ALLERFORD, SOMERSET, ENGLAND
Later same day
Hermione was dying to go through the newspaper right away—she hadn't heard any news in so long. She decided to eat first, then freshen up and change, and then she would sit and relax with the paper, eat a bit of pudding with the fizzy drink, then have an early night so that she could leave at first light. She might even read a few chapters, if she felt up to it.
She did occasionally come across a bookcase when she was raiding a house, but she had only stolen one book. Its title had caught her eye last January as she crept through a small cottage in the northern bit of England. Growing up, her mum had read many children's classics to her when she was very young and then she had started reading her favourites herself when she was six, before she discovered the world of non-fiction and knowledge that she had fallen in love with. She had still loved classics while she dived into the world of non-fiction, though, and had continued to read through them all. The book she had not been able to resist had always been one of her favourite children's classics: A Little Princess. She hadn't even given it a thought, had just grabbed it on her way out the door.
If she had thought about it at the time, she would have realized what a dangerous book it was for her to read.
Each page had hurt, the pain acute, but she hadn't been able to stop. She had cried throughout the entire novel, many times too hard to be able to see, and she had fallen asleep with it in her hands that first night, emotionally spent.
She had read it sixteen times since then, and it still hurt, but she could tell that Sara Crewe, while fictional, was helping her to get through each day. She couldn't romanticize her situation; she had been through too much for anything like that. But, as time went on, she found that she did possess strength. And, while she was no heroine and wasn't at all sure what she would do now that her odyssey to Ottery St. Catchpole had proved fruitless, she wasn't going to give up.
Hermione was almost content an hour later as she opened the Tupperware bowl and twisted open the glass bottle of Coca-Cola. She took a sip－and cringed. She couldn't remember anything tasting so strong, so hard on her throat. She kept sipping, though, as she pulled the newspaper out of its plastic and spread it out before her. She was poised to take a small bite of the banana pudding when she froze, shocked by the huge photo on the front page.
Mr. Weasley.
And he looked...he looked dead. Laid out on some kind of platform, ash-grey and still, the only animation on the page came from the flashes of various wizarding cameras going off.
The pudding and the coke ended up on the ground and Hermione unfolded the paper with shaking hands, desperately trying to get to the article. When it was open before her, she raced through the words.
HELLEBORE TERRORIST RING LEADER EXECUTED AT DAWN
One family of known terrorists is no longer a thorn in the World Order's side. The last member, the elusive patriarch, Arthur Weasley, was apprehended two weeks ago and has finally been brought to justice. After extensive questioning, Mr. Weasley was executed for his crimes against peace, including but not limited to: murder, attempted murder, terrorism, insurrection, seditious conspiracy, treason, and failure to register. At this time, no more vital information about the terrorist ring has been brought to light. For more information about the hearing, see page 5A. For more information about the capture and reward for any member of the terrorist ring, Hellebore, see page 7A. For a list of what to do to protect yourself if a terrorist threatens you, see page 7B.
The paper shook badly in her left hand and Hermione stared down at his dear face in grief and horror. The implications from the article were just as sickening. ALL of the Weasleys gone? Every single one of them?
Hermione gently set the paper down on the ground, placing the bowl of pudding on top to keep the light pages from flying away. She stood up, clutched her stomach, and swayed to the side as dizziness threatened. Gasping for breath, she took a few steps, and then a few more, and then she was running.
A minute later, Hermione grasped a large English oak, dry-heaving and expelling her dinner. When she caught her breath, she stumbled away from the tree a few steps and then sank down to the ground in a riot of underbrush.
Hermione leaned her forehead down against the leaf-strewn soil, and cried.
She couldn't believe that they were gone. Mr. Weasley, Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, the twins, Charlie, Bill, and Percy. All of them? It was bad enough that Ron was gone. No, she couldn't accept it. It couldn't possibly be.
She curled up into a ball and eventually the only sound she made was hiccups as slow, hot tears burned down her cheeks.
The sky grew dimmer as Hermione laid there. Infrequent bird calls and shuffles through nearby leaves broke up the silence every now and then. The temperature was dropping, but Hermione barely noticed. Her hand gradually made its way to cover her eyes. Her tears eventually dried up, but she spared no time worrying about dehydration. She shook slightly with dry, shuddering grief, and for the first time in a long time, she let herself really remember how life used to be. The Hogwarts Express, Hogwarts itself, becoming friends with Harry and Ron, her first visit to The Burrow, getting to know Ginny, the equal amounts of affection and exasperation she felt for Mrs. Weasley and, to a larger extent, the twins, how adorable and kind Mr. Weasley was...
It hurt. The pain was excruciating. She curled up tighter, hugging her arm tightly to her chest and closed her eyes, remembering, until she finally fell asleep.
When she awoke, several hours later, she felt sick all over. Evening light filtering through the branches hurt her eyes in every possible way. With an aching head in one hand, her injured hand clasped between her knees, Hermione dry-heaved and then fell on her back as she struggled against the pain.
How many of her dear friends, exactly, had been tortured and killed? Were they all gone now? And what had they endured? Ginny, oh Merlin. A Weasley and the girl that Harry had loved—worry about what Ginny would have been forced to withstand haunted her for the millionth time. What would they have done to her? Hermione shivered uncontrollably and forced the thoughts away.
She drew breaths in through her nose sharply, trying to keep the dry-heaving at bay. She opened her eyes and grimaced at the sun, then shielded her eyes with one hand. After a few minutes, Hermione weakly reached for her purse. She felt around blindly until she found the water bottle and slowly, with a shaking and feeble hand, brought it to her lips. She took tiny sips, drinking about half of it in an hour between small bites of one of the protein bars. Thankfully, the migraine and shakiness abated.
Hermione had to hold onto the tree behind her to stand up and her knees were still knocking when she looked around. She hadn't made it very far and within a few minutes she reached the large rock outcropping that hid the cave from immediate sight. Relief flooded her and she hurried around to where the cave was, reaching for the bowl of pudding and the newspaper still lying on the ground.
Her thrumming heart almost jumped out of her throat when someone nearby cleared their throat. Turning slowly, as if in slow motion, Hermione's eyes widened when she came up short to the long barrel of a rifle.
A low baritone groused out at her, harsh but almost with good humor. "Welll, nice ter meet yer dare, girlie. Yer wan av dem terrorists they're alwus complainin' aboyt?"
Hermione brought one shaky hand up to her forehead, closing her eyes for a second, and held the other one out in front of her in surrender. "Please," she croaked, and then tried to clear her throat. "I'm—" She cleared her throat again, her nerves not helping the rasping. "I'm not a threat," she finally managed.
The old man grunted and did not lower the gun. He stated the obvious. "Yer didnae answer me quesshun dare, lassie."
Hermione hesitated and bit her lip. Her mind ran through a series of lies that she could use, but she wasn't a liar. She finally asked, "May I—do you mind," she coughed and cringed, then pointed at the purse at her waist. "Water?"
His huge, fuzzy caterpillar-like eyebrows arched over his narrowed sea green eyes for a second. Hermione had never seen eyes like his before. He shifted the rifle to one hand and rested it on his thigh, still pointing it at her, and reached into his own shoulder bag and pulled out a bottle of water. He tossed it to her and shifted his rifle back into a more commanding grip.
Hermione tried to catch the bottle, but it slipped through her fingers. She bent over slowly and picked it up, telling herself not to make any sudden moves. She guzzled down the first half of the bottle and noticed that his eyes seemed to soften, despite his stance. "Thank you, I—I appreciate it more than you know. I..." she faltered and tried for a simple summary of the truth. "I'm not a...terrorist－but I have been in trouble." Her voice cracked on the last word and her cinnamon brown eyes welled with tears. Aghast, she blinked rapidly and squared her shoulders.
"Wallll, shoot." The old man lowered the gun and slung it over his shoulder by its nylon strap. "Thought Oi caugh' meself a spunky rebel."
A startled, short laugh escaped Hermione and she stared up at him.
A/N: Due to showing the pronunciation of Christie's accent, sometimes words are used where the meaning doesn't necessarily fit, for phonetic purposes. A few examples that come to mind from future chapters is 'nigh' instead of 'now' and Oi instead of I. Don't worry, I haven't mixed up the meanings in my head. Just go with it. Thank you! :)