15 August, 1995
The air seemed to leave her lungs as the words touched her lips. Without thinking, she dropped her wand, stumbled toe over heel, and wrapped her arms around the two closest Weasley's she could reach.
"Merlin!" She choked once more.
"Alas, just me," Fred chortled.
"Although I hear the resemblance is uncanny," George snorted.
"Oh, shut up! I'm just glad you're alive!"
When finally she had the relief to break free from the twins, her eyes found Arthur Weasley. What once was a man with a bright face and kind smile, now bore worry lines Hermione hadn't noticed before and his hair seemed slightly grayer. She softened as their eyes met and when he enveloped her in a tight embrace, he felt like home and smelled like Ron. Her eyes began to burn involuntarily and she buried her face in his shirt. It only reminded her more of the young boy she missed so greatly. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, swallowing her emotions just as he broke their hug.
"I'm so happy to see you all," she whispered gratefully.
"Oi, Hermione! You'd think this were a funeral!"
"George!" Arthur scolded immediately.
Fred's eyes swept the room quickly before whispering to George, "If this were a funeral, we'd at least have flowers."
"That is enough out of you two!" Arthur said, although even he couldn't hide the hint of a smile on his face.
After attempting to make dinner for the group, interrupted every so often by Arthur demanding Hermione explain the use of a toaster and even once a microwave, they found themselves seated around the fire in the living room. Hermione sat on the floor, her back to the couch with the twins on either side of her, while Arthur and Sirius respectively sat in chairs opposite them. Until this point, the conversation had been light and everyone had seemed to tiptoe around the burning questions. The fact that they had gone two and half hours without any mention of Ginny and Molly tore Hermione's stomach to shreds and made her more sick with each passing moment. Even the humor from Fred and George couldn't bandage the poison seeping into the conversation. Finally, Hermione ripped the bandage off.
"Is there any word on Ginny?"
Her fingers wove knots from her hands and she dared not even look at Arthur while she awaited his answer, though she knew the truth. The truth was etched in his face like tattoos; deadly marks on a man who believed his wife and only daughter to be dead.
"Nothing yet," He whispered. "We've been looking, and we haven't given up hope."
"I'm sorry," She replied quietly, her voice but a whisper.
After a few solemn moments, Sirius spoke, "And Remus?"
"I don't know," answered Arthur honestly. "Nymphadora is searching for him. That's when I found the boys."
"You should be so lucky," Fred quipped with a quirk of his brow.
Hermione could tell by the narrow of his eyes that the boys humor annoyed Arthur, but she also knew he needed it in the way that he didn't reprimand them. Sure, their jokes were unnecessary at some points, but everyone desired something that tasted like home. Fred and George and their ridiculous humor and jokes were home.
At first, no one dared mention Ron, and, for that, Hermione was grateful. The fact that Ginny and Molly were unaccounted for was enough turmoil, she knew better bringing up Ron. But as she sat laughing at Fred and George, surrounded by Weasley's, she found herself often looking to her right whenever a joke made; looking to catch her best friend's reaction. It had become habit, at this point. There was no other moment in her life where she was surrounded by Weasley's and Ron wasn't there. One recounted memory was all it took: Fred and George were deep into a story, retelling a time when they had played the ultimate prank on poor Molly, mixing her dinner stew with a bit of burly boil potion, and Ron took the fall. Maybe they didn't even realize the story involved Ron, as they seemed to be preoccupied with the fact that every Weasley spouted a particularly nasty case of boils immediately from lips to forehead. Maybe they weren't aware of the consequences of bringing him up, or maybe they were just trying to be funny and got carried away. But when Hermione heard his name, pictured his face in her mind, her world dizzied.
"Excuse me," she whispered, rising from the floor, sure she would vomit before she made it upstairs.
Thankfully, no one tried to stop her. She was sick three times before finally she found her bed and stared at the ceiling for hours before sleep mercifully pulled her under.
18 August, 1995
It had been two days since she last saw the Weasleys. Once again, staying together proved to be more dangerous than separating, and Hermione could tell Arthur was anxious to scour for hints of Molly and Ginny. Hermione stared out the window, watching the drizzle of rain fall from the the leaves that were just beginning to burn orange, and hated everything. She hated separating. She hated not having news. She hated running, and, Merlin, she hated hiding. The same question bore in the back of her mind every day, growing stronger like cancer: How long could they keep this up?
What were the options? Hermione knew running forever wasn't possible. Statistically, it was almost impossible. So where did it end? Who could possibly bring an end to Voldemort?
She twirled her wand between her fingers as her thoughts ran wan wild. The brightest witch of her age, they had said... and now she sat scared with a wand that as useless to her as the rain that fell in front of her.
20 August, 1995
Where is Sirius?
How did they lose each other? How could she be so stupid? It had taken two breaths. Sirius had apparated them in the woods just outside of their safe house, but the enemy was waiting. As soon as Hermione's feet hit the ground, blasts of red and green shot towards the two of them. Hermione screamed, panicked, and dove to her right.
Sirius.
Her feet caught on a tree root beneath her, and her face slammed to the ground before the next scream could leave her lips. She tasted blood and inhaled a lung full of dirt. Her fingers bore into the ground, nails digging deeply into the soil, and she pushed her face up, choking and grasping desperately for air. She could hear her name being called from far away, but it felt like miles. Dirt. Oxygen. She coughed; dirty, brown spit flying from her mouth as she choked and flying down her chin while her chest convulsed, begging for air. Her stomach heaved, and though her vision spun, she reached desperately for her wand. When finally she coughed the last bit of dirt from her lungs and aimed her wand, she saw a pair of wild, gray eyes looking down upon her. Before she could cast a spell, before she could think clearly, Sirius nearly fell over her, bloody faced and wide eyed, and disapparated them.
21 August, 1995
Draco felt particularly smug as their house elf carried his new school robes and other belongings upstairs to his bedroom. He and his mother had spent the day at Diagon Alley retrieving all of supplies for the next term, which he was explicitly excited to see.
"Thank you, mother," Draco commented, plucking fruit from the kitchen counter.
"Of course, my lov-"
A crack interrupted them, and they both turned to address Lucius. He seemed quite disheveled, with twigs in his hair and his robes astray. His eyes were wild as he threw his wand on the table and cursed beneath his breath.
"So close," he muttered angrily.
"Lucius," Narcissa breathed. "Are you hurt?"
"Hurt?" He spat. "No, of course not. I'm fine."
"They got away again," Draco noted, leaning against the counter and arrogantly raising an eyebrow. "Told you that you should have asked for my hel-"
"You are a child!" Lucius yelled, losing his temper and yanking Draco's collar until the two were but inches apart. "You are a child, and you will act in a child's place. The Dark Lord wants you to study, boy, so shut your mouth and read your books until we ask for input. Don't think your opinion weighs with the likes of us until you're grown enough to wear our mark."
Lucius' furiously shoved Draco backwards into the counter. He winced as the wood connected with his spine. Narcissa reached for Draco instinctively, but Lucius' voice intervened.
"Draw me a bath," he spat at her. "I need the stench of trash washed off of me."
Draco watched as his mother bowed her head, turned her face from her own son, and left the room.
"I'm sorry," Draco whispered, eyes downcast, ashamed to displease his father.
Lucius ran his fingers roughly through his hair and grimaced, "You'll learn, Draco, with time. I'll teach you."
22 August, 1995
"It's become obvious that you can't seem to get the job done, so the Dark Lord has sent us, instead."
Lucius fumed, pacing the large dining table anxiously. For over a month he had been tracking the little mudblood and only twice had he come close enough to capture her. Both times, however, the blood traitor defended her and, as much as he loathed to admit it, managed to escape him. The Dark Lord's spy did well by handing out information on safe houses the Order could be hiding in, and it had proven true so far; every place Lucius and his fellow Death Eaters visited showed signs of recent habitation. Still, finding these safe houses didn't prove as difficult as finding them at the right time; and the two times he had, he had been unsuccessful still.
Bellatrix sneered, "Disappointed? I would be. . . to embarrass myself as you have, well-"
"Mind your tongue, Bellatrix," Lucius warned dangerously. "This is my manor. You will not disrespect me in my own home."
"Oh, dear Draco," Bellatrix purred, unaffected by Lucius' hostility, instead turning her attention to the youngest of Malfoys. "I do hope you're paying attention. Your time is coming, you know. Soon enough, you'll be one of us."
"When the time is right," Narcissa's voice infiltrated the air softly. "That time is not now. Draco, upstairs. You can dwell over your books for this term."
"Mother-"
"Now, Draco."
With narrow eyes and his head cast down, Draco reluctantly carried himself upstairs. He shut his door a little too roughly and threw his wand on his bed. How dare she? He had as much right as anyone to listen to their plans. While a small part of him knew she meant well, it unnerved him still. Draco knew he could be of help in finding Hermione Granger. As a matter of fact, he felt arrogantly sure he could catch her before anyone else. After all, he was the only one who knew anything about her. Oh, what he would give to be the one to deliver her to the Dark Lord. . . the devastated look on her face would be well worth it.
He plopped on his bed just as their house elf apparated into his bedroom.
"Bloody hell!" He shouted. "What did I say about doing that, Tippens?"
"Oh! Master Malfoy!" Shouted the small house elf, flinging her face to the floor so abruptly that her head made an audible thump on contact. "Tippins is greatly sorry, she is! She only came to get Master Malfoy's laundry, she did! Tippins is so very sorr-"
"Enough," Draco hissed, narrowing his eyes at the pathetic creature. "The laundry is in the pile over there. Get it and get out."
Draco exhaled out of annoyance as he watched Tippins stumble across the room, gather his laundry, and disapparate.
"Annoying little git," he muttered hatefully.
He kicked one of his school books beneath his bed angrily. The audacity of it all. He was not a child. He was as ready as anyone to take the Dark Mark and do the Dark Lord's bidding as asked. His confidence in himself blistered slightly as he thought of the time during third year when Granger had laid a fist to him. . . his face flushed in rage, the memory flaming a deep hatred, and he swore, in that moment, that he would make her regret ever daring to touch him.
"Foul little mudblood bitch," he cursed, yanking his book from under his bead and tearing it open roughly enough to rip the first three pages. "Just wait."
23 August, 1995
A deeply unsatisfied hiss filled the room. The air seemed to grow colder, and those around the table shivered, though the fire in the hearth burned brightly.
"Dare I say, you are attempting to argue with me? As if I am wrong, Lucius. . . as if you have any rightful place to question me. . ."
Lucius felt his very spine tremble, "My Lord. . . We have had but little time. A month or so-"
"Nine weeks, I have given you, Lucius," Voldemort interrupted, his gaze abruptly piercing the man. "Nine weeks, and what have I to show for your hard work? Nothing. No, as I stated before, Bellatrix and Alecto will be in charge of returning the girl."
From across the table, Bellatrix seemed to beam, spotlighting her rotten, chipped teeth. Lucius felt sick merely looking at her. He knew he could find the bitch, it was only a matter of time. However, he also knew the Dark Lord was growing impatient, just as Bellatrix had warned. He commanded the Ministry, he had killed Potter, and his followers had captured one of the trio. . . but the Granger girl was still at large. Lucius knew this missing link, although Voldemort's army was strong and devoted, still made him seem slightly weak. If, with thousands at his command, he couldn't find one girl, how powerful was he, truly?
Lucius glared across the table at Bellatrix who seemed deeply unaware of his presence, "As you wish, my Lord."
Draco, peeking around the corner and holding his breath as if it made him less easy to detect, ducked his head. He made a silent, swift effort to leave his spy session but found himself face to face with his narrow eyed, angry mother.
"Draco Malfoy," she hissed quietly. "Just what do you think you're doing?"
"Mother," Draco whispered indignantly. "Why aren't you in the meetin-"
"Narcissa!" His father shouted from the room loud enough to make the both of them jump.
Draco hardly noticed the shift in her eyes; the way one moment she looked angry at him, then concerned, before her eyes almost seemed to gloss over and she spoke immediately.
"Draco, upstairs," she whispered, before brushing past him into the room where sat the meeting of how to finally capture Hermione Granger.
23 August, 1995
Miles away, hidden within the sanctity of magical charms, Hermione sat on the grass in the back yard. In front of her lay two large tubs: one of water and one of soap. The sun baked her shoulders as she bent over the tubs and worked furiously again. In her hands she held the blood soaked clothes of Sirius. She had tried diligently for three days to scrub out the stains. In a warm room, tucked safely inside the house, Sirius lay recovering.
Her fingers were red, raw, and blistered. She glanced at her wand which sat but a few feet away and swore under her breath. Surely there was a spell to fix this, but it was useless. She couldn't use magic because of the trace. As her eyes fixated on the vinewood wand cast aside, her eyes burned. Useless. Everything she had studied and worked for seemed absolutely pointless now.
Now, sweat poured from her brow and her elbows were deep in soapy water while her fingers bled from working the fabric for the hundredth time. The blood will come out. The blood will come out.
"Hermione."
The tub spilled as she lurched forward; the voice igniting a panic inside of her that made her reach instinctively for her wand. After but a moment of frantically attempting to crawl over the tub, her wide eyes flashed to the voice she knew she recognized.
Sirius stood in the doorway, watching her very carefully. The bandages she had placed around his forehead and ribs still lay in place and his face was pale, but this was the first time he had been conscious since they arrived.
"Your clothes," she managed, slipping in the soapy water as she tried to push herself off the ground. "I can't get. . . I can't get it out!"
Sirius winced as he moved closer, "Hermione, pull yourself together, for the love of Merlin!"
She shut her eyes tight, her small fists closing tightly around the wet clothes that lay beneath her, "I. Can't. Get. The. Blood. Out."
"I can't. . I can't!" She screamed now. "The blood won't come out. Ron is gone. Harry is dead. And I can't get blood out of your clothes!"
"You can't repair this!" Sirius yelled. "Get up! You're acting like a child! For the love of Merlin, pull yourself together!"
As she moved her gaze from Sirius, standing injured before her, to the soaking wet, bloody clothes that she had tried so desperately to fix for three days, she had to finally accept the truth.
The damage was done.
Ron was gone.
Harry was dead.
The blood wouldn't come out of his clothes.
And no amount of scrubbing, magic, or pretending would change the truth.
A/N: Thank you for reading this far! Y'all bear with me, we're getting to some juicy stuff!