The dark alley brought alight dwindling memories of a precarious trip to the Ministry under the influences of Polyjuice Potion. A few passerbies loitered around the area, though not for long as they sidestepped the cluttered streets and made their way to a more serene premise.
An old telephone booth looked fairly vacant, adorning an Out of Order sign. Wordlessly, Hestia Jones held the door open and stepped inside with Hermione in tow. Jean and Jack began to share confused glances with each other, considering that they were told that they'd be going to the Ministry of Magic shortly after their flight from Le Havre; this old, telephone booth seemed to be the most irrelevant thing in the area.
Hermione made a hurried hand gesture, indicating for the couple to step inside. Hestia took the liberty of dialing '62442' and a cool, collected voice of a witch echoed throughout the bare, tight booth. Four silver badges were released from some sort of compartment, each bearing a different name with the same purpose, aside from Hestia's. While the Granger's collected their badges saying Present to Request a Floo Network Connection, Hestia's reflected of her duty to accompany them, appropriately stating Present to Escort the Grangers to Level 6: the Floo Network Authority.
The telephone booth began to descend downwards; the sudden lurch startled Jean and Jack so much that they instinctively held on to Hermione until they found themselves stepping on common ground. The two of them breathed a sigh of relief, letting go of their daughter and opting to link arms instead as they walked through the crowded throngs of people.
The Security Desk at the far end of the Atrium was being handled by a man in peacock blue robes. Looking fairly bored, he swiftly reached for the wand Hermione held in front of her. Reciting 'Vine Wood and Dragon Heartstring Core' in an uninterested, monotone voice, he handed back the balanced wand to her and immediately assisted the next person behind them.
The Ministry was loud and boisterous, filled with several groups of harassed looking wizards and witches. Hermione noted that some looked quite frazzled and frustrated as they levitated notes to adjacent offices and attempted to possess a spot in an already packed lift. Still, she was secretly pleased at the prospect of busy people and confusion- it guaranteed that she would not be recognized so easily, or even worse, placed on the spot through automatic gestures of thanks and appreciation.
As Hestia led them passed the Golden Gates and into the nearby lift, she ducked her head slightly and made a point to allow a few coarse strands of hair fall naturally into her face. At this rate, Hermione mused, the only person who will manage to recognize me will probably be-
"Hermione?" Arthur said incredulously, straightening his spectacles and glancing up from the thick folder he was currently holding. He had been trudging towards the lift with an alarming-looking folder in his hand, sifting through a few pages every few minutes. Managing to hold the lift's door open with his foot, he glanced up in surprise at the sight of the young witch.
"Hi, Mr. Weasley," Hermione said warmly as Arthur dumbly stepped in and the lift's doors closed behind him.
"What in the name of Merlin's culcalotors are you doing here?" Arthur asked in a shocked tone. He wrinkled his nose briefly for a moment, as if deep in thought. "Did I say that right? Culcalator? Well, regardless of the name, I must say that they're absolutely delightful. Some of them don't even need ecklectricity to function!"
He grinned broadly, momentarily forgetting the heavy stack of papers in the worn folder he was currently hauling around the Ministry. Continuing to smile goofily at the thought of Arithmancy revolutionized, he did a double take as soon as he caught sight of the couple standing anxiously besides Hermione.
"Jean?" His voice squeaked, eager at the thought of a Muggle conveniently in the same lift as him. "Merlin's beard! I was feeling so fond about my new culcalator- so fond that I didn't even see you or Jack here..." He trailed off as he wrestled with the folder in his hands, trying not to emit waivers and notices everywhere in the lift. Attempting to place it underneath the crook of his shoulder in order to shake their hands in greeting, he gave up as the folder nearly fell precariously. He shrugged his shoulders in an apologetic manner, though he received a sincere response from Hermione's parents.
"It's very nice to see you again, Arthur," Jean said compassionately. "We didn't expect to see familiar faces so soon from the airport, actually."
Hermione sighed to herself in an amused type of way as Arthur's eyes lit up. "Airport?" He asked, almost hungrily as he leaned forward excitedly. "As in, the place where aero planes fly?"
Jack looked humored as he caught Hermione's wary glance. "That's generally the idea, Arthur. Aero planes are kept at airports and a professional pilot flies them to different cities. It's quite an exhilarating experience."
Hestia snorted audibly, and Jack chuckled. "Exhilarating," She scoffed good-naturedly. "Tell that to my feet."
Arthur's neck turned frighteningly quick as he spotted Hestia standing in the corner of the lift. "You went on an aero plane?" He questioned as his voice full of awe. "That must have been amazing!"
"If 'amazing' can be referred to as 'barmy'," Hestia responded dryly as she shifted from foot to foot. Tucking back a few strands of hair, she continued. "What level, Arthur?"
"Level 2, Hestia," Arthur responded tiredly, his voice losing all traces of eagerness. Pinching the bridge of his nose where his spectacles rested upon, he gave the impression of looking rather harassed.
"Magical Law Enforcement?" Hestia inquired sympathetically, letting out a low whistle. "That explains that hell of a folder you're carrying, then."
Arthur nodded, almost gravely. "I've been summoned by the Auror Department several times these last few weeks," He practically groaned as he leaned slightly against a corner of the lift while Hestia attended to its buttons. "Even with Voldemort vanquished, people are still finding ways to sell Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Objects. It's completely mad, I tell you; why a Muggle would need an amulet to ward of rogue Dementors, this I will never know.
"Muggles?" Hermione asked incredulously. "Surely they'd not be aware of what Dementors are in the first place?"
He shook his head grimly. "I'm afraid not. They've been swindled many times; perhaps even Confunded, though it's not just them. Some of the less fanatical Purebloods that need the gold have also been targeting their products towards witches and wizards." He warily adjusted his spectacles as he hugged the large folder to his chest. "Actually, they don't even have to be fanatical Purebloods, for that matter. It more or less explains why Mundungus Fletcher is involved."
Hestia made an affronted noise while Jean and Jack watched the unraveling conversation before them like a badminton match.
"He's not selling anything harmful, really," Arthur reassured her somewhat helplessly. "At least, nothing St. Mungo's couldn't fix in a jiffy." Deciding to steer the conversation into a somewhat more pleasant topic, he made a strike at conversation with Hestia. "So, when are you returning to the Ministry for work, Hestia?"
"In a few days or so, Arthur," Hestia responded, now examining his folder with a keen eye. "Of course, capturing these blackguards and chucking them into Azkaban makes the idea far more fulfilling. I'm sure Kingsley will hound me with a folder quite similar to yours the minute I walk into Headquarters."
He nodded back warily, but was drawn into another facet of conversation as he heard Hermione's timid voice.
"Mr. Weasley..." Hermione began, her voice expressing traces of uncertainty. "Do you think that this whole Counterfeit Defensive Spells business is extremely serious?"
Arthur eyed for a moment, as if racking his brain for a correct answer. Finally, he spoke. "Well, serious enough for links to be made between my Department and the Auror Headquarters. You have to understand that this is kind of serious. However, the Auror Trainees are quite fit, Hermione. Besides, when we have merciless Aurors like Hestia out loose, the Dark Wizards that I imagine are most likely retreating to their corners and cowering in fear."
"Thank you, Arthur," Hestia said pleasantly, grinning from ear to ear. "It's nice to know that all these years of developing into a hard arse are finally paying off."
He chortled jovially in response, before turning to Hermione once again. "Will you and your lot be dropping by for dinner tonight, Hermione? I can always Floo Molly from the office and ask her to set out a few extra plates, if you'd like."
"Maybe tomorrow, Arthur," Jack said, though he felt flattered by the offer. "We were planning on using a day or two here to settle back into the house in Dorset."
"We're still conscious on Australian time, you know," Jean said, stifling a yawn. She glanced thoughtfully for a moment at the wistful expression on Hermione's face. "Still, Jack and I are well aware of the fact that Hermione wants to get reacquainted with her friends. Perhaps, if it's no trouble, she could stop by this evening for a night or two? We can drop by for dinner the day after tomorrow, or so."
"The more the merriment," Arthur said happily, pleased at the prospect of Muggles to question freely in the convenience of his own home. He furrowed his brow for the second time in the lift. "Did I say that right? I understand that it's an old Muggle expression."
"Close enough," Jean said amusedly. "It's merrier, but we get the gist of what you're trying to say, nonetheless."
Just then, the neutral voice of a witch rang out, indicating the level and its offices. "Level 6: Department of Magical Transport, including the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office, and Apparition Test Center." A few paper airplanes flew swiftly into the lift as the doors opened, along with several, surly-looking wizards who appeared to be in a heated debate.
"That's our floor, Arthur," Hestia said, raising her voice a bit.
"We'll see you for dinner soon," Hermione added as they clambered out of the lift.
The doors closed at a somewhat slow pace; Arthur noted that eventually, a bushy head of hair disappeared from view completely.
The portrait remains deeply asleep and he restrains every nerve in his body in order to will away the urge to prod its frame.
Today, all he can do is muse.
With alacrity, he recalls his ideas about misfortune. Though he never let the thought consume him, there were times when the lack of wealth in a Gringotts Vault and the title of the worst Blood Traitors in the history of the Pureblood realms made him feel less fortunate.
Today, all he can do is helplessly steal glances at the portrait. Every few seconds or so, he begins to blink rapidly and a pungent taste overcomes his mouth, giving him the strong urge to vomit. Clutching his abdomen, he retches quietly until he tastes the diluted saltiness of tears prickling his lips.
Falling to the ground in a heap, he begins to rock himself in a soothing manner, willing for the demons to disappear. Bitterly, he thinks of the one person who can ease this unrelenting tension.
How convenient that this person is no longer here.
Gold is merely a necessity- though absolutely nothing compared to what he truly longs for. He could care less about the engrossed Death Eaters; if he didn't feel so weak and vulnerable, he'd do away with every last one of those bastards.
With his senses slowly deteriorating and his mind completely numb, he dolefully understands what true misfortune really is.
Though she was very much so an adult, some of Hermione's childlike qualities still remained the same.
As a little girl, the only remedy for a frightening nightmare or the monster in the coat closet was to venture off towards her parents' bedroom, thus being lulled to sleep. It was merely a phase of a young child, of course, and her parents were not fazed by it in the least bit. On the contrary, Jack welcomed these nightly visits with bloodshot eyes and a groggy smile, pleased that there were still several chances to protect his daughter.
A good, few years later, that particular type of dependency had not changed. Though there was no chance, to blatantly put it, in hell that she would scamper off to Lavender's bed in the girls' dormitory for comforting, there was always the promising prospect of relaying all of her fears to Ginny.
Aside from that, she could recall with clarity the numerous times she would seek solace through her Mum, feet padding lightly as she made her way towards that familiar bedroom. Wordlessly, Jean would slide sideways to make room, nudging Jack gently as he made noncommittal grunts; the monsters and ghosts he could handle, but he always managed to remain meters away from the feminine problems.
Other times, when Jean felt agile enough, the two women would regroup to the kitchen, mulling over various things over a pot of tea. It was a common occurrence, taking place several times despite the situation. It was the most ideal setting, and Hermione favored it over all others when she expressed her initial apprehension about Hogwarts, or when she enthusiastically described her first real friendships, courtesy of Harry and Ron. She could not even suppress her vivid anger over the Yule Ball long enough; Jean ended up heating a batch of impromptu pasties as Hermione vented. The nightly rituals of mother and daughter were enticingly meaningful, so much that even hostile regards to Lavender Brown could not sidestep their musings.
And so, on this unnaturally warm night, Hermione found herself leaning towards this dependency once again.
She was lying flat on her back, hands folded primly over her stomach as she glanced around the room. Everything remained still, aside from the spasmodic figures of the Holyhead Harpies as they flew with skill throughout the confinements of their poster. Through the clear glass of the window, she could catch glimpses of the four, skinny trees inhabiting the bare orchard. Everything was still and the time garnered peace.
And yet, she was still restless.
Her mind felt numb; a dizzy array of swirls and colors swam around her head. The heat was stifling in Ginny's room. The young witch had already lost track of the number of times she had pushed her stubborn curls away and fanned the flesh of her legs beneath her nightgown. As a content feeling spread from the pit of her stomach, her face flushed noticeably as she remembered pivotal moments.
The night itself was fulfilling from the moment she stepped out of the Burrow's hearth, essentially being ambushed by Molly and Ginny while Harry and Ron stood in the background, goofy grins etched upon their faces. After managing to escape out of Molly's iron grip of a hug, she found herself facing yet another ecstatic Weasley, though it was Ginny.
As the hours progressed, question after question was thrown at her. Whether it was an inquiry about her parents' safety in Dorset, or a thorough analysis on Arthur's behalf about the interior of an aero plane, her tongue was not given a moment of rest for more than a moment or two.
Of course, she did manage to steal a few minutes in the exclusive company of Ron, though the two of them were interrupted at every interval, much to their chagrin. It was usually courtesy of Harry and Ginny- two teenagers who were normally so well versed in privacy when it came to intimacy. However, the pair did not take the slightest of hints (anvil sized, in Hermione's opinion) and continued to follow Ron and Hermione around incessantly.
If she didn't love them so much, she probably would've gone mental.
Naturally, it was only fitting that she should succumb to that thrilling urge to retrieve some of that stolen time.
The moment he catches site of the frame, he feels a type of unfamiliar tingling in his skin. The prickly feeling will not subside; if anything, it grows stronger as he takes a defying step towards the mocking frame.
It is as if his body is moving on its own accord, ignoring all restraints and chidings. He glances down at his large, shoe-enclosed feet, which continue to move stubbornly. Step by step, they make a quiet noise as their sounds ricochet off the floors.
With brittle fear, he realizes that he is not ready at all.
Rubbing his exposed forearms fervently, he tries to ignore this emotional sensation entirely. Its not like him to pursue something as foreign as this; then again, he's never felt such a strong kind of intuition before. Summoning courage, he raises his lowered gaze and stares at the frame, willing himself not to his collected demeanor.
Without even running his fingertips over the smooth wood, he can already sense a type of strength resting among the coarse lines. There is something particularly unique about the miniscule engravings and the vignette itself. To him, it is something enthrallingly dynamic.
It seems absurdly paradoxical that her skin is far too fair for his liking. Her hair is not as vibrant and enigmatic as it once was- as he remembers so vividly. The two rosy folds that played the role of her lips are not as he remembers, and this frightens him.
Taking a deep breath, he suppresses a shudder that threatens to vibrate down his spine as he lifts a hesitant thumb. Remaining as immobile as he possibly can, he runs his thumb softly across her lips.
He finds that this simple gesture is just as comforting as it was so many years ago.
Her eyelids flutter open in shock as she catches the blazing gleam in his eyes. She cannot contain the grin that evidently begins to sprout on her face, as she is still shocked at the image of the person fulfilling her gaze.
She finds the key to her voice, and it sounds unnatural to her as a velvety type of sound escapes her throat.
"Wotcher, Charlie."
The long channel of stairs appeared daunting in the dead of the night, but she disregarded the notion as she clambered up the many steps ahead of her. A rising type of determination filled her up rather quickly, even as she winced at the blatant sound of the wheezing stairs.
Aside from the occasional creak or groan, everything was quiet. Even as she strained her ears for sounds of an awake being, Hermione could hear nothing out of the ordinary except for a soothing silence managing to ring loudly in her ears. The grainy wood of the staircase brushed her bare calves more than once, causing an unnatural shiver to envelope her body for a heavy moment.
The floors went by at a daunting pace as she purposefully strode upward, as if time was spinning away purposely fast. Though she chose not to fathom why, her heartbeat began to accelerate as she reached the fifth floor landing, gazing around the stretch of a hall as her feet carried her noiselessly across a smooth surface.
She reached a wide door, adorned with a sign covered with a flourishing Ronald's Room; she gaped at the sign for a few seconds before the twitching corners of her mouth pulled her out of her waning lull. The door was conveniently ajar, and she hesitantly slid her foot through the threshold, as if slowly gaining courage to enter completely.
Her right foot danced along the impeccable edge between familiarity and all things unknown. Tentatively, she edged the right side of her body along the grain of the door, her back shivering at the contact with cold finish. Inch by inch, she remained painstakingly slow as she granted her entire body access into the room.
Her breath caught in her throat as she caught sight of him.
Harry's crumpled form lay curled up in a camp bed pushed towards the corner of the small bedroom, but her eyes dismissed his figure as she raked her eyes over Ron. At some point in the night, he must have hitched off his heavy blanket, revealing his lanky body in contrast to the wrinkled sheets.
He wore a simple, white shirt along with a pair of orange pyjama bottoms; scrutinizing, Hermione could make out the Chudley Cannons logo covering his trousers at random. His brow was heavily furrowed into frustration and a pasty arm was slung messily above his head.
And out of the blue, like a ribbon slowly being unraveled, she could feel something spectacular. Her heart swelled inside of her chest and the corners of her eyes crinkled as she smiled with no inhibitions and practically all reserve was lost. Losing all regard towards her mind, she steadily began to walk forward to the bed, not quite sure what she was seeking.
In a matter of eagerness, though, she couldn't avoid the nuisance of a floorboard which gave a hearty creaking noise, effectively waking the young redhead up.
She refused to release the breath attempting to escape from her throat as she flinched at the ominous sound. Gradually, Ron began to emerge from his sleepy stupor and opened his eyes, settling in a sitting position and blinking a few times before vision was granted. The moment he caught sight of a silhouette, he retrieved his wand from behind his pillow and aimed it ruthlessly, a menacing growl escaping his lips.
"Ron!" Hermione squeaked, holding her hands in surrender in front of her face. Lowering her voice instinctively so she wouldn't wake Harry, she spoke in a hoarse whisper. "Put the wand down! It's me!"
"Hermione?" Ron echoed dubiously in an equally low tone, lowering his wand. "What are you doing here? Are you alright?"
His eyes roamed around the room as if expecting to catch sight of a rogue Death Eater, and he muttered Lumos before glancing questioningly at Hermione.
Slowly but surely, she began to blush. A rosy coloring tinted her cheeks as she avoided his gaze. The realization hit her like a particularly angry Blast-Ended Skrewt; perhaps paying an impromptu visit to Ron's bedroom wasn't such a good idea after all.
Finding her voice a few tedious moments later, she spewed the first excuse that came to her mind.
"I was bored," Hermione said lamely, flinching slightly at the utter absurdity of her reason.
The bemused look on Ron's face may have been slightly humorous had she not have been recovering from her own embarrassment. "Let me get this straight," He said slowly, eying her curiously. "You walk up about four flights of stairs, ignore all ideas about normal sleeping patterns, and scare the bloody hell out of me because you're bored?"
She huffed, trying to regain a sense of dignity. "Yes," She agreed. "That's generally the gist of it."
"And the fact that you're completely nutters is generally the gist of you."
"Hm, funny. Apparently, I'm being categorized as 'nutters' by someone who wears Chudley Cannons pyjamas."
"No need to get jealous, Hermione. Just because you're nightgown is too prim and prissy and doesn't reflect of a brilliant Quidditch Team-"
"I honestly cannot believe what possesses you to think that the Chudley Cannons are a brilliant team, Ron."
"Well, I can surely believe that you possess such a limited knowledge about one of the most exhilarating games in the entire Wizarding World."
"I, on the other hand, fully believe that your area of concern only stretches towards Quidditch. That and the fact that you most likely wear matching Chudley Cannons boxers, too."
As if on cue, the bickering pair glanced down towards the waistband of Ron's pyjamas, before blushing furiously. The harmless tint upon Hermione's face became full fledged and Ron's ears turned an alarming shade of red.
Ron cleared his throat a few times, awkwardly glancing around the room once more. "So," He began, not entirely meeting her gaze. "Now what?"
"I guess I should just go back to Ginny's room, then," Hermione responded dejectedly.
He tried to maintain a neutral attitude, but his insides weren't exactly agreeing. "It's kind of a waste to come up here and then go all the way down," Ron said quickly. "You might as well stay... for a little bit..."
He scratched the back of his head and pretended to be nonchalant about the entire situation, but he couldn't help but smile broadly when Hermione timidly shook her head yes.
"Well, where do you want to... you know...?" Ron trailed off once more, settling on gesticulating to finish his question.
Hermione immediately understood the odd displacement of his hands, and the both of them turned to glance at the single, messy bed lying mere inches away from them. Taking the initiative, she pulled her wand from her pocket and pointed it towards the lone pillow Ron used. Whispering Engorgio, she propped it up against the headboard before looking at Ron expectantly.
Wrapping his slender fingers around her tiny hand, he led her towards the bed before sitting down on the edge in a gawky fashion. She, on the other hand, clumsily pawed her way through the tangle of sheets before propping herself against the headboard in an upright position. After receiving a somewhat inviting smile from Hermione, he followed suit.
The pair sat in silence for a few, tense moments, as if unsure of what to do. Ron appeared to be having a raging battle inside of his head, made blatant by the fact that his eyes bore apprehensively onto Hermione's hand which lay in her lap. Finally, as if mucking up the courage to do so, he gently placed his hand in hers, intertwining their fingers. Hermione blushed at the gesture, but nonetheless returned the favor by resting her head upon his chest. Automatically, his unoccupied hand began to sift its fingers through her coarse locks, marveling at the texture.
"The letters weren't enough," Ron finally spoke, attempting to instill some conversation.
"No, they weren't," Hermione agreed. "I never realized how hard it would be to be away from you."
Ron nodded, remaining quiet for a moment. "I meant what I said in the first letter, Hermione," He said slowly, as if trying out the new words. "I really did miss you like mad, even if it was only for a couple of weeks. It didn't change the fact that I thought about you during every possible moment."
Even though her eyes remained focused on the steady rising and falling of his chest, Hermione was still certain that his ears had turned their trademark red. Squeezing his hand encouragingly, she smiled to herself.
"One thing's for sure, though," Hermione commented, wrapping an arm loosely around Ron's waist. "This is far too surreal to believe."
She felt a few jolts of vibrations against her face as Ron chucked wholeheartedly. "That's for sure," He agreed. "And to think that I wouldn't get even a hundred sodding words with you edgewise. At least, definitely not with Harry and Ginny following you around like there was no bloody tomorrow."
Hermione groaned at the memory, before snuggling her head into the crook of Ron's arm. She giggled softly; the scent off freshly mowed grass and starchy parchment was still evident even when in the middle of the night.
"What's so funny?"
"Aside from the fact that you smell like a lawn mower? Well, nothing much, really."
He pretended to look affronted. "I'm not sure whether I should be checking you into St. Mungo's for comparing me to one of Dad's barmy Muggle toys or not. It's either that or pretending that your observation was a compliment."
"Well, the latter would result in one less row between us."
"As always, love, you're right."
"And Harry could use some sleep."
"And I could use some snogging."
"Well, I wouldn't want to deprive you of a necessity, now, would I?"
"That'd be very cruel on your behalf."
She was quite certain that there was no better image compared to Ron's luminous eyes as she tilted her head up. Closing the space between them, he craned his neck, cradling her face gently like a fragile ornament with his rough hands. And as minutes progressed, she became acutely aware of everything. The shaggy fringe of ginger that lightly tickled her cheeks, to the slight shivers Ron emitted as she casually caressed his scarred arms.
As Ron's hands stroked a rhythmic pattern on the small of her back, she continued to bask in the glory of this celestial-like state. Hermione knew very well that stolen moments like these would come at random, what with all of the chaos still alive in the Wizarding World and all the pieces left to pick up.
The threat of imminent danger was still being imposed and it wasn't quite the appropriate time to rejoice just yet. Still, if Ron's actions gave any indication, she was well aware of the fact that she wouldn't face any of this alone. The idea itself was foreign to her; to go about on something difficult alone. After all, being companionless was just something the Golden Trio didn't pertain to.
And this, on its own, was something to be grateful for.
"Hermione?" Ron murmured, resting his forehead against hers. His breath was heavy and he panted slightly.
"Yeah?" Hermione asked, continuing to gaze unabashedly into his eyes.
"You were wrong, love," He whispered warmly, momentarily closing his eyes. "My area of concern doesn't only relate to Quidditch."
The smile that graced Hermione's face was the brightest Ron had ever seen.
A/N: The sentence about four, skinny trees is kind of a reference to The House on Mango Street, a book I recently read that was absolutely brilliant.
I hope I satisfied all with the fluff. I suppose a more emotional reconcilation between Ron and Hermione was in order, but I really was in the mood for some lighthearted banter. Feel free to disagree if you like. ;)
I know there's an absence of the ominous Voldemort supporter in this chapter, but I wanted to end this on a lighter note. Things will stir up eventually. I promise :)