Chapter Five
Hermione awoke feeling just a little bit like hell. For a few blessed, if achy, moments, she'd forgotten what had happened earlier. Squinting as she looked about the tent, she pressed a hand to her forehead. God, she thought she couldn't feel worse if she'd been kicked in the head by a hippogriff hoof. Her clothes and hair were still a little damp and she couldn't seem to recall why just then.
Until she uncurled herself from the chair to sit up properly and the blankets Harry'd laid over her fell away. That was when everything had come crashing back. The fight, Ron's angry departure, her failed attempt to follow.
Rolling her eyes at the sick whirl of negative emotions pooling in the pit of her stomach, she drew in a steadying breath and let it out slow. This wasn't her fault! Or Harry's! Not even Ron's, really, not with that stupid Horcrux souring his mind for so long.
Perhaps it wasn't so bad, she told herself with a firm nod. She climbed to her feet and looked about. He . . . hadn't returned while she and Harry had been sleeping.
Maybe he was on his way back now. Yes, it sounded like the rain had let up. Swallowing hard, she pushed her wild, damp hair out of her eyes and nodded. That was probable. That he'd gotten far enough away and realized how terribly he'd reacted to nothing at all, sought out shelter from the rest of the storm and now that the weather had cleared, he was returning to the tent.
Any minute now the flap would open, and in he'd step.
She nodded again, aware she didn't really believe her own line of thinking, despite its forcefully chipper and positive tone. Her eyes fixed on the entrance.
Any minute now . . . .
Hermione glanced toward the bed. Harry was still sleeping. She didn't know how the boys could always sleep so soundly after a nasty argument. If not for having been so drained when Ron had left, she'd not have passed out in that chair like she had; usually she had the worst trouble trying to relax enough to fall asleep after fighting with her friends.
She started toward the flap. Any minute, Ron would be walking up.
Her heart sinking, she lifted the tent entrance. Peeking out into the night, she saw the sky had cleared and the moon shone down. But she had little appreciation for the lovely star-filled night the storm had given way to, only caring that it offered a clear, silver-blue line of sight all around them.
Eyes welling—quite against her will, thank you very much—she gripped her wand tight as she stepped out. Any . . . any minute now. That hopeful little voice in her mind was hardly a whisper, now, barely audible.
She circled the tent slow, her gaze scanning the distance, ears straining for footfalls through the damp grass aside from her own.
"Any minute now," she murmured, the words so low they were lost beneath the sound of her steps.
Returning to the tent's opening, she stared out into the night, fighting the swell of a lump forming in her throat. "God, Ron, where are you?"
Charlie blinked and rubbed at his eyes. He read the words again.
Ron's gone.
In disbelief, he hurried to respond. How? When? What happened?
After his rendezvous with Hermione, Charlie had taken a very reluctant, very disgusted trip to visit with the Dark Lord's favored minions, again. So far, they'd made precious little progress on locating Hermione, Ron, and Harry. It was with some relief he'd returned to the family hideout of Shell Cottage—only after ensuring he'd not been followed, of course.
It was quite late when he entered, and so made his way to his room on silent footfalls. Private bedrooms were in short supply in such a small house, and he knew he was lucky the rest of the family left him to his own devices as they had no idea what his assignments were.
God, there was an awful, unsettling ripple of nausea in gut at that thought. There should be no relief in that, only guilt. They assumed his assignments came from the Order, and he was relieved their respectfulness of his space and privacy was what barred them from observing enough to suspect otherwise.
As he reached his room, his shoulders drooped and he shook his head. He knew why he was doing this, but dear Lord did he feel like shit for it. The old adage went that the road to Hell was paved with good intentions. And his intentions were the best, weren't they?
He slammed his thoughts shut against the memories of things he'd had to do thus far in keeping up his charade for the Dark Lord. If he kept those actions at metaphorical arm's length, maybe they would have less chance of infecting any other parts of his mind or heart.
A faint noise had caught his attention then, pulling him from his bitter moment of reflection.
He hadn't expected that after parting from Hermione so soon, the notebook would already be sounding with a message from her. Charlie closed the door behind him and tugged off his satchel, reaching immediately into its depths to recover the journal. Were they not under constant threat, he'd have liked to have smiled as he opened it. To jokingly ask if she missed him that much, already.
But then he saw those words glaring back at him. Those words that dropped his heart into his stomach. Next thing he knew, he was falling numbly into a sitting position on his bedroom floor, scrambling for an ink bottle and quill to scratch out his reactionary questions.
She must've been waiting for him to ask, because it seemed her reply was forming before he'd even finished jotting down the last question mark.
He got into a horrible row with Harry and stormed out into the night. I couldn't stop him, he wouldn't listen to me. He thought I was siding with Harry just because I wouldn't agree with him. There was a pause. You remember I said he wasn't really himself. That 'dark mood' of his we talked about seems to have only gotten darker. His temper has been getting the best of him and it all got to be too much, I think. Another pause. I'm so sorry, Charlie.
Frowning, he shook his head. For what?
Because I wasn't able to stop him.
His eyes drifted closed and he uttered a mirthless laugh. "Oh, Hermione. You're too much sometimes," he said, his whispered voice no more than a thread of sound in the silence of the cottage. Here he was feeling guilty for lying to, well, everyone—didn't matter that it was for their own sakes—and here she was feeling guilty for being unable to stop his idiot little brother from being an idiot.
Trailing the tips of his fingers over her words, he felt his sinking heart buoyed by the very thought of her.
Don't ever feel the need to apologize to me for anything, Hermione. You always try to do what you think is best, and you're usually right.
He could practically hear that fretting tone in her voice as her next words formed. I'd hoped after he'd had some time away, maybe he would think about it and come back. I'm so worried. He's probably ill, and definitely not thinking clearly. I don't know what to do.
Chewing at his lower lip, he imagined how sad she must look now. Imagined he could be there with her. That he could feel her skin beneath his hands as he cupped her face, beneath his lips as he kissed away her tears.
Don't worry, I'll go look for him.
You will? How will you explain knowing where to find him? She wasn't wrong to worry, they hadn't exactly advertised there ability to communicate, for safety's sake.
Charlie shrugged. Of course I will. And I go on random patrols all the time, it'll be easy for me to search. Don't tell me where you are, but give me a rough location. Somewhere to start from. If the question of how becomes an issue, I tripped over him. Sheer dumb luck.
Really? Oh, thank you, Charlie!
He smiled, despite his concern for his idiot little brother. Ron was tough—downright surly when he was in a dark mood—he could take care of himself, and traveling alone made it much easier to hide when necessary and to cover one's tracks, so Charlie was only a little in dread for his brother's safety; he had too much faith in Ron's abilities for anything more than that.
You don't need to thank me. He's my brother, I'd be going even if you weren't worrying yourself sick over there.
Again, he thought he could hear her tone, that feigned sourness when someone proved they understood her. Worrying myself sick? Honestly.
Oh, just tell me where to look, will you? he scribbled out, certain now, as he watched her looping script bloom to life on the page once more, and the mere thought of her on the other end of this communication warmed him and made . . . made everything feel like it was easier to face, that he wasn't falling for Hermione Granger.
He was already in love with her.