CHAPTER NINE


Before she knew it, Hermione found herself standing with George outside the red telephone booth that lead to the Ministry of Magic's visitor's entrance. The unseasonably cool air whipped past them in the wind, and the drizzle pricked painfully at her skin like thousands of invisible needles. Her damp jacket stuck to her back where she stood against the building's stone wall with one foot propped up to support her weight. Meanwhile, George was standing under the nearby street lamp, idly reading the political section of a Muggle newspaper. He had put an Impervius Charm above his head and over the paper to deter the wind and rain, but Hermione, oddly, fancied the feeling of the sharp droplets hitting her skin, so she opted for no protection—though, she was now regretting her poor choice of holey jeans as they left her knees, which were already chapping in the chilly wind, unprotected.

The wide street, normally restless with the hustle and bustle of activity of government bureaus, was now eerily empty of the throngs of workers going to and fro. She felt quite exposed out here, in an otherwise empty street, trying to look unassuming. Their susceptibility added to her anxiety at having been sent to this post. When she had agreed with George to participate in the raid, she did not realize her agreement meant they would be given a lookout role instead of a fighting one.

Hermione felt like she was going through emotional whiplash.

The high of enjoying George earlier that morning was quickly overtaken by the Order's decision to post them here, and she was left with only anger. The subtext among everything the Order communicated to her was that they didn't trust her. She may not have been as involved as she could have been at the meetings, but she had been an integral member in the trio's crusade to end Voldemort. Kingsley and Neville and Bill were not out there hunting Horcruxes and risking their lives to save the Wizarding world. Sure, they had their part, but after everything she had survived the past few years, it really seriously hurt that they didn't trust her. Had she lost herself after Harry and Ron's deaths? Absolutely—and she wasn't the only one. Wouldn't the adrenaline of actually participating in the raid be the perfect reminder that she was, in fact, still alive? Had the others passed some sort of litmus test to prove their ability to fight that she had failed? The more she thought about it the more angry she became.

"I can't believe they wouldn't let me go on the raid," she said glancing towards George who seemed to be consumed in his paper. "Do they think I can't be trusted?" Hermione heard her voice raise to a disgruntled squeak on the last few syllables and silently chided herself for sounding so fretful.

When George did not look up, she turned her head away with an eyeroll and looked through the rain down the long street.

Muttering more to herself than anyone, she said, "Honestly, of all of the people on that team . . . I fought alongside Harry for months!" She kicked her foot back against the wall behind her, crossing her arms resentfully.

At this point, she was fuming, and George's indifference only added to the urgency she felt in her anger.

"George! How are you just okay with this?" she demanded. He didn't look up to her, seemingly oblivious to her question as he continued to peruse the paper with feigned interest. She knew that he was ignoring her, but she couldn't be arsed to care at the moment, her own incensed anger with the Order driving her tirade.

In a silly accent, which was a poor imitation of Minerva, she continued, "'Why don't the two of you keep watch by the entrance. We need strong fighters there should any trouble arise . . .'" With a growl she ground out, "Really?! Does she think we are that bloody incapable? They are not as inconspicuous as they would like to think they are, and I hate to think they will regret not having our help when the time comes!"

George sighed heavily. "Are you quite finished?"

With her jaw dropped in shock, she cried tersely, "Excuse me?" She raised her voice towards him now, turning her anger on him. "George, I am really upset right now, and you . . ." She pointed a finger at his chest. The aggressive action caused him to abandon the paper, folding it back towards his abdomen, and he finally looked up at her. Her breath caught momentarily at the softness behind his eyes, and a little bit of her anger towards him dissolved without permission.

Apparently, it was very difficult to really yell at the man she was sleeping with when he looked at her with eyes like that. Her mouth was still running without thought, but she heard the words come out as less of an accusation and more of a plea.

"You act as if you don't even care about them pushing us off to the side . . . like schoolchildren who have no experience in battle . . ." she trailed off, unsure about this strange turn in her rant.

He was watching her with a strange expression which Hermione couldn't place. She thought he would be angry with her, or even share her anger for their place as lookout, but she felt almost pitied by the persistent gaze boring into her. She searched his eyes frantically for any flicker of indignation, but there was nothing there. Just warm hickory brown and knowing. He was staring right through her—into her, really—as if he knew she would feel this way, be this way. He was not surprised by her petulant display, and even more disconcerting was his calm, collected reaction which contrasted with the very wild and uncontrolled feelings raging through her.

"George—I —" She looked insecurely at her feet, realizing how ridiculous she had been the last few minutes and feeling instantly guilty for taking it out on him. She sighed, now furious with herself. This was yet another dramatic emotional shift. More whiplash, great.

George stroked a thumb along her jaw, and leaned to place a soft kiss on the top of her curls. She looked up at him then and placed her hand gingerly over his chest, relishing in the steady heartbeat under her fingertips which grounded her.

"I am a complete arse, aren't I?" she asked him calmly.

He chuckled softly before confirming, "Just a little bit." She scrunched her nose in response, groaning at her own childishness. "But you're my arse," he added.

She smiled brightly at him and reached up on tip toes to brush a kiss along his jaw in apology.

George, it seemed, was still saving her.

She was pulled from her musings quite suddenly as a head began to rise from the floor of the phone booth. George must have noticed too as she felt him stiffen at her side, wand replacing the newspaper. A shadowed face appeared first, but it wasn't until the person was nearly the whole way up the lift that the overcast light revealed the form of Alecto Carrow. She had never met the witch, but she had seen numerous articles in the Prophet about the set of twins who reigned under Snape at Hogwarts last year.

Alecto's wand was raised, and she looked past the couple with a twisted sneer spreading itself over her unremarkable, pale face.

A voice cackled from behind them. "Oh, look at what we have here. I suppose you're the look out, huh?" They turned in time to notice Amycus Carrow, Alecto's twin brother, stalking towards them out of a shadow of a nearby building. George raised his wand, but was promptly disarmed by the older Death Eater.

Hermione began to regret her haste to complain about their post, feeling ill prepared for this unfortunate meeting. Now that George was wandless, she wasn't quite sure what to do. She turned back towards Alecto as the sound of the door of the telephone booth opening brought her to the realisation that they were outmatched; two wands to one. She took a few moments to rack her brain for anything she possibly knew about the siblings. Wading through the fog of emotions and insecurities, she vaguely remembered overhearing Neville speaking to someone about the Carrow twins and their role in the demise of Hogwarts that final year. She also recalled him saying they weren't the brightest of pairs.

Hermione slowly began to move herself and George to stand in between the two. George had his back to her, and she could feel him stiffen at being caught smack in the middle of the pair of Death Eaters, wandless and defenseless. He was facing Amycus, and Hermione was staring into the dull eyes of Alecto. Hermione decided to take a gamble, the risk would be worth it if she were right, and, one wand down, they didn't have much of a shot anyways.

"So, you're the twins everyone is talking about," Hermione taunted. "They all wonder if you're even alive, unsure if you'd be smart enough to get yourself out of Ravenclaw tower before all of Hogwarts fell."

Hermione grinned to herself as she watched the woman slowly work through her words. As the meaning dawned on her, Hermione noted the flick of Alecto's wand and pulled George down on the ground next to her. The witch's curse flew past them, landing dead center in her brother's chest. Before Alecto could move away, Hermione stunned the woman.

George looked down at the fallen twins and back at Hermione, eyes wide with impressed shock.

"Yes," he chuckled, "I do believe we are needed inside. Your efforts will be much better utilized in the raid."

He grabbed his wand from the ground by Amycus' limp form, and Hermione snatched the wands from the felled twins, putting them in her beaded bag which was tied to her waist through her belt loop. Together, Hermione and George walked down the sidewalk towards the public underground toilets, wands held tight and their heads bowed against the unrelenting wind.

Of course, the Order—including Bill's team—were all gone. Godric knows where they ended up since Hermione and George had been sent to their post before hearing the totality of their plans. Hermione groaned in annoyance. This raid was turning out to be more and more frustrating as time went on.

When she finally turned to complain to George, he was looking at her with giddy delight. She noticed his eyes sparkling with a familiar mischief that she had not seen since Fred's death four weeks prior. Hermione watched him with anxious anticipation of what could possibly be running through his head.

"The tunnels!" he exclaimed with glee as if those two words were supposed to have meant something to her.

She was sure her eyebrows were pulled high in confusion, but he did not pause to explain and instead pulled her hand to run in the opposite direction.

"Ge—orge—" She tried to catch his attention through ragged breaths. Her lungs were sore from the exertion of running and trying to keep up with his long strides. He didn't look behind him and continued on to some unknown location.

Finally, he stopped in front of a small Muggle grocery. He turned to her with the widest smile, and her stomach flipped with eager suspense. George was like a kid in Honeydukes, and his excitement was contagious.

"This, m'lady, is the humble shop in which Fred and I gained access to Dad's office at the end of our fifth-year in order to test our Demon Dung Firecrackers in the corridors and lifts!" His eyes glittered with pride, and he held himself straight with his chin jutting up in the air.

"George, you did what?!" she screeched. "What a horrible prank to play!"

"That's beside the point. The real point is, that we used this shop to gain access . . ." The last two words were emphasised as if she were a small, misunderstanding child. His eyes glittered as he waited for it to sink in.

The implication of his words finally dawned on her, and she clapped her hand over her mouth with a gasp. She pointed a finger of that same hand to him and accused, "You know a secret entrance into the Ministry of Magic!"

His eyebrows waggled in mischief. "Of course I do! We were working on a map similar to the Marauder's for the Department of Defense, but it wasn't finished since you lot went and angered that snake-faced-man and our efforts had to go into keeping you all safe. There are loads of underground tunnels and secret passageways all over this city. They all go right into the heart of the Ministry—"

She cut off his explanation, throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. "Oh George, you're brilliant. Absolutely, bloody brilliant!" He returned the hug, and lifted her off her feet to spin her around. The rain was picking up, and her unruly curls were now a large ball of frizz, with beads of precipitation collecting on the flyaways and soaking to her scalp.

Setting her down, he offered a hand chivalrously and asked, "Care to adventure with me?"

"Of course I will, you daft man." She smiled brightly back at him, feeling the lightness of hope in her chest.

They walked through the small market towards the back where the staff room was. There was a simple break room with a table in the center, a kitchenette in the corner, and lockers along the wall opposite them. George approached a locker door that had a sticker placed over it labeled 'BROKEN.' He took out his wand and muttered something under his breath too quiet for her to pick up and firmly yanked the locker door open, revealing a dark, descending stairway behind it. George stepped down the first step before looking back and motioning her to follow. As they travelled downward, Hermione noted it smelled musty and damp, and there was no natural light; clearly they were headed underground.

Taking the last step of the stairs, her feet found even ground, and she slipped her wand into her hands out of the holster secured to her forearm. Hermione felt a sense of peace at the feel of the vine wood in her palm.

"Lumos," she whispered, and George did the same.

Once they made their way into the length of the corridor it became much more narrow, and the ceiling was quite low. George led the way, crouched over to avoid smacking his head on the concrete above them. The solid floor turned to gravel, and he kicked a few pebbles forward accidentally, causing a loud echoing clamor to run along the length of the narrow hallway. She placed a hand on his back to still him, and he turned his head to look at her. She pointed at their feet and mimed a shh sign with her finger against her lips. He nodded his head once, and pointed his wand at both of their feet.

The ground shifted slightly under her, and she lifted her feet experimentally. It now felt as if she were walking on a mattress, or some kind of soft ground with a lot of give to it. Non-verbal Cushioning Charm. Brilliant, she thought as she beamed back at him in approval. He also swept his wand around her head, drying the droplets of water which had been falling steadily from her soaked curls.

On their newly cushioned feet, they made their way briskly forward, and the narrow corridor widened as they went. Hermione found herself distracted on more than one occasion by the particularly convenient view she had of George's arse. She barely contained the snort of amusement with herself at her momentary lapse of teenage lust.

Focus, Hermione. Now is not the time! she silently corrected her inner randy, hormone-driven self.

They reached the end of the long tunnel and ended at an open room with large, steel, double-doors facing opposite them. The doors had a lit torch on each side, casting a dim flickering orange light upon the immediate space in front of them.

They glanced at each other nervously before casting a Human-Presence-Revealing Spell. The hologram showed there were no humans to be seen directly on the other side of the doors. Hermione lifted her wand to of the steel door handles and whispered, "Alohomora." The click of metal on metal indicated her spell's success, and the door was now unlocked.

A wave of apprehension washed over her as a chill crept up her spine. This was far too easy.

George opened the door and stepped through, and she followed closely behind him, their wands still casting a faint glow from their tips. They walked slowly down what seemed to be a hallway inside the Ministry, and upon further inspection, Hermione noticed the corridor was walled with dark stones which glistened under the light from torches that were fixated infrequently along the walls. The ceiling was so high that neither their dim wand-light, nor the torch light could reach it.

They made their way about ten paces down the dim corridor before triggering an alarm. A piercing shriek rang through their ears, and the all too familiar sounds of the Caterwauling Charm alerted their enemies to their presence. Hermione fell to the floor in terror, hunching herself into a ball instinctively. The last time she had heard this sound, she had been with Harry and Ron, and memories of the battle came flooding back to her. A violent, physical shaking rippled through her as the images that haunted her manifested themselves before her eyes.

She was vaguely aware of George lifting her by the arm to her feet. The quick change of positioning caused her head to spin, and she abruptly vomited on the polished black marble at her feet.

Tears were flowing steadily down her cheeks in her shame, and she could not look him in the eye. He grabbed her hand with force and ran back towards the steel doors, and she had no choice but to follow him. The stale musty air of the underground made her stomach twist about, and she felt a cold sweat cross her face making her feel close to fainting.

Before they had even reached the narrow tunnel, she managed to yank her hand free. She plopped down on the cool gravel and attempted to center herself, searching for anything to be able to move forward without blacking out. George had promptly turned back to come up beside her. He waved his wand over her head, casting a Cooling Charm by the feel of the chill that settled itself on her skin. He next conjured a wet flannel from a torn corner of his vest and shoved it roughly into her palm.

The desperation in his eyes when she finally looked up to him was effective, and she was moved urgently into action as if she were a racehorse cracked on the hip by a riding crop. She bounded to her feet while wiping the flannel across her mouth and forehead, and, following George, she ran the remaining distance across the room to the tunnel entrance.

Just three steps before they reached the tunnel, a steel disk flew past them, nearly missing their heads and halting them in their tracks. It stretched itself over the corridor opening, sealing it shut with a glow of blue magic on its edges. Hermione heard a wailing shout of, "No," and realised it had been her who had screamed.

The whizz of a spell flew past her cheek, whistling in her ear as it went. She tossed her hand over her shoulder automatically, yelling the first thing that came to mind. "Stupefy!"

They turned about-face towards the double doors from which they came, and Hermione crouched in front of George, throwing a Shield Charm in front of them. They watched in horror as several dark, hooded figures came through the steel doors, nearly blocking out the dim torch light completely. George began to toss hexes and curses and defensive spells back towards their attackers. The room was full of orange, purple, and red sparks flying through the air from both directions, but, otherwise, it was difficult to make out much. It was hard to follow where the myriad spells had come from and where they landed considering so many were rebounding off of the shield.

Most of the spells were non-verbal, and she was impressed by George's ability to jump up from behind Hermione's shield and send more light flying out without a sound. She could not recall having seen him very often in battle, and it was beautiful to watch him work. The sweat gathering on his brow and down his temples shone orange like he had been sitting by candle light, though she knew it was just the glow of the spells emitting nearly constantly from his wand. He was breathing shallowly from the effort, and the veins in his forearm rippled as he flicked his wrist about.

Fixing her eyes toward her wand hand, she willed herself to concentrate her attention on maintaining their shield. The Protego Shield was a particularly complex bit of magic, and not very many wizards and witches had the ability to cast it. If she did not focus on it, she would lose it and leave both of them completely vulnerable in the dark of the strange underground room.

Grunts of effort, the scraping of feet on gravel, and the crackling of magic were most of what made up the soundtrack to the scuffle.

After a few minutes of fighting, the deafening crash of crumbling concrete falling to the ground filled the small space, and Hermione leapt up from her crouched position in surprise. A sharp clang of metal rang out right behind her ears, and she looked behind her—nearly losing the shield as she did—to see the disk which previously blocked the tunnel swiveling on its edge on the ground. She caught George's eyes in the dim light, and he winked at her. She felt a surge of pride at his cleverness in blasting the tunnel open for them by using a non-verbal Reducto.

She heard the muffled cry of someone opposite them, and realised George must have put the assailants in a Body Bind. That left two, or three more hooded figures by her count. She turned to them with renewed efforts, casting defensive spells whenever there was a break in the offensive curses zooming towards them. She lifted and replaced their shield with a disciplined focus after every attack sent.

If they could just take out these last few Death Eaters, they could make it back through the tunnel and up the steps to safety. Hermione felt the warmth of hope settling in around her as the fire of her determination wound itself through her body and out of her wand, bolstering her shield and exacting the precision of her aim. They could do this.

The warmth was quickly stolen from her as an icy numbness settled around them in a dense fog. All spells ceased immediately, and she was launched into pitch black darkness. Though she could not physically see, she could sense the fear pulsing through the cramped space in front of her as if it wore a face and walked in the flesh.

Dementors.

Hermione struggled to search through her mind for anything of joy, any small memory of consequence that could be used against the force of evil that was slowly leeching the life from her and everyone else in the room.

And she had it. She latched onto the memory like a mother does her just-born child, refusing to let it go for anything.

Hermione had just woken from being petrified at the end of second year. Throwing open the doors of the Great Hall, she found the mussed black hair of Harry Potter sitting at their usual spot in the middle of the long Gryffindor table. She ran towards him at full speed. "You solved it! You solved it!" she cried beaming with pride. He turned towards her, and she noticed he was wearing a striped flannel pyjama set. He got up from the table and ran towards her, emerald eyes shining with delight and a smile erupting over his features. Ron was quickly behind him, arms outstretched and a slice of bacon still hanging from his lips. Their bodies collided as arms tossed themselves around one another in a fit of laughter and relief. She burst into tears of pure joy. She was safe, once again, here in their embrace. These were the faces she had so desperately wanted to see, the faces of her first and very best friends, the faces she had dreamed of while lying petrified in the hospital wing.

She shouted with all determination and force, "EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

The silver otter erupted itself from the tip of her wand, and she watched in detached fascination as it tumbled and rolled around the dark space, casting a blinding white light every place it rested. She reveled in the sweet memories of her best friends.

Harry's impossibly messy hair smoothed under her hands. Ron's sheepish sideways grin glowing up at her. The two pairs of eyes—rich emerald and brilliant indigo—filled with joy and . . . life . . . staring back at her.

Their smiles. Merlin, their smiles could bring the most evil of wizards to their knees.

The small, but mighty otter drove away the last of the soul-sucking, happiness-stealing Dementors, and she crumpled to the floor in tears, the weight of sorrow too much to bear. It was the first time she had called upon the memories of her best friends to help her, and it would not be her last. They were the happiest moments she had, and she realised, mournfully, that the only time she would ever be able to see them again would be in those recollections.

They were gone, and she was empty.

Spicy cayenne.

Sweet cinnamon.

Warmth.

Bright.

Light.

Black.

She abandoned herself to the very depths of the Ocean of Grief; no longer floating, just sinking. The pressure of the water pushed on her from all sides, holding her limbs captive, unable to move. She surrendered, and then there was nothing.

She was nothing.

When Hermione came to, she was overwhelmed by the throbbing pain seemingly splitting her skull in half. Lightning shocks sent pain to the back of her eyeballs while it felt as if the totality of her life's blood had collected in one spot underneath her forehead. It pulsed and pounded excruciatingly. This is what death feels like.

"Actually . . ." George's soft voice rang through her mind with the force of a freight train, ". . . it's what casting a strong Patronus does. But that's just semantics."

Apparently, she had spoken that thought aloud, though she didn't feel it happen.

She groaned in agony with the effort of opening her eyelids. Since when did a hippogriff take up residence on my face?

"Eat this. It's not quite perfect, but it'll do."

She felt the crumbles of a chocolate biscuit on her lips. Her mouth felt impossibly dry. She might as well have stuffed herself with a jar full of cotton balls.

After swallowing the softened biscuits with far more effort than should have been required, she croaked, "Water."

"Ah yes. It seems you might have forgotten one very important detail in this strange bag you packed."

Her mind felt foggy, and she was not comprehending what he was talking about. He has my bag? She reached her hand to her waist without opening her eyes, and the belt where the small purple beaded bag had been looped was missing.

He continued, "We have a litre of Ogden's Finest, an empty flask, and sterilizing alcohol. Take your pick."

Her head was throbbing with a new force as each word he spoke reverberated painfully against the capillaries. At least the chocolate had begun to banish some of the fuzziness around her thoughts.

"The flask," she whispered through tight vocal cords.

"Suit yourself," he responded, puzzled but intrigued. He passed the empty flask to her open hand.

"My wand?" She felt the vine wood press against her palm. With trembling fingers she pointed it to the flask. It occurred to her that she barely had any strength, magical, or otherwise, and this spell might not work. She thought experimentally, Aquamenti.

The metal flask cooled instantly in her palm, and she hastily drew it to her lips. The cool water fell past them and into her parched throat with a wave of relief. She gulped without taking a breath, reveling in the ice cold water sliding endlessly across her tongue.

She breathed out wearily. "Is it—Are we—safe? Are you okay?"

"Yes, yes," he reassured her, brushing his fingers lightly over her cheek. "We are fine. And safe," he added.

"Where are we?" Her eyes were still closed, and she couldn't place any sounds save for the thumping of her heart in her skull, the headache persisting even after drinking water.

"I couldn't get into Shell Cottage, something was wrong with the wards, so I brought us to a forest outside of the Burrow. You remember the one where we took the Portkey to the World Cup? It was the first place that popped into my head."

"Mmm," she replied without really speaking. The exhaustion and pain was catching up with her again.

"You had a lot of interesting stuff in that bag of yours. Planning a great escape?" he snorted in jest at her.

"I have had all of the essentials packed for weeks. With Harry and Ron . . . we never knew when we would be in trouble." She took a few deep breaths, and her tired lungs protested the exertion of sustaining speech through long sentences.

George chuckled at her and mumbled something under his breath that sounded like, "Of course you have." She reached out for his hand silently, eyes still closed against the sunlight.

"Rest now, love," he encouraged, pulling her head into his lap. He ended up twining his fingers lazily through her curls and massaging her scalp soothingly. She let herself get lost in the touch for a moment, and she drifted away into sleep where she was greeted by two friendly pairs of emerald and indigo eyes.


A/N:

This chapter is dedicated to I was BOTWP who has graced us with some of our most favorite reviews. Her in depth character analyses are so spot on, and we are so grateful for the tangible evidence that the history and forethought which we put into these characters is translating onto the page. She has also unknowingly encouraged us to continue writing during a particularly difficult block, and it has made all of the difference for us. Thank you BOTWP! Please check out the sometimes silly and always full-of-heart series that she writes called, "Chocolate Frogs". You won't be disappointed!

Thank you to habababa and roni2010 for your consistent reviews and love. You always make us smile!