Chapter Two
"To ten years of peace," Ginny pronounced, raising her glass of Firewhiskey.
From the darkest corner of the pub Harry, Ron, George, Neville, Luna and Hermione reached to the middle of the table, clinking their glasses together, but not one of them smiled. Not one of them looked happy in the midst of their "celebration."
It was May 3rd, 2008, a full decade after the last battle of the second war, known as the Battle of Hogwarts. Although they won, it was at great personal loss. Over fifty lives were taken, every one of the good remembered in a memorial at the Ministry of Magic. In the Atrium, carved at the edges of the new stone-white fountain were the hero's names.
It was Neville's idea to gather for drinks that night at the Leaky Cauldron. Hermione had been right on board, assuming that it was a fine thing to do, to honor the sacrifice given for their cause. However, it was quickly proving to be the worst thought they ever had. Celebrating the good did not take the bad off of anyone's minds, not the loved ones that were missing. Friends, parents, and siblings...
Hermione took the smallest of sip, the liquid setting fire to her tongue and throat, a semblance of a dragon. It was once called "the dragon's drink" for that reason. She was about to share that bit of information, for at least Luna would take the slightest of interest, even if it was to add something unreal at the end, but before she could there was a bang.
Harry leapt from his seat, his wand in hand, wildly searching for the source.
George cursed. "Sorry, mate." At the bottom of his glass could be seen a few trickles of the alcohol. He had guzzled it all.
Hannah Abbott, the proud owner of the pub came rushing over, wiping her hands on her apron. "Harry, what's wrong?"
Harry placed his wand back to the inside of his robe. "It's fine, Hannah. It was a mistake."
She heaved a great sigh of relief. "Good, good. Um, is there anything I can get for you?"
Ginny stood, the pitcher of Firewhiskey in her hands. "Butterbeer, please."
Hannah accepted the pitcher, and shrunk nervously against the stares, the whispering. There was the light blush on her rounded cheeks. She hadn't changed at all in ten years. Except for the crinkles under her eyes. They showed an age far wiser than her own.
"Is that Harry Potter?"
"Yeah, yeah, it is."
"It is, it's Harry Potter!"
"What's he doing here?"
"Suppose he's a celebratin', he is.'"
Ginny cursed softly when she had sat down, slamming her hands on the table, the back of her knees hitting the chair as she addressed the unwanted audience. "Yes! This is Harry Potter! The 'Chosen One.' The one who defeated Voldemort. These are his friends! These are his friends that are not deaf and neither is he! Now that we've cleared that up, for Merlin's baggy y-fronts, finish your drinks!" She spun and threw herself back into her seat, her hair falling among her tense shoulders.
The chattering lowered instantly to mummerings, and a few strained coughs. That was when Hermione had no doubt in her mind that the night was doomed before it began.
"You sure have a way with the people, Ginny."
"Shut up, Ron."
Hannah wheeled around, facing the crowd. "Please, go back to your drinks," she told her customers as Harry sat.
"That was exciting," Luna mentioned airily, fingering the indistinguishable carving in the table surface.
A smile grew on Neville's face as he fondly looked to her, and Luna peered back to him matching the softness in him. It was like watching a light grow brighter, and it was an intimacy that Hermione could barely stand. Like looking into the sun.
"I'm going to work," George announced.
"It's nine," Neville pointed out. "And everything's closed for the holiday."
"I have some paperwork."
"Who are you, Hermione?" Ron jest. "Sit down."
George didn't respond, he simply walked away, leaving the quaint pub to the streets of bustling London. It could hardly be heard over the happy chatter of others regaling stories of peace and politics.
"I don't think he's going to the shop. He just went out the wrong door." Ron took another swig of his drink.
Ginny begged Luna hopefully. "You're good with... This. Can you talk with him?"
"Harry asked me that before. We all grieve differently, I found."
Hermione glimpsed over at George's seat and spotted a golden watch by the back leg. She leaned over and picked it up. "George must have dropped this. Excuse me, I'm going to return it to him before he goes too far."
"We'll see you at the Ministry tomorrow, then," Harry said.
"Bright and early," she promised, and made her way through the crowded room.
She thought of the pile of work that was waiting on her desk. When Neville told her of the celebration she was slightly reluctant to skip a night of work. While a rare few worked on the anniversary since it became a national wizarding day of remembrance, she had never missed a day.
One day, she had ran into Kingsly, and he lightly told her to take it easy. She laid the blame on Ron for mentioning her late hours - even if she did perhaps look a tad haggard. In her defense, the workload was decreasing, and she was sleeping more - and in her bed, not at her desk.
The first year after the war was hard on the trio, given their choice of careers. Ron helped with George's shop, but every other minute of his day was dedicated to being an Auror, like Harry. Hermione became a lawyer, determined to change the pro-wizard laws. She wanted equality for Muggles and magical creatures alike.
For safe keeping, Hermione put the watch in her pocket, stepping out into the drizzling rain. She wished she would have bought a jacket, knowing better than to trust London weather.
She searched for George right outside, past the terrible cigarette smoke blown her way. When didn't see him she contemplated which way she was to go. He couldn't have disapparated in front of Muggles. He had to have been somewhere nearby. She strolled two blocks to her left, but she didn't meet him, and the rain was steadily falling harder.
Hermione was a little more than damp by the time she came to the pub, and was disappointed to see that Neville, Luna, Harry and Ginny had left, leaving Ron alone with a tankard of Butterbeer. He silently pulled out a seat for her next to him.
"They all went home," he tiredly explained. "Waited here for you."
"Thank you, Ron."
He poured her a mug, but she waved it off. She would wait to brush the alcohol from her mouth rather than drink a pint of Butterbeer that would only leave a more undesirable taste in her mouth.
"Hermione," he croaked.
"Yes?"
"Have you forgiven me?"
She met his watery cobalt blue eyes. His ears were colored a red like radishes, chagrined by his vulnerability.
She remembered a time in the war where she had dropped an armful of Basilisk fangs to run and kiss him. She could still feel his arms encircle her, lifting her off the floor, his lips pressed hard against hers.
Hermione had been certain that they would make it. She had waited so long - seven years for it, but it wasn't what either of them hoped for. They were best friends, but they couldn't be more. They tried so hard. It had seemed perfect, two best friends, they knew everything about each other, they shared their lives, their homes, their hearts. It took Hermione a long time to figure out that there had to be more than that, that nothing could be so simple, and she greatly feared it was too late...
"I told you, there is nothing to forgive."
"All those years, being jealous of you and Harry..."
She eyed his drink suspiciously. "Is that spiked?"
The red spread to his freckled face. "No! Isn't this supposed to be a day meant for reflection?"
"Yes... But honestly, Ronald, this is what you're choosing to reflect on?"
"Better than..." There was no need for him to finish that sentence, she understood exactly what he meant.
Hermione laid her hand over his large one. She barely covered his knuckles. "Fred would've been proud of you."
"Guess I'll never know." He blinked, his hands tightening. "You'll do with walking yourself home?"
She wanted to ask him the same thing. It didn't settle well with her, how quickly George and Ron both finished their drinks. As though it would numb them. She not only felt a rush of compassion for them, but worry. "I'll be okay. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Hermione?"
"Yes?"
"Can we ever be friends?"
"We have to. For them."
"Right." Slowly, he stood, and left through the front entrance.
Hermione buried her face in her hands breathing deeply before standing herself and walking out into Diagon Alley to disapparate. The door closed, and the vigorous laughter and cheers were muffled, but still very audible.
Night had descended over the cobblestone street crowded with its shops. Small red, gold, blue, and yellow fireworks popped and sparkled overhead casting a multicolor glow. As daylight approached they would fade and die, replaced by the light of the sun, and everything would go back to normal. At least for a little while, for Hermione was going to begin making the changes for wizards and witches alike that would finally mean equality in all of their lives.
"Body parts, body parts in a dish. How many organs do you wish? Thumbs, noses, eyes and tongues." Little children sung in the distance, making Hermione's stomach twist. They must have been wasting time waiting for their parents to come out of Knockturn Alley by playing a disgusting rendition of a muggle game. It was the result of purebloods attempting to adept their children to the new world. Knockturn Alley had become a wretched place not meant for children, as it was frequently attacked. Harry and Ron had spent many days there trying to quiet the hoards.
As Hermione readied to disapparate, she heard groaning, and she froze. She pulled out her wand, aiming it in front of her, frantically searching for the hurt soul. "Hello? Is someone there?"
More groaning, and it was louder. She followed the noise into the dark crevice of the Leaky Cauldron, and a clothing shop. There was a shadowed mass stirring, sniffles, and deep weeping.
"Lumos," she whispered, her wand illuminating the corner, and she sharply inhaled, watered droplets stinging the back of her throat.
In the misty spotlight was Draco Malfoy, his white blond hair drenched, his black clothes mapping the facets of his body. His right eye was swollen, his cheek and lip bloody, his knuckles cut. His wand laid feet from him, half hidden in the greater darkness, swallowing the handle. She pocketed it inside of her robe before she knelt beside him.
"Malfoy?" She held out a tentative hand before withdrawing it.
He moaned in answer, and unlike the ones he made in his childhood days, they sounded as though he was in real pain. Judging from the bruises marking his milky skin, she had to believe him.
"I'm going to disapparte you." She doubted he could hear her, but speaking to him made her feel better. Maybe it gave him comfort.
She wrapped his arm over her shoulders, her nails digging into his side, a horrible cry of pain emitting from the man she once knew.
"I'm sorry," she said as she hoisted him up. Under the extra weight her knees buckled and she dearly hoped she didn't splinch him or herself.
She spun and fell face first into her lounge.