It was cold, as it ever was at night. Her breath was smoky and warm in the darkness, and she shivered, huddling beneath the heavy wool coat that was slung carelessly over her shoulders and burying her face deeply within the folds of the hand-sewn scarf strewn sloppily across her neck. Mrs. Weasley had made it for her—along with identical ones for Harry and Ron—and the garments were imbued with the feelings of love and safety that she so often felt when contemplating the older woman.
Hermione loosed another sigh, shifting herself to preserve the maximum amount of body heat, and peered across the raggedy and decaying, forlorn looking wooden table at Ron. He himself had his eyes downcast, seemingly studying one of the knots in the old wood, and she knew almost instinctually that his thoughts mirrored hers.
Reaching a small, fair hand across the breadth of the table, she grasped onto his and ran her thumb lovingly over his ring. Ron turned his wrist and enveloped her hand in his larger, coarser one, and her body filled with warmth.
"I know what you're thinking," she spoke softly. "I miss him too. We all do."
Ron shook his head side to side several times before looking up at her with wide, imploring eyes. "It just feels wrong, you know? Wrong that we're sitting here at the end of a celebration, and he's out Merlin–only–knows–where fighting for his life!" He was frustrated, and it was obvious, but at the vague flash of hurt in Hermione's eyes he mentally scolded himself. "I'm sorry," he apologized more calmly. "I worry about him."
"I do too, Ron. You know that. But Harry would want us to be happy. He always has, and that wouldn't have changed—no matter what he's experienced."
"If what she told us is true—"
"Ron!" she interrupted, "This is Harry we're talking about; you know him! He's stronger than that!"
"I don't know if anyone's stronger than that," his tone was solemn, and they both shared a moment of reflection on all that they had lost. "And we know that he's been running around with her—"
"Don't you even start in on her!" Hermione's voice was vehement, and she pulled her hand roughly away from Ron's, standing. "You know what she's been through; if you have to feel anything for her it should be pity!"
Ron snorted and his eyebrows rose minutely. "I don't think she's the kind of woman who'd accept pity politely."
Hermione couldn't help herself as she was reminded of several instances where Ron had learned exactly the kind of woman she was, and a slight smile of bemusement curled at her chapped lips. "No. No, she isn't." A lull descended upon the conversation, and they both gazed around, taking in their surroundings as the silence stretched on comfortably for several moments. "What time is it?" she queried suddenly, glancing back at the tall redhead.
"Not sure," he said loosely, distractedly. He had been glancing around the sky, peering at the stars in the preceding minutes, and his eyes were still glued to the skyline. "Look," he said, pointing with his right index finger up at streak in the tapestry of space. "What's that?"
Her eyes trailed up his arm until she too was staring off into the world above. In the dead of the night a blurring light flashed through the heavens, streaming toward the earth below.
"Shooting star," she said.
"Oh…" Ron didn't appear to understand. She glanced at him.
"It's basically debris from space combusting as it enters the Earth's atmosphere…" As she began to ramble, Hermione noticed Ron's eyes cloud over, and she knew that he wasn't paying her one iota of attention; she snorted prissily. He noticed that and turned to smile apologetically at her.
"Sorry."
The girl brushed him off with a curt nod, and silence settled around them once more.
"Do you think it will ever end?" he asked after almost ten minutes.
"Of course it will. I mean it has to—eventually."
"Eventually…" Ron trailed off, and they both understood the layers piled upon that simple word.
"Where is he?" Hermione asked in frustration, swinging her body around to peer out into the darkness of the refugee camp.
The Second War, as the media had dubbed it, had been going on for almost three years by then, and, though they fought their hardest, the Order and their supporters, even those sent from other continents, were being slowly pushed backwards and out of Europe. More and more people were converting to Voldemort's cause out of nothing more than shear fear. They figured that they would stand a better chance with him than on the side that was almost consistently losing ground. Most of the old pureblooded families—with the exception of the Weasleys—held secure positions in the Dark Lord's inner circle, and that frightened many of the Muggle-borns. Popular theory was that the purebloods were more magically adept, and even though Dumbledore did his best to dispel that rumor, more and more witches and wizards were falling to the cause and Voldemort's seemingly endless power, and people were beginning to doubt the wizened old man.
It had hardly taken a year for the Dark Lord to overwhelm London, causing the Ministry to dissolve into shambles. The Order had been struggling from that point on to retain some sense of cohesiveness, but not many people were willing to submit to an authority that they had been led to believe for so long had worked against them. The damage that the Ministry and the media had done was seemingly irreparable. But that didn't mean that they wouldn't try. The members of the Order that weren't necessarily warriors and those who had worked within the Ministry before its fall were being sent out to provide public relations. As a result, they were seeing increased resistance in some areas and those efforts provided a sort of chain reaction of inspiration for others.
Throughout the War, many wizards, witches, and muggles alike had been driven from their lands and rendered homeless. Thus, hidden refugee facilities were set up by resistance groups and scattered across all of Europe. The Order was ever on the move, randomly migrating between facilities and never staying at any longer than a few months. Dumbledore set up control stations at each of their stops, leaving several members behind with whom he could be in almost constant communication. If anything were to happen, he would, if possible, be immediately notified. Still, these precautions did little to quell the fear of those refugees who deemed that the presence of such powerful and well-known wizards would surely bring Voldemort down on them all the sooner.
It was a constant propaganda battle.
The Dark Lord promised amnesty to those who would defect to his army. Rarely was this claim a fact, but the population was like a deer caught in a pair of headlights and would latch on to any chance they had. According to the Order's spies, the only reason some defectors weren't killed outright was that Voldemort saw some graphic use for them. It was enough to make the entire human race cringe. The demon was a master of manipulation.
The two young wizards, newly graduated, were waiting anxiously for Dumbledore. He was late, and Hermione was beginning to worry.
"He's never late," she murmured nervously.
Ron shook his head. "I wouldn't worry about Dumbledore."
She turned to regard her long-time friend. "Yet you constantly obsess over Harry."
"He's like my brother!" Ron protested and turned away from her, muttering, "You wouldn't understand."
"Wouldn't I? He's my friend too, Ron. But I believe in him. So does everyone here and everyone in the world. We rely on him."
He blinked at her and then suddenly cast his eyes down. "Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be him?"
"Ron—" Hermione began warningly but was interrupted.
"No—hear me out; I've been thinking about this ever since…ever since he disappeared." He raised his eyes to hers, and they shined with unshed tears, something rarely seen in a man his age. "I mean—he's got all of this responsibility heaped onto his shoulders. Everyone expects him to be some kind of super–wizard, to be the one who's going to save us all, even Dumbledore! Can you imagine how that must feel? I certainly can't." He shook his head briefly. "It would be enough to drive a lesser man insane."
As she listened to him, Hermione realized exactly how true his words rang. Harry had always been one to hide and shy away from his fame. He wasn't like others who would have glorified themselves in it and lived for it; he simply preferred to be left alone to live his life, to live as Harry Potter and no one else. Unfortunately, that wasn't always possible for the young Boy-Who-Lived.
"Right you are, Mr. Weasley," a voice rang out over the still night air, instantly recognizable to the two wizards who swung abruptly toward it.
"Professor!" Hermione called excitedly, relieved.
Dumbledore's half-moon spectacles glinted in the glare of the moon as he approached his former students. "In order to find Harry, we are going to have to understand him. And I do believe that young Mr. Weasley is on the right track." The old man smiled and his eyes twinkled. "But that is not why I called you here tonight."
"Then why?" Ron asked, and Dumbledore waved his hand in response.
"As of right now, I am putting that business on hold."
Hermione grew serious and more than slightly suspicious. "Why?" she echoed Ron's question.
Once more his eyes twinkled in that infuriating manner. "What other reason can you think of?" His smile was easy and joyous. "The baby is coming."
END PROLOGUE
Armless Author's Note: Just for information, it might be necessary to note that this story is, in fact, written by two people: myself, Armless Penguin, and my friend Legend (http/ It flows in a rather simplistic way: I wrote the Prologue, he the first chapter, I the second, and so on and so forth? Get it? Good, , then I hope you can enjoy the story as much as we have.