ago.
Our priority is finding those most likely to assert power.
And bringing. Them in alive when possible to
face public trial. We need to undergut them before
they can reach the heights of Voldemort.
Kingsley carried on, and she had to appreciate the lack of
caution in his voice. He was not here to soften the
blow. He was here to tell them the
truth. He was an exceptionally powerful
wizard, that's why he amassed so much fear.
Harry said, but she could still hear in his voice that he knew
he was grasping at straws. He wasn't the first powerful
wizard, Harry, and he won't be the last.
Kingsley replied, holding his gaze.
A lot of them have been training for this since they were
children. Teenagers with dark marks on
their forearms. If Lucius Malfoy doesn't bid for
power, maybe his son will. Bile rose in her throat and she
could sense the other two go rigid, could almost feel the
restraint they called upon to not look her way, So Harry
strained. How do we help Harry Potter?
Who wanted to settle down more than anyone else she'd ever
known. Who wanted to reunite with the
woman he loved and build a family he'd never had?
Who wanted to sleep through the night without terror?
To go home was always the first of them to offer himself.
Hermione and Ron would always follow him.
It was not even a question. But it was in Harry's nature to
present himself as the sacrificial lamb, and it was in
Kingsley's nature to accept the offering.
You will be in London. We need you at the heart of the
order. He spoke directly to Harry and
then hesitated as though preparing himself before he
turned his head to Ron. You will be in Scotland.
Ron shot forward. What are you?
And you miss Granger. Kingsley was looking at her now,
and she felt his stare like a burn.
Will be heading down South to the West Country.
They were silent for a moment, flabbergasted, horrified,
waiting for him to start laughing and proclaim his words
were merely a punch line to a poorly timed joke.
But he did not, and the fury bubbled out of the three of them
at once. What the fuck?
Ron yelled. You can't be serious.
Harry scoffed. This is completely outrageous.
Hermione snapped. Kingsley was shaking his head,
palms up, in an attempt to placate.
It is far too dangerous to have the three of you together.
We've been together all bloody year, we know how dangerous it
is. Ron was on his feet now, and
Hermione wasn't entirely confident that he wouldn't
launch himself at the Minister, who did not look intimidated in
the slightest. Yes, and it resulted in several
close calls. They hated you.
Then imagine. How much they hate you now.
Bullshit. Ron gritted out a fact.
Thanks a lot. This is after everything we've
done. The war is not over, Mr.
Weasley, Kingsley's voice carried suffocating everything
else into submission. When it is, I will thank you
accordingly. Sir.
Hermione cut in, trying to keep her tone level.
If the last seven years have taught us anything, it's that we
work Better Together. We are vulnerable when we are
apart. Kingsley offered her a small,
utterly useless smile. You will.
Not be unaided, Miss Granger. You will have a rotation of
order fighters who will join you and protect you.
While we sniff out Death Eaters like a pack of hungry dogs,
Harry muttered. Kingsley sighed and pushed
himself up from the armchair. You are part of this fight
whether you like it or not. This is not a request, it is an
order. There is a bag for each of you.
Ginevra Weasley helped me pack them.
Hermione watched Harry's head snap towards the bags by the
door. I have been assured they contain
everything you need. Your Portuguese will arrive
tomorrow morning. They will take you to the camps
we have established in preparation.
You will await further instruction after your arrival.
He brushed his hands across the front of his robes and turned
for the door, but only managed 3 steps before he stopped again.
He dropped his head forward. He did not turn, but he did
speak, this time in a low, sombre melody.
I am sorry, I really am. I wanted to give you a night's
notice in case I don't know how long you will be gone for, but
it could be a while. A while Wizards had long life
spans averaging well over 100, most didn't even retire until
they hit 120. A while to a wizard meant
significantly more than it would to a muggle.
Years at minimum. The 2 words went through her
like a knife through butter, slicing her cleanly in half.
Kingsley left without another word and none of them saw him
out. They silently checked their
bags. Jinny had indeed made sure they
had everything they needed. For Ronald, home knitted jumpers
and photographs of his family. Fred's face breaking into a grin
at something George whispered. For Hermione, shrunken versions
of her favorite books and a pair of knitted winter socks.
She quietly grabbed her beaded bag and pulled out a small
folded piece of paper, the one she looked at every night for
the last week, and tucked it between the pages of one of the
books. For Harry, his comfort T-shirt,
a leather bound journal that he opened, then closed his eyes as
though in pain and held it to his chest before putting it
back. She didn't ask what was in
there, she knew enough to guess. They ate dinner, bangers and
mash, and seethed through bites. Ron assured them that it
wouldn't last long, they'd bring them back together soon, that
the Golden trio was too profitable to be kept separated.
Harry promised he would find a way to convince Kingsley to
bring them both to London as soon as possible, that he would
send them owls every day until they reunited.
Hermione wanted to tell them that there was no use, that
their fates had been sealed and that all they were doing was
wasting precious time and energy by fighting it.
But she couldn't do it. She couldn't bear to crush the
last flicker of hope in their eyes.
So she smiled at them as gently as she could, and she lied.
Everything is going to be OK. She said, reaching out to place
her hands on top of theirs. They finished eating.
Ron washed the dishes by hand while Harriet and Hermione
cleaned the rest of the cottage. In all honesty, it looked almost
as untouched as it had when they arrived.
They'd spent most nights in the tent, only transitioning to the
bedroom over the last week. A cruel irony that they were now
heading back to the outdoors. She slept on the floor of the
bedroom that night, hurried to her left and run to her right.
There, in the dark, on the last night they would have together
for the foreseeable future, they whispered assurances that they
were not qualified to offer. When sleep finally greeted them,
broken and light as it was, they kept their shoulders pressed
firmly together, enjoying the warmth that could only be found
in the bond they shared. They were ready and waiting,
watching from the window as two Wizards in a witch arrived at
dawn. Hermione grabbed her friends and
pulled them close, and the three of them breathed AS14, heads
pressed together, eyes closed, hearts pounding.
She stepped back first, ever the pragmatist, and grabbed her bag.
She did not say goodbye. She could not.
Ron went with the witch, who did not disclose exactly where they
were going. Harry went with the first
wizard. The pop of his disappearance
echoed on the wind. The last wizard held out his
hand, his palm wrapped firmly around 1 end of a dog's chew
toy. She thought about turning to
take one final look at the cottage, to memorise the straw
on the roof and the cracks in the window panels, but she did
not. Because as lovely as the place
was, it was not home. Hermione did not have one of
those, not in the form of a building, not anymore.
Her home could be found in people, one now in London, one
in Scotland and one well. The longer she didn't know his
location, the better. She took hold of The Chew toy
and her stomach twisted and lurched as she fell through the
earth. It ended as quickly as it
started and she found herself standing on the top of her
seaside Cliff, looking out over the breathtaking curve of
Lulworth Cove. She recognised it instantly.
Her parents had brought her here during one of their summer
holidays. They had kayaked to Doddle Door
and collected fossils on Chesil Beach.
They had shared ice cream on the Esplanade and watched the
trawler boats return from a long day of fishing.
Precious memories that now only lived within her.
The wizard, who had yet to say a word, stepped to the side and
gave her a much needed moment of peace.
She watched the seagulls glide on the ocean breeze, the waves
crash against the Cliff sediment, and the clouds roll in
overhead. Her knees gave out, sending her
into the moistened grass of the hillside, and she felt hot tears
spill from the corners of her eyes.
Her breath caught, her hand clutched to her chest, and the
wizard shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot.
Offering her neither comfort nor.
Company, the Horizon called to her a siren, her warning a
bitter confirmation. You are alone, it said.
And she was.