A/N: HOLY CRAP, this is a long one. The next will probably be crazy long, too.
So, there are three… hm, can I use the term "Easter Eggs" in my own fic? Ha. Anyway, there are three minuscule things I slipped in here, which I fully realize basically no one will get, so I figured I'd just tell you about them for fun. My buddies at DEM will appreciate Ron's outfit at the end of the chapter, which I am of course blaming on Rupert Grint in episode 5 of Sick Note… The other two references are ridiculous. I've named Hermione's office secretary after Dawn from The Office (BBC), one of my all time favorite shows, even though the character in this fic is nothing at all like the "real" Dawn. And then I've made an even smaller reference by naming a briefly mentioned character "Frankie," which is taken from the fabulous X-Files episode "The Rain King," in which an actress named Frankie Ingrassia plays a southern-drawled, gum-chewing receptionist whose lines I probably have memorized… :D
RIGHT. Onward!
CHAPTER NINE:
7 Years, 6 Months, 1 Day
Sunday, 13 November, 2005
It had been quite awhile since she'd cried this much. But, tonight, she was huddled on the floor of her bathroom, hugging her knees to her chest, sobbing.
An hour earlier, she'd rushed from her flat to aimlessly walk through the night, ignoring the way the brisk breeze blew through the jeans and thin jumper she'd been wearing, having left too quickly to remember her coat. Cold rain had drizzled down by the time she'd almost gotten herself lost in a random series of turns, and she'd hugged her arms across her chest, ignoring the chattering of her teeth and startling chill of her wet hair.
Now, the cold was surely making things worse. She'd made her way home again, almost without conscious thought. But she could see his handwriting so clearly, burned into the backs of her eyelids, and-
Someone was knocking, weren't they? Her ears were ringing and her own gasping breaths mostly covered any other sounds around her.
But there it was - someone was calling her name.
"Hermione?"
Ginny pushed against the partially open bathroom door and stepped through, but Hermione was shivering too hard to properly respond.
"Oi!" Ginny crouched in front of her, grabbing ahold of her arm. "Hermione, what's wrong?!"
She shook her head, closing her eyes, feeling hot tears rush down her cheeks.
"You're freezing," Ginny pointed out, alarmed.
Her heart felt like it was beating three or four times harder than usual, and a thin, cold sweat had broken across her forehead.
"I was knocking on your door outside for five minutes, and when you didn't answer-"
"I'm s-sorry," she said weakly, watery eyes finding Ginny's.
"Are you ill?"
She shook her head, trying to sit up further against the wall, and Ginny reached to support her, eyebrows raised with alarm.
"Why's your hair wet?"
"I was w-walking outside in the r-rain."
"Damn, you'll make yourself ill then. What's happened?"
She shook her head, not wanting to say it. Ginny stared at her for a long moment as she tried to catch her breath.
"You need a hot bath," Ginny finally tried, a questioning gaze meeting Hermione's, and she nodded.
Ginny reluctantly let her go to turn on the taps, and the sound of rushing water distracted her from reality for several blissful moments. But it was right there, too close, and it came back too fast. And when Ginny turned back to face her as Hermione slipped off her shoes, she watched Ginny's forehead crease once more with worry.
How was it possible to feel so low after so long? But it came in waves, as everyone had told her it would. There were days when she could cope… and then there were days when she'd open a book and find a piece of her past, and the world would crumble around her.
But her friend's concern was painful to see, and she wanted to be so much stronger than she knew she looked.
"Hermione-"
"I'm okay, I'm okay," but her voice broke into a fresh sob, and Ginny slipped an arm around Hermione's back.
"You don't have to be okay," Ginny said quietly, and though a part of Hermione still wanted to fight, a wave of relief washed over her to hear those words. "I want to help you, but you can tell me to bugger off if you-"
"No. Please stay."
Ginny nodded and began to help Hermione remove her soaked clothing, silent until she encountered a bruise on the right side of her ribs.
"What's this?" Ginny asked, carefully avoiding pressing against it, but Hermione had hardly noticed before seeing it now in her reflection, in the mirror, over the sink.
"Oh, it's n-nothing," she dismissed between hitching breaths. "It's fine."
She could feel Ginny's sceptical gaze on her, but Hermione's teeth were chattering horribly again, and the subject was dropped in favour of getting her into the hot tub. She sat with her legs hugged to her chest, and, as the water rose to the edge, Ginny turned off the taps… to ringing silence.
The room was too quiet, Hermione's uneven breathing echoing slightly off the porcelain tub as Ginny sat on the floor.
"Could you… t-turn on the shower?" Hermione asked softly, and Ginny nodded, removing the stopper to let some of the bath water drain out as it was refilled by the noisy spray of heat from overhead.
And, of course, she was reminded of everything. How could she not be? Each of their fleeting moments together had been burned indelibly into her mind, and the last time she'd sat on the floor of a tub with the shower running, he'd been with her, at the Burrow… the very last day… the last day of his life.
She'd woken at five o'clock in the morning, her back against his bare chest, his arm draped over her waist, and his face half-buried in her hair.
For a while, she'd tried to stay there, overwhelmed by the incredible feeling of being in his bed, so much of his skin on hers, his gentle breath on her neck. But her mind whirred with thoughts of the day, what they had to do when they arrived in Australia… She was shaking before she realised it, and he woke up slowly, confused.
"Hey," he said in a sleepy, scratchy voice that made her stomach flutter. "S'wrong?"
He propped up on an elbow and scanned her face, and she attempted a smile that felt more like a grimace.
"Just thinking."
"I'd guessed that much…"
He seemed quite nervous now, but maybe he just thought she was thinking about him. They were, in fact, in his bed, together, barely clothed, with the faintest hint of dawn drifting purple through his window…
"I just woke up and couldn't fall back to sleep."
"I wasn't snoring or something, was I?"
"No. Well… yes, a little," she grinned, "but you weren't bothering me."
He wrinkled his nose adorably.
"Sorry."
She shook her head and picked up his hand, running her fingers over the backs of his knuckles. His gaze drifted down to stare at their hands until she sniffed lightly, breaking his concentration.
"I think I'll take a shower, while everyone's still asleep," she said. "Do you- …will you come with me?"
His eyebrows shot up, and she let go of his hand, cheeks burning. She hadn't even fully thought about what she was asking until she had already asked it.
"I only meant… I don't want to keep lying here, just thinking about Australia," she reasoned, hoping she sounded far less flustered than she felt, "but I know, when I'm alone, it's hard to think of anything else. But- but you really don't have to. We're leaving in a few hours, anyway…"
He blinked at her, and she watched his Adam's apple move noticeably as he swallowed.
"You want me to take a shower with you?"
It had seemed oddly natural to ask, at first, recalling the way they'd comforted each other, at Hogwarts, just after the war had ended. They'd stood in the showers together, in their clothes, just holding each other. But this really wasn't the same, and hearing him use direct words-
"Well," she breathed, somehow managing to flush further, "when you say it like that, it sounds…" The topic she was circling felt infinitely more impossible to discuss in the early morning light than it had the night before, in the dark. "You really don't have to, Ron. Don't-"
"I'm not complaining."
The right corner of his mouth moved the tiniest bit upward, and his eyes locked with hers, which shocked her for a moment. He was obviously quite nervous but somehow managing to be right here with her anyway, with only the softest hint of a blush rushing to the tips of his ears.
"We prob'ly have an hour, at least, before anyone else is awake," he added, voice going a bit rough and scratchy, and her heart was suddenly beating much faster than it had been before.
"I'll go to Ginny's for a second and get, um, a bra and… I'll meet you in the loo, okay?"
He nodded, and she climbed out of his bed, not looking back as she headed for the door. Creeping quietly down the stairs, she was much more fully aware of how little she was wearing, and she kept thinking back to the night before and the incredible way he had looked at her… the way he had touched her. At least it was early enough yet that she could slip into Ginny's room, unnoticed.
Minutes later, she was standing in the centre of loo with the strong shower stream running down into the tub behind her, filling the room with steam. She'd left the door open just a crack, for him. And, after a few brief seconds, he slowly pushed it open, licking his bottom lip and distracting her as he shut it completely behind him. Without a word, she swished her wand toward the door and silently locked them inside, placing her wand on the counter and staring up at him.
All that was left for her to do was to take off her nightdress. She was now wearing relatively modest knickers and a bra underneath, and it wasn't even about being half-naked in front of him, really - she had gone to his room the night before, ready for that… much more, honestly. But it was the idea that she'd asked him here, she'd gone to his room… she'd been the one to initiate a lot of things between them, and though she wasn't really doubting how invested he was, she was also uncertain about being the one to keep going first.
"Are you sure this is alright?" she whispered, watching his face closely for any minute reactions she could overanalyse…
His left eyebrow twitched, he swallowed, and he let out a stifled exhale through his nose.
"Yeah," he said in a low, raspy voice. "More than alright."
"Should I take this off?" she heard herself ask, loosely holding the hem of her nightdress and breathing between parted lips as she waited for him to reply. She stared back at him, wondering exactly what he could see in her gaze - those millions of words constantly buzzing through her brain - but he took a step closer… another.
"No," he said, and it was then that she noticed his hands were shaking. "Can I?"
She nodded and dropped her hand to her side and didn't stop looking at him as he lightly cleared his throat… and he reached for the exact spot where her hand had just been. If he was waiting for any more permission, she could easily give it. She lifted her arms above her head and watched him inhale deeply before dragging the thin material up her body, over her head, tugging it off her arms and dropping it to the floor.
He looked at her then like he'd never seen anything he wanted more, cared for more, loved more… and, as little confidence as she had in her own appearance, she had to hope she knew him well enough to interpret his expression, a look she'd only seen glimpses of before. For her. His eyes creased a bit at the corners, and she could sense he was about to say something, but her body was being rapidly consumed by gooseflesh, and he was overdressed.
"Now yours," she said shakily, staring at his chest, reaching for the bottom of his shirt as he lifted his arms just slightly away from his sides. She pulled the shirt up his warm body, and he had to help her yank it forward, over his shoulders and head, shaking it off his arms to join her nightdress at their feet.
A comforting cloud of stream had settled in the room from the heat of the water still rushing behind her, and she took his hand gently, climbing into the tub and suddenly thinking better of just standing there together. She dropped his hand again to sit on the porcelain floor, relieved when he joined her without question.
She tucked her knees up to her chest, and, for a minute, she felt a bit silly to have asked him to do this, as if she couldn't be alone for minutes at a time. That was untrue, of course, because the difference was that she could… but she simply didn't want to. Why waste more days, hours, minutes… when they were finally together, after so long? Too long.
But then all her anxious thoughts melted away as he leaned forward and rested his chin on her knee and smiled at her.
"Good idea, this," he said, as his soaked fringe dripped into his eyes, and he blinked rapidly.
She smiled back, a soft laugh exhaling as she reached up to brush his fringe off his forehead, allowing her fingers to linger in his hair as he closed his eyes. After a few moments, he draped his right arm around her legs, tilted his head down, and pressed a kiss to her knee. And she knew that everything was going to be fine, no matter what happened. Because they had each other. Did he know she had the whole rest of her life planned now with him in it?
After that, they nearly forgot to be careful about the time, passing lazy minutes kissing between laughter as they washed each other's hair, his hands taking far too long to scrub soap down her back, and her fingertips lovingly tracing the scars that wrapped around his forearms. Eventually, she froze in the middle of replacing her hand on his right shoulder with her lips.
"What?" he asked.
"Should we hurry, in case someone's awake?"
"Sod it," he suggested, lacing his fingers with hers and grinning.
"We're so close now," she laughed. "We'll be gone in a couple of hours."
"Yeah, alright," he conceded, still grinning. "C'mon, then. You can help me pack."
"You haven't packed yet?!"
He laughed, shaking his head, and she playfully glared at him.
"There," he said. "That's why I haven't done it."
"What is?"
He reached up and touched her cheek with the tip of his finger.
"The way you look at me."
Her pulse sped up, suddenly forgetting why she was supposed to be annoyed. His hand drifted down to her neck, and she closed her eyes as he softly kissed her, still smiling.
She had finally stopped shivering, and Ginny had turned off the shower again as they'd started to talk.
"I don't want to feel like this anymore," Hermione said dully, staring blankly down at the now-lukewarm water in which she was sitting.
"I know," Ginny said sadly, and there really was nothing more she could do to help. And yet Hermione felt that she owed Ginny an explanation, at least. She finally felt like she could say it, without breaking again.
"I was flipping through my first copy of Hogwarts: A History… and I found a folded note he'd written, stuck between two pages. I'd never seen it before."
"What?" Ginny's eyebrows shot up, shocked.
"He… he left it in the book for me," she sniffed, "while we were living in the tent, because… well, we weren't really speaking much at the time."
"And you just found it today?"
She nodded, and she could see the words so clearly, his words, achingly familiar handwriting across a slightly faded sheet of parchment which was currently lying open on her unmade bed.
A part of her wanted to memorise every word-
Hermione,
I know you still hate me, so I reckoned you'd be more likely to read this bloody book again and find this note before you'd let me say this to your face. This might be cheating, as well, because it'll be easier anyway. I know I've been an arse. I'd use a different, much worse word if I said it out loud. Just use your imagination.
I'm outside on watch right now, and I know you're not really asleep, but you've been faking it. I went in to find a quill, and I caught you snapping your eyes shut. I thought if I caught you awake, I'd try to get you to come out here and talk while Harry's in there snoring, but it's okay. Like I said, good excuse to make this easier.
I haven't really been honest with you. I haven't been lying, nothing like that, but maybe it's sort of the same thing to feel something and not tell you and then get hacked off when you can't read my mind. Seems bloody ridiculous now. If I wrote it all down, it'd be longer than Hogwarts: A History, which would defeat the whole purpose of wanting to hide this between the pages… I'll just write out a bit of it, and maybe I can tell you the rest in person, if you want to hear it.
I know you might not believe me right now. I know you begged me not to leave, and I did it anyway because, like I said, I'm an arse. And I was maybe a little bit possessed or some rubbish, but I'm not trying to make excuses. The point is that I'd pretty much do anything for you. No, I reckon 'pretty much' actually means literally anything, because if one of us is going to die, there is no way in hell it'll be you, if there's anything I can do about it. Fuck, there had better be something I can do about it. Sorry.
No, I'm not sorry, really. I mean, of course I am, for the leaving bit, and I'll never do that again. Never. Please trust me. No, I can't ask you that, blimey. But I do mean it, more than anything. I think you'll know that. I really hope you will.
What can I do to make things better? I know that's unfair to ask. Reckon I'm probably supposed to figure that out myself. Or maybe I just have to wait, but I'm bloody impatient, because I really miss you… like a lot. I seriously doubt you know how important you are to me, and if I freeze to death in the damn woods, I thought you should at least know that I'm trying to tell you now. You should also know that you're a whole lot more than a friend to me, but I can't write that all out yet. If you want to talk, you know where to find me, yeah? I live in a tent that still smells a bit like cat piss (not your fault, your cleansing spells are brilliant, and it's not your responsibility anyway), and my bunk's about a metre away from yours. Did you know you've been mumbling in your sleep? Sod it. It's adorable. I keep trying to make out the words but no luck so far.
It's starting to rain again, bugger. Hope this ink doesn't bleed. Love, Ron.
-and another part of her wanted to hide it where she could never find it again, hoping to forget it, to feel nothing, exactly what she so often longed to feel.
"Do you want me to stay with you tonight?" Ginny asked, sounding not the slightest bit put out by the idea, but it didn't feel necessary anymore.
"I'll be alright," Hermione tried to reassure her, "only… his l-letter's still on my bed. Maybe you could move it for me?"
"Of course. Should I take it home with me? I promise I won't read it."
Hermione managed a small smile back.
"I know you won't. And that's a good idea. Put it… in his trunk, maybe. Harry's still got it, hasn't he?"
"Always will, yeah," Ginny smiled back.
For a few more moments, they sat in silence, til Ginny spoke again.
"What really happened to your side?"
Confused, Hermione stared at her, until Ginny's gaze flicked down to the bruise on her ribs that she had forgotten.
"Oh. I wasn't paying attention and… I slipped on the wet stairs, coming back inside."
She tucked her knees a bit higher up, gently sloshing bathwater with her fingertips as she loosely clutched her shins.
"Would you maybe want to…" Ginny started slowly, "I dunno, go with me to see a healer this week?"
"It's just a bruise-"
"Not for that," Ginny clarified. "Maybe you could talk to someone, get something you could take for a while again to feel better, like you did right after… you know, after it happened."
"I shouldn't have stopped taking those potions they gave me," Hermione admitted, "but I really thought... After the wedding, I thought I was okay."
"Yeah."
"I still... still sometimes feel like I'm dreaming," she said at a near whisper, "like he's... still here, I just haven't seen him in a while..."
"You feel that way now?" Ginny asked quietly.
"No." Her stomach twisted with conflict, speaking the truth but never knowing if she really wanted it to be true.
"You scared us a bit," Ginny added, sighing. "Almost two weeks not hearing from you is a long time."
"Has it really been...?" Her eyebrows shot up, and she shook her head. "I'm sorry."
Halloween seemed all at once to have been only just yesterday… and so long ago now. She didn't want to be reminded of what had happened, but it was inevitable, and maybe it would help to say it.
"I made a stupid mistake," she began, hoarsely. "I… I slept with someone I met at the pub."
"Oh." If Ginny was judging her, she was hiding it well. "We did see you leaving with a bloke, yeah."
"I'd seen someone else earlier that night who looked so much like… like Ron… and I just…" She paused, shaking her head. "Everything here reminds me of him, even when I try not to think about it. I've honestly been considering if I should move away. It's wonderful I've got you and Harry, of course, and I'd rather not leave you, but…"
"Where would you go?"
"I don't know. France? I had thought of Australia, but… Maybe my parents don't want me there all the time."
"I'm sure that's not true. Not that I want you to go… You're my best friend, you know. No… sod that rubbish. You're my sister."
Hermione's eyes welled with a different sort of tears this time, and she smiled.
"I love you, Ginny."
"Love you."
She was so instantly reminded that not everything was bleak. She had Ginny. She had Harry, but...
"And if you do need to go," Ginny added, "you know we'll understand."
But it was late and quiet now, and Hermione wasn't ready to face making choices. She had a bottle of dreamless sleep on her night table, and that was as far as her plans were capable of taking her for the moment. So she nodded gratefully and cleared her throat.
"Could you do one more thing for me before you leave?" she asked.
"'Course. What do you need?"
"Hand me a towel?"
7 Years, 6 Months, 3 Days
Tuesday, 15 November, 2005
He really hadn't slept, since he'd managed to stun himself. He was too afraid to miss the mere seconds he would probably have to do this when they came back. But his eyes were burning, and the only things really keeping him awake at this point were frayed nerves and anticipation.
He had taken to pacing, obsessively reviewing his plan, when, at last, he heard them.
He froze, facing the door, heart pounding so fiercely he thought it might drown the sounds they made when the door opened. He was wrong, of course. They would be… well, there wasn't a word for that level of outrage, he was sure.
The door shot open with so much force that he flinched, losing half a second as he blinked. And then… they were right there.
"FUCKING LIAR!"
Mathilda was at him so furiously that he hardly had time to breathe, but Charlie and Isaac were too close behind her, nearly through the door, about to shut it again, when-
Stupefy! Expelliarmus! Incarcerous!
At almost precisely the same moment, Matilda dropped to the floor, Charlie's wand flew through the air to Ron's outstretched hand, and Isaac was bound in a tight rope, locking his arms at his sides. Ron held the stolen want to chest height, as Charlie lunged to close the door.
"Stupefy!"
Charlie fell backward with such force it was a miracle his skull hadn't cracked on the stone floor. Isaac was writhing against his ropes, opening his mouth to shout-
"Petrificus totalus!" Ron bellowed, and Isaac's body went rigid as his eyes widened. He tipped backward, landing with a thud on top of Charlie.
Ron shoved Charlie's wand between his teeth and skidded to Matilda's unconscious body, quickly locating her wand in a robe pocket and holding it in a white-knuckled fist as he crawled over to Isaac and searched him as well. Seconds ticked anxiously past in his mind, and he felt a wild panic wash over him as he finally snatched up the third wand and bolted for the door. Gasping, sweat pouring down the back of his neck, he tugged the door shut, and a booming echo bounced off the long corridor walls.
The corridor. This was it. He was out.
He sprinted, all three wands clutched tight in one hand, heart pounding wildly as he approached an open door on the left. All he could do was keep running, whoever was there… But, as he flashed by, he spotted Evelyn sitting in the middle of a made up bed, combing the hair of a doll in her lap. He paused, her gaze darted up to his, and he opened his mouth to speak, but he didn't get the chance.
She screamed. A high-pitched, ear-splitting noise, abandoning her doll and scrambling to her feet by the side of her bed.
To hell with it. Cringing against the sound of her voice, terrified of never making it now, he took off again, somehow even faster this time, the thud, thud, thud of his footfalls echoing the throbbing pulse in the side of his neck.
He reached a set of stone stairs, taking them three at a time, and, as he emerged to a second corridor, he could see it, at the far end. A door, with a small square of white light… a tiny window at the top-
He heard a deep voice, far behind him, but there was only one thing he had to do now. And he couldn't look back. His body slammed into metal, and the door shot open, his shoulder still against it as it swung on its hinges, and he stumbled outside.
"Fuck!"
He squinted harshly against bright sunlight, too damn bright… Bloody hell, he hadn't been outside in- in-
No. There wasn't time for this. Apparate away. Go straight to the Aurors. Send them here.
He sprinted further forward, through a rocky meadow, eyes nearly shut against blinding light. And then, heaving a breath, he shoved two wands into his back pocket and held up the third.
Destination. Determination. Deliberation.
"How are you feeling?" Harry asked, from where he was sitting across a Ministry cafeteria table from Hermione, at lunch.
"I'm alright," and she was, really. She'd managed half a sandwich, which was quite an improvement from the weekend.
"Good," he said, thankfully dropping the subject.
"Haven't you got that raid today?" she asked, as he took an enormous bite out of his second sandwich, pausing to chew before answering her.
"Tomorrow morning. But we head up there tonight to set up."
"I couldn't believe the report Dawn gave me on the goblin they've got chained up in their cellar! What kind of monsters-
"I know. But we've got all the evidence we need, really - the silver they've been selling, no other accounts for their wealth, and those horrible photos the son sent in. We'll make the arrests if they show up. The raid is formality-"
"And to rescue that poor goblin," she added firmly.
"Of course," Harry agreed, smiling across at her before stuffing his last, large chunk of sandwich into his mouth and standing as he chewed.
"Good luck, Harry."
"Cheers. If all goes to schedule, I'll be back by dinner tomorrow. Want to meet me at the pub at seven? Ginny's got practice til late, but she said she'd head there after."
"Sure."
"If you're not feeling up to it-"
"I'm fine, Harry. I'll see you there."
62442
He was panting as he dialed, forearm pressed to the glass inside the telephone box as a polite female voice called out.
"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."
"Ron Weasley, for anyone in the Auror Department, and it's urgent!"
He was slowly comprehending the looming fact he'd been avoiding… that, if things had gone to Harry's original career plan, he would likely be here. Ron might see him in minutes. His throat constricted as the voice inside the telephone spoke again.
"Thank you. Visitor, please take your badge and attach it to the front of your robes."
A familiar looking badge slid out from the coin slot below the telephone, and Ron snatched it up with a shaking hand, affixing it lopsidedly to his sweaty, torn shirt.
"Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search-"
"Bloody hell."
"-and present your wand-"
"Yeah, I've got it, at the end of the Atrium! Did you hear the word urgent?!"
At last, the telephone box began to make its painstaking descent, and a million thoughts flashed blindingly through his mind. He was quite certain it wasn't fully registering that he was free, but he hadn't had a second to spare to focus on it. Right now, the most important thing was to get to the Aurors and give them the wand he'd Apparated with so they could view the echo of the last spell he had performed to determine where he had been held, where three of his captors were hopefully still locked inside the room that had been his home for the last seven and a half years…
The Atrium emerged at his feet, slowly moving further and further up into view. And his chest clenched with panic. All these people, too many people. Bustling through the Atrium were dozens of witches and wizards, shoes clicking on the polished floor, chattering voices as bits of conversation were audible through the broken glass panes of the telephone box as it came to a stop.
"The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant-"
He forced open the door and was immediately sprinting away, the cheery voice inside the box fading behind him. He quite deliberately avoided eye contact with everyone, feeling so many surprised stares as he bolted past. He must look mad, he realised, matted hair and beard and dreadfully filthy clothes. But he had one thing to do, and he couldn't be deterred.
He arrived at the check in desk, slamming his hand on top of the counter and causing the short wizard sitting behind it to jump out of his seat with shock.
"I have to get to the Aurors, now!"
The wizard blinked at him, fumbling for words. Ron dropped his three stolen wands to the counter and held out his arms.
"Search me."
"Mr Weasley, we've got it."
Clarke, the middle-aged Auror in neatly pressed robes who had escorted Ron up from the Atrium, stepped through the door excitedly. Ron had been impatiently waiting at a small table with a young Auror who had spoken no more than two or three words to him since his arrival a quarter of an hour ago.
"You've seen where I was?" Ron clarified quickly, as Clarke placed the wand Ron had used to Apparate on the table.
"Yes. We've already got a team on the way there." He shook his head, astounded. "It's quite unbelievable, what you've told us."
It had been a frenzied explanation, to say the least. He had almost asked for Harry outright, which would have possibly saved some time in his identification, but he had found himself nearly unable to say his name. When he'd first arrived, he'd had two equally compelling reasons not to mention it - because he'd thought it best to avoid coming across as a madman looking for an audience with a famous wizard… and because he was fucking terrified. How could he resume his life after so much time had passed? How could he hope catch up?
Now, he had to know.
"Sir… can you tell me, does Harry Potter work here?"
"Of course," Clarke said immediately, eyebrows raised. "Been with the Aurors for ages."
But Clarke's expression changed dramatically as he clearly put some important pieces together.
"Good Lord. How could I not realise? Ron Weasley. You were with Potter at Hogwarts during the battle in 1998."
"Yeah," Ron said hoarsely, heart beating rapidly again. Harry was here.
"He's out making arrests up north til tomorrow night or I'd bring him right in to see you," Clarke added, shaking his head again. "Amazing. Listen, you ought to be examined. Harris can escort you to St Mungo's." He glanced at the young, dark haired Auror who was still sitting quietly to Ron's left. "You'll have to come back in for detailed questioning once arrests are made, but with what you've been through…"
"Actually, could I wait here?" He felt a strange sort of panic escalating again at the thought of leaving just yet. "I'll go once you've caught them. I just… need to be sure."
"Understandable," Clarke said, half-chuckling as he removed the stolen wand from the table and turned to go.
"Could I ask one more thing?" Her name was right there, on the tip of his tongue. He could say it. Stop thinking, just say it.
"Go on."
"Do you know if someone called Hermione Granger works here, at the Ministry, in any department?"
"Potter's closest friend? Always interfering with our work?" but his tone was bemused, not annoyed, and he nodded, smiling. "Oh sure, we all know her. I can send for her-"
"No." Ron's hands were shaking, so he clenched them into fists and lowered them to his lap. "Not yet."
"Alright, well, if you change your mind…" and Clarke moved away toward the door. "I'll let you know as soon as we have news. And Harris, get Mr Weasley a meal and something to drink."
"Yes, Sir."
She'd arrived back from lunch to avalanches of paperwork, covering her desk. For an hour or so, she'd tried to work whilst attempting to ignore her department co-workers as they'd passed back and forth in front of her open door. But she was deep in an important report involving three proposed improvements to house-elf rights, and she'd finally given up and locked herself inside her office. She really did enjoy her job, most of the time, and she felt like she had an occasional positive impact on things she believed in, but it often took so much unnecessary effort to push through a change that felt minuscule and even archaic, as if it should have been taken as read long ago.
By five o'clock, her eyes were stinging a bit from lack of sleep the previous night, and it was awfully cold in her drafty office. She could as easily finish her work at home as she could here at her desk. So, she packed her bag and draped her cloak over her arm, deciding to take the floo today, directly to her flat.
As she emerged from her office, Dawn, her department's secretary, popped up from her chair and rushed over.
"Did you hear about the man who was running through the Atrium this afternoon?!"
Startled, Hermione shook her head.
"I didn't see him myself, but Frankie told me he looked like a raving lunatic, shouting something at Bernard about needing to get to the Auror offices."
"They'll have handled it, then?" A part of her was curious, of course, but it wasn't her case. Not that this fact had stopped her often before. But she was tired, and her bag was heavy with notes and file folders laden with undetectable extension charms, and she was looking forward to a large cup of tea and spreading her own work across her coffee table…
"I'm sure they have," Dawn replied. "No one's seen him leave the Ministry."
"You didn't catch his name, did you?" Hermione knew that Dawn's curiosity for gossip typically led to the most direct source for interdepartmental news, but Dawn shook her head and sighed disappointedly.
"No. Wish I had. Surely it'll be all over the office by tomorrow."
"Surely," Hermione smiled, adjusting the strap of her bag and escaping toward the door. "Well, I'm heading home. See you in the morning!"
He'd been waiting for four bloody hours. He'd eaten more today than he had over the last two weeks combined. He was free. The people who had taken him from his life might finally be caught today. And Hermione was in the same building as him.
He had never felt such a strong ache of conflict in his entire life.
His months and months of holding onto the past and trying to imagine her now had just become a frightening reality. When he envisioned seeing his family again, it was only a nervous anticipation that consumed him. But, with her… If he'd been gone mere months - a year, even - he might not be so afraid. But seven and a half fucking years?! Things would be different between them - how could they not?
He thought back to the night he'd returned after leaving them on the Horcrux hunt. As he'd walked with Harry from the pool where he'd destroyed the locket, toward the tent, his heart had beat madly in his ears and his stomach had twisted into a complicated knot that most closely resembled terrified excitement. He was going to see her, after weeks apart, and… Though his expectations had jumped wildly around over the few days prior to his return, when he would truly imagine seeing them again, he'd somehow land on believing she'd be happy about his return. In fact, happy was honestly an understatement. He'd envisioned a scenario in which he walked through the tent flap and she ran across the canvas floor, threw her arms around his neck, and didn't let go for several hours.
God. What a tosser.
Now, what possible fantasy outcome could he hope to cling to? Weeks and weeks had got him pummeled many times by her startlingly strong fists, followed by a couple more months of on and off stony silence, only broken by occasional polite conversation if the topic didn't stray too far from their mission.
Logically, he knew that everything was different this time. He really couldn't take the blame for what had happened at all, but…
He was circling and circling round the echoing thoughts he'd dreaded, twisting his stomach this time into a knot of fearful despair, when the door to his waiting room burst open to reveal a pleased looking Clarke.
"Mr Weasley, we've got them. All six of them and the child were there together, and they've been taken into custody. Well done."
A rubber band of tension snapped, and he was a bit too overwhelmed to speak right away. This was it, he realised, that moment he had known would arrive when the reality of his freedom would fully hit him. Though he had constantly fantasised about this day, it had remained a blurry picture. Now, it was so blindingly real, and he had to face so many people who would be completely shocked by his reappearance. He had to relearn what his future would be.
But he was suddenly quite thoroughly exhausted. It hit him like a tidal wave. It had been days since he'd slept at all, years since he'd done it properly. He let out a heavy sigh and closed his eyes.
"You've been through hell, to say the least," Clarke continued, no longer waiting for Ron to speak. "Harris will escort you now to St Mungo's, where you can get cleaned up and rest."
Ron cracked opened his bleary eyes again to consider his options, but he had to wait. Sleep would clear his head. Clean clothes. A hot shower...
"Who should we inform for you? Potter? Ms Granger-"
"No one. Please. Just… for now."
In a blur of half-consciousness, he'd listened to Harris signing him in to St Mungo's, followed an elderly healer down a long corridor to a private room, and collapsed on a narrow cot, eyes drifting shut, the room around him fading to silent darkness.
7 Years, 6 Months, 4 Days
Wednesday, 16 November, 2005
Ginny was sitting on the edge of Hermione's desk, swinging her legs, finishing a bag of crisps as Hermione ignored the takeaway Ginny had brought her for lunch in favour of a sheet of frantic notes she was taking from a thick, open book in front of her.
"Hermione."
The scratching of a quill on new parchment was all that replied.
"Oi, Hermione."
"Hm?" but she didn't look up.
"You've got to stop long enough to eat, haven't you?"
The scratching continued for several drawn out seconds before she finally paused to look up at Ginny.
"Have you got another bag of those crisps?" she asked, sniffing.
"In there," and Ginny pointed to the large, paper bag by Hermione's left elbow.
"Oh. Thank you."
She rustled through it and located the crisps as Ginny licked her lips and hopped down from Hermione's desk to throw away her own now-empty bag.
"I know you're busy, but I've got a few hours before I have to leave for practice. Any chance you'd go with me to St Mungo's?"
"Tomorrow, Ginny. I promise," she said, grimacing apologetically. "I've just got too much work to finish before I leave today."
"Alright, tomorrow," Ginny nodded, clearly planning to hold her to it. "I'll scarper and let you focus, but eat more than just the crisps, yeah? See you tonight at the pub?"
"Yeah, see you."
He woke slowly to a throbbing headache, sore muscles, and the last steaks of daylight fading pink through the window across the room. Gasping, he bolted upright, blinking as he came back from nightmares to his new reality.
He was on a cot, at St Mungo's, and he was free.
He'd slept so deeply that his last discernible memory was of collapsing, the previous evening. He could only guess how long it must have been by the fact that, when he'd arrived here, the sun had fully set, starry darkness peeking through sheer curtains.
Now fully awake, he became acutely aware of several things, the most urgent one being that he really had to take a piss. He scrambled out of bed in search of a loo, opening the door to his room and stepping out into the corridor.
"Mr Weasley!" An older witch with frizzy grey hair that he thought he vaguely recognised from the night before was walking toward him from several doors down, looking pleased. "So glad to see you up and about! We've been wondering if we should wake you, but we didn't want to disturb you too much after everything… Well, Mr Harris was kind enough to inform as about a few things while you were resting."
"Is he still here?"
"Oh, no. He went home last night. How are you feeling?"
"Just looking for the loo…"
"Of course, right this way." She led him to the opposite end of the corridor and motioned toward a narrow door. "I've been told you've requested discretion, but are you sure there's no one you'd like us to notify? Our records indicate… well, frankly, you're supposed to be dead."
"I know," he said simply, throat feeling a bit raw, and he quickly disappeared into the loo.
He took two steps before he saw it - his own reflection in the mirror over the sinks.
Overcome, he was frozen. He hadn't seen what he looked like in seven and a half years.
His face was half-obscured by a matted, copper and auburn beard, and his hair was unrecognisable, a twisted tangle of ginger down past his shoulders. It was a joke to even call the grotty bits of cloth and denim he was wearing 'clothes' - a formerly white t-shirt now torn to the shoulder stitching and threadbare, stained so many different shades of red, brown and black that he had no idea how to differentiate the sources of them; and a pair of loose, ripped and badly frayed jeans that had slid dangerously down over his hip bones. His cheekbones seemed to stand out more than he recalled, cutting into milky-pale, freckled skin. His shoulders were a bit broader, and bloody hell, he reckoned he'd actually grown a bit taller, somehow. Dark circles felt permanent underneath his eyes, and he had to look away, secure now in his decision not to see anyone yet who had known him before… they certainly wouldn't know him now.
Once finished in the loo, he slipped back into the corridor with one goal, enough for the moment. But Hermione's smile flashed through his mind, and he felt his chest constrict with longing. Harry's voice echoed in his ears. He'd been waiting for such a long time. He could wait just one more hour to get cleaned up, to more accurately bear the resemblance of the person who had disappeared as long ago now as the years they'd known each other.
The grey-haired healer was still waiting for him, a polite distance away from the loo.
"Sorry, could I bother you for a razor?" he asked, and she nodded, just as a tall, male healer approached her and smiled.
"Good evening, Mr Weasley."
"This is Lloyd. He can help you with whatever you need."
"Reckon you'd like a shower?" Lloyd suggested.
"Brilliant," Ron agreed, and Lloyd motioned for him to follow around a corner, down a flight of stairs.
"I've rummaged a bit for some clothes. Mind you, it's just what's been left behind, over the years," Lloyd explained. "They've been washed, of course, but whatever fits you, you're welcome to it."
"Oh, cheers."
They had arrived at a long, empty room, tiled in a soothing blue, with shower stalls lining one wall.
"Take your time," Lloyd said kindly. "Clothes are on the benches, round the corner, by the lockers. You should find everything you need - soap, razors, towels… and anything else you can't find, just give a shout. I'll be doing the washing for a bit, in the next room, down the hall."
He had lost track of time at some point, sitting on the floor of the shower, arms draped across his knees, head bent forward, letting the rushing water drown his thoughts. Everything was all at once impossibly overwhelming and unbelievably emotional. He had sobbed uncontrollably for quite a while, but his tears had eventually slowed to a stop, in favour of just simply breathing, steam pleasantly filling his lungs.
Finally, he dragged himself to his feet, shut off the water, and wrapped a large, fluffy towel around his body, oddly unaccustomed to anything soft or comforting.
His hair was next, and he began by simply slicing off chunks of it from the back with a pair of scissors he'd found in a locker, moving to his beard from there and cutting it quite close to his skin. Truth came when he began with the razor, revealing his face underneath. His bare skin felt cold and exposed, and he was surprised that the scars he had expected to see across his face really weren't there at all. His suspicions about Bern applying Dittany to his wounds must have been correct.
"Well… cheers for that," he said, to his own reflection.
Clothes were next up, and it took him several tries to find a pair of jeans that fit both the length of his legs and the circumference of his waist. But, at last, he landed on a black pair with a small fray in the right hem. Good enough. The rest was easier - a plain, black t-shirt and a lightweight, olive green jacket with a slightly folded up collar and large pockets.
He ran his hand through his still damp, freshly cut hair, and moved back in front of the mirror again.
This was him, as close as he could get. He still tried to see the things that had changed, all the minute differences in the lines of his face, the blotchy redness of his cheeks and neck from the heat of the shower… his tired eyes, a small cut where he'd nicked his jaw with the razor.
Fucking hell.
He gripped the porcelain sink in front of him, blinking. Could he really do this, now?
Could he stand to find out where her life had taken her, the new people she had met along the way… whoever she was with now? Could he do it… without holding onto delusions of hope that she'd actually do exactly what he'd made himself believe, before… run across the room, throw her arms around his neck, and not let go for several hours?
He didn't want her to let go for the rest of his life.
And his own eyes stared back through the mirror at him, judging him, searching and finding no shred of confidence, nothing but fear… and longing, so much longing. With nowhere for it to go.
