Erstwhile on TUB:

"That isn't like you. Since when do you give a rat's ass about him (Malfoy), anyway?" Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, holding on to her best friend as if he were her source of life. There was a pregnant pause in which Hermione tried to word what she was feeling, but soon gave up and dramatically understated the ache in her heart.

"He saved me, Ron. He saved me from everything."

-

Chapter Nine: Pearls and Peril

Hermione braced herself as they reached the bottom of the staircase; her heart was beating wildly. She could hear the merriment of the returned in the dining room, coupled with clinking glasses and buoyant conversation. Ron was grinning at her side, proud to be her escort, and held her hand firmly in his; as if afraid she might run away.

As they stepped up to the threshold, no one seemed to pay mind to their presence. Clusters of people were stationed at different spots of the table, some hunched over maps and papers while others seemed simply to be talking; remembering their recent adventure. Janelle was attached to Neville, tears of joy gathering at the corners of her eye as she tied herself tightly around his waist, hardly ready to let him go again. Neville seemed amused and slightly embarrassed, a tiny bit of red prickling his cheeks, but if Janelle was anything like Hermione had seen that morning, she doubted it wasn't a regular occurrence.

Ron seemed amused at the party spread before him; goblets dotted the room, brimming with choice wine. It was ironic to him that their guest of honor, for which the party was thrown, went unnoticed by the crowd. He noticed that Hermione did not seem disappointed; she was inspecting the room with a guarded eye, watching the different people as if trying to remember who they were. To direct attention away from the wine and on the woman beside him, Ron cleared his throat. The jovial chatter died down immediately and few by few, each head turned in the direction of the doorway. Hermione frowned and he could feel her trembling. She looked like a sheep at the mercy of wolves, tormented by their stare.

"Hallo, kids; I think we all remember Hermione," Ron said, to break the awkward silence, but it did very little. It was not known to many that Hermione had been safely retrieved; Janelle had only spared time to mention it to Ron before attacking her husband with kisses and many of the room stared more intently; eyes widened. Hermione unconsciously took a step back. She didn't like this attention; it was too much at once. She felt vulnerable and small, at the mercy of the masses.

"Hermione..." someone said, standing from his chair and moving slowly toward her, as if awed by her presence. "Cor, it's been ages," he said, taking the hand not occupied by Ron's and shaking it softly. Hermione watched him warily, feeling waves of tension course over her spine. Slowly, others began to move from their places and come toward her, ready to greet an unforgotten face. Ron looked cavalier, as if escorting a foreign princess to meet with the king. Hermione felt immured by their approaching figures, finding it harder to breath with so many bodies nearing to her. "It's me," said the man, whom Hermione had forgotten while focusing on the crowd. "Dean. Dean Thomas," he said. "And there's Seamus and Angelina, and Lee Jordan..." Even as Dean continued, Hermione felt herself getting lightheaded. She moved her hand from his grasp and placed it to her temple, wobbling slightly and blinking her eyes. The world was spinning, and she couldn't concentrate on any one thing; all was a jumble of colors and noises she didn't understand. It was all she could do to stay standing.

The chaos stopped suddenly, like waking from a dream, and Hermione felt as if she'd been hit with a wave.

"Well?" Ron prodded from beside her, looking between her face and those of the figures recently reintroduced. "Aren't you going to say something, Hermione?" At once, every eye re-locked on her face. Hermione felt the sudden urge to scream; she opened her mouth, but uttered no sound. When she decidedly could not stand their presence any longer, she turned and scorched a path across the hardwood before pounding up the staircase.

Hermione reached the bathroom at the end of her hallway within seconds of being violently sick over the side of the plaster basin. After her stomach had been emptied, Hermione continued heaving, though she had nothing left to disgorge. When her spasms stopped, she slumped onto the floor, aching and exhausted. Her heart pounded in her ears, beating in time to her rapid breathing, and Hermione cried. She wanted Draco; something inside let her believe that if he came back, he could fix things. If he were with her, she wouldn't be scared. She needed him, and he wasn't there.

-x-x-x-

Hermione dragged herself from the bathroom and fell into bed, trembling and feverish. She couldn't remember falling asleep or even thinking; merely waking up as the sun was setting. Her stomach had settled, but her mind was uneasy; she was glad, at least, that no one had followed her.

Hermione sat up and moaned softly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. In his cage, the little owl Fagan tittered mercilessly, hearing her rise. With a quirky smile, she swung her legs out of bed and stood, moving toward him; an owl she could handle.

"Hallo, love," she said softly, moving aside the night curtain to see his glittering hazel eyes. "Fancy a fly?" He hooted softly, spreading his wings and straightening, and Hermione sighed happily as she opened the cage and ran her fingers over his feathers. "You're a good bird, you know," she told him. "Very pretty, no matter your color." Fagan nibbled her finger, but neglected to respond, and Hermione moved to open the window. When the sash had been drawn up and the room exposed to evening air, Fagan let a wild howl, bursting from his cage and out the window at lighting speed. Hermione blew him a kiss before shutting the portal against the cold and watched him fly into the sunset.

When the bird became a speck, and the speck was lost in the abyss of golds and blues, Hermione turned her eyes to the ground below. The cow was still grazing, tied to her tree, but the chickens had nestled into their barn, resting their feathers until the rooster's morning call.

Hermione sighed again, sadly this time; it had been years since she had gone outside; she missed the smell of fresh air and the feel of wind and sunshine. Her skin was deprived of the vitamins needed to keep it healthy and though it had once been a warm copper color, it was now nearly while against the pink of her bitten nails.

Struck with an idea, Hermione shut the drapes. She dug through the basket of clothing provided by Janelle in search of something warmer to wear than her summer dress and found a hooded cloak with a broken clasp. Smiling, she donned it quickly and fastened it with a safety pin. Once her shoes had been tied tightly to her feet, Hermione slowly opened the door of her room and peered out into the hallway. It was deserted and she sighed, approaching the staircase. She could hear voices from the floor below, but they seemed quite far away and she descended slowly.

The entry room was empty, though shadows danced in the adjacent family room, where low voices spoke in careful tones. Ignoring their conversations, Hermione tiptoed across the foyer and slipped silently out the front door, grinning as it closed noiselessly behind her. She felt free; it was a dream. She could go anywhere and do anything; run as fast as desired, jump in the air, laugh, dance, scream –anything, and no one could stop her. It was amazing.

Taking off at an enthusiastic run, Hermione dashed around the corner of the house and past the many windows without care, making her way over the expanse of the rear yard, allowing her legs to pump and the sun to wash her wispy hair.

Less than half way across the patio, Hermione began to feel the burn of her unused muscles. Determined, she forced herself to press on, running with knees high to the little bench near her admired cow. She made it, breathing heavily and throbbing in pain, but with a feeling of accomplishment she hadn't felt since Hogwarts. With a burning chest, she fell back onto the bench, throwing her arms to the sky and laughing at the fingers of the wind as they combed over her face and through her hair. Never had Hermione Granger felt more alive.

-x-x-x-

Harry Potter flew against the wind, letting the light rain bullets fog his lenses. When the sting was too much, he lowered to an altitude at which the droplets had evaporated, and continued his flight, aiming for home.

He hadn't felt so useless since living in a cupboard. Hermione was out there, at his fingers ends, separated from him by only a stone wall and he'd left her. He'd had to. Sirens howled and red lights flashed; dozens of Morzmen leaked from the front doors of the castle and surrounded its base like a human moat, armed with wands fused into spears. Alone, he was no use against them; he couldn't get in, he'd be killed...

And then she might never be free.

Harry fled. He flew upward until he couldn't breathe, then shot off toward the horizon like a bat out of hell. It was only when the storm hit and he was forced to take shelter did Harry think back on his decision to leave her. He was conflicted; he had been so close to saving her, to having her with him once more, free from the confines of the hell sent asylum. He felt cowardly, as if he had betrayed her; fled from a damsel in distress.

As the rain poured down, Harry tried to keep his sanity. He spoke aloud in contradictory sentences, making it seem more believable as he huddled alone in a thicket, leaning against a tree and seated in a muddy mass of mushrooms.

It's better, for now, that she stays. Harry thought to himself. If I had been seen, they'd have captured me... maybe killed me. Whatever stopped Mauriz from hurting her before wouldn't work a second time; he'd take her... kill her. My sweet Hermione.

He huddled against a tree, tears mingling with the rain drops sliding down his face. He didn't know what to think; Hermione was alone, in that castle, with only Malfoy to protect her. As much as Harry admired the changes in his comrade, he couldn't fully trust him. Something wouldn't allow Harry to believe Draco would protect Hermione if danger came her way; he was sure to try and save his own hide.

Unable to clear his mind of worries enough to doze; Harry stayed shivering and huddled against the bark of his tree, waiting out the storm. It seemed years before it passed, but he had watched the sun; only a few hours. When the visibility had increased and Harry could again attempt flight, he wrung out his clothes as well as possible while they remained plastered to his body and mounted his dampened broom before taking to the sky. His progress was slower, weighed down by the mass of the water soaked into his very being, and he had less control over the broom by way of the mud caked between its bristles. Nevertheless, Harry made it out of his forest hideaway and started back toward Hogwarts, making a wide loop around the castle and straining to see from a distance what changes had occurred.

It was a disenchanting sight; soldiers now paced the length of the foreground and courtyard, as well as each open level of the castle. Harry didn't doubt they were sprinkled along the inside walls as well. Mauriz definitely had manpower; those who took residence in the establishment were indebted to the madman. He allowed them shelter and food at a very low rent and, therefore, they were obligated by written contract, unbreakable by the blackest magic, to be at his beck and call. He drafted a reserve whenever motivated and members noted were to report to assigned bases if a red alert were to be called, as one had that morning.

As he watched, Harry swallowed, feeling guilty. He must have tripped the alarm; he'd been very close to the castle when the sirens began to sound; either someone must had spotted him and sounded the alarm, or there were charms on the castle walls to alert in case of unauthorized personnel who may invade the territory. Having Maruiz's guards on alert was not a very good observation in regard to his own troops, stationed unknowingly back at the farmhouse; it would mean that the element of surprise was lost. Surprise attacks were the only way an army of so few could defeat such an empire. The Hogwarts Establishment was much larger than any previously conquered and held within it tremendous power; Harry knew they wouldn't stand a lash's chance in hell at defeating them now. They would have to wait and observe while keeping their agents tucked under Mauriz's nose and wait out the wave of paranoia sweeping the area.

To Harry, that meant one thing; Hermione could not be saved. Her rescue would cause the suspicion to be turned toward the Hogwarts alumni, and they could not afford to be placed in the spotlight. If her liberation attempt failed, Harry felt sure that Mauriz wouldn't hesitate to kill her and he could not allow that to happen. No, he would have to suffer, as would she, for a few more months. When the hype settled down, then they would invade. And I will get her then, even if it kills me, Harry promised, sneering at the malevolent sight below him. He will pay. God as my bloody witness, he will fucking pay.

Harry arrived back at the farmhouse just as the last specks of sunlight fell below the horizon. The sun itself had gone long ago, but the halo of orange which circled it was still visible as he landed, and he turned with a sigh to watch as it dripped downward. He couldn't help but to think about what Hermione might see from her window; if she had one. He wondered if she had talked at all with Draco, and what things he might have told her about him. Truthfully, Harry contemplated how he might have changed since he had left her, all those years ago. He would not kid himself to believe he was the same person; he knew otherwise.

Days ago, his world revolved around Ron, and Teige, and Neville's unborn baby, and farm work, and magic, and an enormity of other things, but it seemed now only to magnetize to Hermione and all memory of her.

-x-

The funeral was beautiful. Harry framed his favorite picture of Hermione and burned it with arbutus and purple hyacinth. There were dozens of people, muggles and wizards alike, dressed in mourning clothing and circled around the little onyx tombstone in the middle of the open field, bowing their heads in prayer as the priest blessed their forsaken and chanted prayers for her afterlife. Harry wanted everything, as nothing was too good for Hermione; there was a white hearse led by black horses and a procession of carriages which had held the many mourners, tearing and sniffling on the shoulders of loved ones. Harry and Ron had ridden in the front car with Mister and Missus Granger, who seemed still to be in shock, as if Hermione were merely still away at school.

As the people gathered in a circle around the grave, strategically placed on the highest point of the field, Harry held the urn in a polished wooden box, holding it gently as if she really were inside. He had waited, silently, as the priest said his blessings, then placed the box on the ground and opened it, extracting the urn. Chanting prayers in Latin, Harry scooped a handful of ash from the vase, letting it slip through his fingers just as Hermione had. He finished his speech with guilty tears, and threw the ashes with the wind, letting the spring breeze carry them over the meadow. Mister and Missus Granger followed his example, speaking not but to bid their daughter goodbye as they watched her memory spread into the open air, and Ron finally, after them, poured the remaining amount into the air, wiping his eyes as he set the urn on its pedestal.

After a moment of silence, the guests began to leave. Harry, Ron, and the Grangers stood in a circle around the pedestal, waiting until the last sobbing woman had left for the carriages, leaving only that which would hold the closest family of the recently departed. The hearse and horses had left long ago, paid by the hour, and the quartet of mourners were left alone on the hillside, their black attire clashing with the crisp March breeze. It was Harry who moved first, wiping his eyes with his sleeves.

"Mister and Missus Granger," Harry said, voice wet and cracking. "I thought you might..." he started, reaching down into the wooden box which had held the now empty urn. "I thought you might like to have this." The Grangers shared a look of uncertainty as Harry pulled from its container a much smaller urn, holding within it the memory of their daughter, concealed in hand painted china and prepared with Harry's heavy heart. Missus Granger nodded at Harry, taking the little vase as if it were made of the frailest of blown glass.

"Thank you, Harry," she said. "For everything." Missus Granger pitched forward, wrapping her arms around Harry while remaining wary of her urn, cradling it in her hands. Harry allowed her to embrace him, though he felt as if he had betrayed her. "You know," she said, pulling back, and varied her gaze between the boys. "I remember when you boys were just eleven; Hermione was so miserable when she went off to school for the first time. She'd never been away from home before... and she hadn't made many friends. I almost considered bringing her home," Missus Granger continued, looking up at the sky as if it would give her insight. "But I didn't. Just as I promised myself to ask in my next letter, she wrote to me... about two little troublemaking boys who had saved her from some no-doubt childish bit of mischief... and she had sounded so happy. I knew... That's when I knew that she'd be all right; that things would turn out and she could finally be in high spirits. You boys were everything to her."

"Likewise, Missus Granger," Harry interrupted, hoping a comment would stop the flow of conversation; the memories were too painful to relive.

"We were blessed to have known her." Ron nodded solemnly, feeling somehow unworthy of entering the conversation. He felt odd about listening, as if he were intruding.

"Livy," Mister Granger interrupted softly, breaking the awkward stare between his wife and Harry. "Leave the boy be; we've a luncheon to prepare for," he reminded her reluctantly, as if he would much rather stay in the field of gold with his lost child than entertain and receive a thousand more condolences.

"Yes," Missus Granger agreed. "Of course, you're right." Without word, the Grangers and Ron began to move toward the carriage, walking sluggishly and slow. Harry, however, stayed on the hillside and his companions turned back.

"Harry?" Ron inquired, voice breaking the glassy atmosphere. Harry didn't move.

"Go on, Ron. I'd like to walk back, if that's all right."

"Harry, it's nearly a mile, just to town! Please, come with us..." Missus Granger burst, concerned with his safety, but Harry shook his head.

"I'll be fine, Missus Granger; please, just go on."

Reluctantly, they left him alone with his grief, and Harry had reached to his neckline to clutch the little pendant that hung from a silver chain. He stood that way for hours more before starting the trek back into town.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he said. "You're dead because of me; if I had just... I..." Harry shook his head. "I loved you. I didn't mean this; I hope you know that. I hope to God that you know that."

-x-

Harry found himself sobbing at the vivid memories, clutching his pendant just as he had that day. He had never told Ron, or anyone else, what it truly was; it was Hermione. He had had it specially crafted; a hollowed black pearl, which was filled with the ashes burnt for her funeral. It was all he had left of her; he didn't trust anyone with such information. He knew they suspected it had something to do with her, as he was very protective of the pearl, but no one could know just how deeply her connection was to it.

Harry let go hastily, as if it were heated, and shook his head, resting the handle of his broom on his shoulder as he wiped his eyes. He reprimanded himself; it was stupid to be so emotional. Hermione wasn't dead; the Grangers had been right, she'd still been off at school, however warped and horrible the building seemed. Now, she was under good conditions; Draco would take care of her in that respect. He had nothing to weep over, nor anyone to mourn, and still the black pearl called to him. It offered comfort and warmth, as Hermione always had, and though he knew now that it was even spiritually pointless to hold onto the memory of someone still alive, Harry clutched the pearl with curled fingers, protecting it with a vicious will. She still lived there, hanging from his neck, no matter where her body lied. Even though she breathed, her heart beat beside his.

Harry opened the front door and closed it softly behind him, dragging his muddy broom across the foyer floor and starting for the staircase, leaving a dirty brown streak over the hardwood.

"Hermione?" called a cheery voice from another room, and Harry stopped dead in his tracks, unable to breathe. "Hermione, is that you? Everyone is sorry for..." Janelle appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, her grin falling as her eyes landed on Harry. He could see the hairs rise on the back of her neck.

"What did you just say?" Harry asked, dropping his broomstick on the stairs and moving quickly toward her, stalking. Janelle took a step back, against the wall beside the door, startled.

"I said 'Harry, is that you?' I wanted to tell you that everyone is sorry for following you this morning," she fibbed quickly, but Harry didn't buy it. He shook his head, ignoring her words without any sign of surprise over learning his troops had backed him.

"No, you said Hermione. I heard you... she's here? Where?" he demanded, stepping closer. Janelle sighed, slouching against the wall.

"This isn't how I wanted you to find out..." she admitted, mumbling, but Harry was by no means in a mood for hesitation. He took her by the shoulders and squeezed, pressing her against the wall. Janelle looked startled, instantly placing both palms splayed protectively over her stomach. "Harry... you're hurting me, Harry."

"I don't want games, Janelle. I've never to my record harmed a woman, but I'll make my first exception if you don't tell me where she is," he repeated threateningly. "Right now, Janelle. I mean it." Janelle, shaking slightly, opened her mouth to speak, but was unable to, as Harry was hit by a blunt force from the side, sending him sprawling across the floor, and his grip on her shoulders caused her to pitch forward with him, startling the words from her mouth. Harry's hands were ripped from her flesh and Janelle gasped, straightening to see what had hurt him so viciously. Neville stood with narrowed eyes and nostrils flaring, taking a large step to stand protectively in front of her.

"Harry," he stated calmly, watching the raven haired ex-Gryffindor lift himself from the floor. "I don't care what happened to you today, nor do I care how much you want to see Hermione, or even that you love her. Your uncharacteristic behavior just now has made me reconsider how well I really know you. I can't trust you anymore, Harry; quick, wasn't it? A minute ago, I'd have given my life if you asked me... but threatening a woman? My wife; who would do anything to help you without a second thought, and has never harmed a hair... and in such a condition? That's an all time low, Harry, for anyone I've ever met; all Malfoys included."

"Neville," Janelle whispered from behind him, curling her fingers around his upper arm. Neville placed a hand over hers, but otherwise ignored her, keeping his piercing eyes on Harry. He seemed for the most part unfazed, though he made a noticeable effort to remain calm.

"Is Hermione here?" he demanded coldly, fixing Neville with a glare at delaying his progress. As he took a step forward, Neville held up a hand, stopping him.

"Don't you come near me, Harry; neither of us. I'll tell you, yes, Hermione is here. I'll tell you where, just don't you touch Janelle. Don't you ever..."

"Where is she, Neville?" Harry demanded and Janelle squeezed Neville's arm.

"Tell him," she whispered. "He's rash, he's not thinking... please, Nevy, stop this." Neville sighed; he couldn't argue.

"She's out with Tully, on the bench near the brook," he said and without a moment to spare on thought, Harry started speedily for the great doors. "Just watch your step, Harry!" Neville called after him; sounding the most threateningly Janelle had ever heard him. When Harry had disappeared, leaving behind him a swinging door, Neville turned toward his wife, rigid countenance softening in worry. "Are you all right, baby?" he asked, curling his fingers around her ears and checking her shoulders lightly for injury. Janelle nodded, sighing in attempt to relieve the tension tightening the muscles of her neck and back.

"I'm fine," she promised, looking up at her husband with admiring eyes. Neville inspected her face, as if to determine whether or not she was lying, then nodded in agreement and kissing her forehead before pulling her toward him.

"I'm sorry," he voiced, holding her head to his chest. "I'd never thought... Harry would..." Neville sighed. "We're going home," he decreed, pulling back and holding her face between his palms. "Tonight; I don't feel right about staying here." Janelle shook her head.

"No, Nevy... Harry's fine; he's been through some things and his world's just fallen out from underneath him. We were withholding information; I don't blame him for snapping like that. We can't leave; you've to help with the conquer and I want to be here for Hermione; she'll need a friend after all that happened this afternoon, and I like her. I want to make sure she's all right," she explained softly, holding lightly to his wrists. Neville smiled at her and shook his head, bending to place a sultry kiss upon her lips.

"I love you, Nell," he reminded her, grinning. Janelle smiled up at him pleadingly, and Neville sighed. "All right, if it means that much to you; we can stay. But be careful with Harry; please. Stress is one thing you don't need right now," he dropped a hand to land lightly on her stomach, but didn't follow its progress with his eyes. "Do you feel all right? Anything strange?" Janelle shook her head and laughed, embracing her husband.

"Harry was hardly stress compared to what you did to me this morning," she admitted, eyes closed and buried in his shirt. Neville blanched, looking somewhat scared as he held her to him.

"Me?" he asked. "What did I do?"

"You left me, didn't you? Oh, Nevy, I was so worried... I was so sure you'd be gone forever; days and months... and I'd be here all alone with no one but Hermione, just worrying and wondering where you were..."

"Oh," Neville said, sounding almost relieved. "I know," he sighed. "I'm sorry; I had to go, you know that. It's my duty as a part of the Hogwarts alliance... we've talked about this."

"I know, Nevy," Janelle told him, frowning now as she nuzzled into him. "But did you have to go this time? With the baby so close? I can't do that without you... I just couldn't." Neville smiled.

"I've good news, then," he told her. "You won't have to." Janelle looked up in surprise, suspicious.

"Why?" she asked; she knew he was dedicated to the cause and would leave in the middle of her childbirth if Harry asked it of him; her request shouldn't have meant a thing.

"Draco tripped the alarms when he flooed Hermione out," he explained, smoothing her hair. "We can't attack again until we can surprise them; it'll be months, maybe years before we're ready. This time we'll plan the battle, instead of just following love-drunk Harry into suicide fire. I'm here to stay." Janelle, in spite of the part of her heart that went out to the woman in their concentration hell, squealed, launching herself at her husband and capturing his lips, the tension gone without trace from her body.

-

A/N: Uncensored version available at http:tangledupinblue.