A/N: I've been having serious writers block with my other story, Face the Truth. So today, as I sat in front of the computer, another idea popped into my head. I wrote this all today and I'd like to say that it is a short, completed story. But I'd like to take it one chapter at a time, more chapters will be uploaded sooner depending on the feedback.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. Anything you recognize is hers. The storyline and odd things that you don't recognize are mine. This will be the only disclaimer for the story, so take note!
Let's begin, Enjoy.
She was mesmerized. The geometrical patterns encompassed the surface, giving depth to a trivial crystal glass. The reflection was the result of her brilliant diamond ring, delicately placed upon the finger that was holding the bitter champagne to her soft pink lips. As she twirled the glass, the patterns of the light bounced back and forth, eventually giving way to the silhouette of a man standing behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she forced a smile onto her lips.
"Good evening, Minister." She gripped his hand lightly, "How are you?"
Kingsley still stood at a compelling height with his deep voice that sounded like a slow jazz tune. Yet, Hermione noticed the aging signs his body so easily emanated, signs that the war had reached into his bones and wouldn't release its crushing grip. He gave a deep, rumbling chuckle, "Miss Granger, you don't have to pretend with me. I am fully aware this gathering is supremely dull."
A genuine smile found its way through her façade of polite interest, "I suppose you've come to find me to let me know it's time for the speeches."
Kingsley's smile widened, "You truly are the brightest witch of the century." He elicited another laugh from Hermione, winked, and spun on his heel. Within seconds she lost sight of him in the mass of bodies filling the room. She had been pestered by the Order to give a speech tonight, for the ceremony of the anniversary of the Final Battle. When she had outright refused, the begging had commenced by various members. She had resisted but her will broke when Harry cornered her alone, stooped to his knees, pleaded, and shined the bright of his eyes on her. "This is blackmail," she had said, "and you damn well know it, too." She lifted him to his feet and he cracked a mischievous smile, relayed his thanks, and ducked out of the room, narrowly missing the book Hermione had thrown at him.
She had maneuvered her way through the tables and crowd of people to reach the makeshift stage. She lifted her silk, golden dress to ascend the stairs and sit herself by Harry. Ron graced Harry's other side and every time the redhead leaned toward Harry to say some inane comment, Hermione felt herself bristle and she shifted uncomfortably away from the two. Harry might have noticed her behavior, but, either way, he did not comment on it. Ron simply acted as if she were invisible, something he had been doing for the past two years.
She vaguely heard Kingsley introduce Harry and, every so often, heard a snippet of a selfless, humbling speech that only The-Boy-Who-Lived could give. Her light brown eyes flickered among the guests seated around the magnificent hall, registering the likes of Luna Lovegood, Neville Longbottom, and countless others. She realized she hadn't spent a lot of time with them the past year, in actuality, she hadn't seen much of them since the aftermath of the war. In the beginning of the rebuilding, she often ran into the familiar faces in the rubble of Hogwart's Castle or in the new shops of Diagon Alley. Every time she spoke to a fellow hero, she felt an odd tremor in her chest that would constrict the valves of her beating heart. An even more peculiar dull would glaze itself over her eyes, and the orbs of the other. Three years after the war, she fully understood what that reaction was- remembrance. Perhaps that is why she distanced herself. She had never liked that feeling, really.
Seeing everyone now, all in one place, she was confused. Her heart pulled at her in various shades of emotions, ranging from the grief of loss to the relief and peace she had felt when it was over. The overload left her mind exhausted. She felt herself being pulled into the memory of Neville slaying the snake, the feeling of Ron's arms, when the raucous of applause interrupted her thoughts. She joined in, smiling as if she had hung on to Harry's words. She heard Ron give a small cough, clearing his throat, before taking Harry's place. She told herself she would listen this time, slightly chastising herself for not being attentive to Harry. Refocusing her eyes, she fought to listen. Within mere moments, she gave in to the whirlwind in her brain. She stared at Ron, he was no longer a boy and this newfound mature man commanded the attention of everyone in the room.
He looked almost the same physically, as if he hadn't aged a day. His hair may be a bit shorter than she remembered but the most notable change was much more than appearances. He had a presence now; an understanding, enlightened aura that radiated the secret of an interwoven despair that would follow him throughout his life, a constant shadow. The gloom reached its fingers out to Hermione as she regarded Ron, reaching until it seized itself upon her skin. She covered her arms, rubbing continuously to try and force the feeling to leave.
Another round of applause told her it was time to close the speeches. She hadn't listened to a word Ron said, either. Damn.
She heard the sharp click of her heels vibrate in her ears, understanding that the room had gone silent once more. She gulped nervously and cleared her throat, "I'm sure that most of what I would like to say has already been said by Harry and Ron," she stumbled over Ron's name, she hadn't said it in years and it felt foreign yet familiar on her tongue. She pushed on, "I'd just like to say that today is the day of rejoicing, of celebrating the life that we fought so fiercely for. But it is also a day for remembering. A constant reminder of what the fallen died for; to remember that they died for something bigger than all of us. But I find that I return to Albus Dumbledore's words whenever I feel the sadness of it: Do not pity the dead. Pity the living, and, above all, those who live without love. That's what we fought for, the people we love, and that is the most important thing we must remember today."
As she finished with a quiet, 'Thank you', Harry and Ron stood up beside her as the attendants, in turn, gathered to their feet with the final accolade. The trio made their way off the stage. Harry roped Hermione into a hug before retreating to find Ginny. Ron had already returned to his seat. Hermione found herself wandering and stopped by the bar to get another drink before continuing on into the garden. The blackness had inked its way across the sky, the glinting stars the only refuge of light.
She drained the glass in a single swig and immediately wanted for more. She found a stone bench along the pathway that was hidden behind some overgrown bushes and allowed herself to relax, the first time she had done so that day. Cursing, she dislodged her wand from the inside of her dress and gave it a quick tap, watching as the golden liquid appeared once more. She drained it easily, along with the next four refills. Her vision was getting blurry and she was fighting laughter over some spilled champagne when a voice startled her, causing her to fall backwards into the shrubbery. A loud, boisterous laugh erupted from the pit of her stomach and she struggled back onto the bench. Through watery eyes, she saw Ron, confused, standing in front of her. When their eyes locked, she felt the hatred pierce her skin. His posture was rigid as he looked down at her condescendingly, "Harry wanted me to let you know that we are leaving."
It seemed that the alcohol in Hermione's veins caused her to lose her inhibitions and she just waved him away, "Good riddance." She began laughing and his eyes narrowed.
"What?" she squeaked out between laughs, "Weren't you leaving?" She didn't bother waiting for a response as she busied herself with another refill, or two. Ron watched her for an instant before allowing his hands to leave his pockets and snatch Hermione's drink.
"I think you've had enough."
Hermione's amusement vanished from her face as indignant anger shook her uncontrollably, "You have no right, Ronald! You lost that right when you stopped loving me." The statement was breathless and Hermione felt as though she could pass out right now but she was so incensed by him that she fought off the dizziness. Mustering all the hate she could, she spat through gritted teeth, "I want nothing to do with you."
He peered down at her, not intimidated in the least by the short girl attempting to stand up to him. Contempt crept into his soul as he took in her brown eyes, the way her curls had fallen around her face and subsequently picked up some loose twigs in the bushes, and how natural it felt to be this close to her.
When he didn't respond, Hermione looked up into his eyes and saw it, the dullness, the emptiness, she so often found in the mirror. Immediately, her stance softened, and her voice was low, barely above a whisper as she pleaded, "Leave, Ron. Please, just go."
In the moment he was about to answer with a strange look in his eyes, the two heard a noise come from behind them. Whipping around, Hermione held up her wand, an Expelliarmus on her lips as she noticed Ron mimicking her movements. But their attempts were futile. Hermione saw a blinding red light, and then she saw nothing at all.
Her fingers groped along the surface, it was hard and cold against her skin as she fought to drag herself towards the light. She had awoken a few minutes ago to pure, rich darkness. Immediately, she feared she had gone blind until she saw a flickering yellow hue yards away. Hermione found she was too weak to stand and her wand had gone missing. With deep, struggling breaths she continued to light.
After an eternity of crawling, she collapsed in the room. Her head lay on the floor, the only sign of movement emitted from her body was the fearful darting of her eyes as they took in the unknown room. The concrete floor was decorated by a worn rug, and a battered old couch. A tiny kitchen made space for itself along the far wall. A small fire had been made and its meager licks were the only sign of life.
Her head snapped towards the door of the room when she heard a gasp. Ron lay on the floor as well, a deep gash in his forehead. He was grunting in pain and she moved towards him, "What happened?"
He looked at her through his peripheral but clutched at his stomach before he replied. He leaned up on his elbows and took a deep breath, "They stupefied you. I tried to fight them off but I was outnumbered. They got me not long after."
She raised her head in alarm, "Who was it?"
He shrugged in confusion and moved to sit on the couch. Hermione sat against the wall and realized where she was and who she was with. With her knowledge, she gathered the last of her strength to pull back the moth-ridden curtains, looking through the glass of the window to find it only reflected her. Her stomach tightened and the fear she had felt during the war came back to her in full measure.
"I think we are in the Shrieking Shack."
Ron ignored her. She lifted her head higher, deciding it was time to find a way out. When she took her first step, she felt the structure of the building shake and a voice erupted from the walls, seeping through the splints of the wood that held together their prison. The voice was unknown but dangerously melodic, vibrating the very core of her brain. She held her palms over her ears as it spoke:
"Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger. It is time that you were punished for the crimes of war you committed towards the Death Eaters. I have your wands and you will find there is no way out.
Your time of death has been planned for you. While unconscious you were given a potion that has activated and will shut down your pathetic bodies at five days time. Harry Potter cannot save you now. Harry Potter will now be unable to save himself."
The voice faded and a large, mahogany Grandfather clock materialized. Hermione, in shock, approached the ticking machine. The swinging pendulum ensnared her interest as she leaned closer to it, motioning for Ron to join her.
The pair heard what sounded like a thousand whispers, repeating the same thing, again and again, "Your seconds are ticking."