"Ready?" Harry asked the pair of them, pale and wide eyed as they stood by the fireplace of the Burrow. The day of the press conference had dawned after a night of sleeplessness and fear. Hermione had tossed and turned the night away, drenched in a cold sweat, dreading the morning's first rays.
But they had come.
"No," Ron sulked, a deep set scowl over his freckled face. Harry flicked his eyes to Hermione, anxiously awaiting her answer, the pale pallor of his skin betraying his nerves.
"I'm not either Harry, sorry." Hermione replied eventually, the tremble to her knees becoming almost uncontrollable. The clock on the wall chimed suddenly, and Hermione sighed, the call to disapperate into the depths of the Ministry with no disguise had come.
"Remember to mention nothing about the Horcruxes." Harry said sternly, his mouth set in a determined line before a sharp crack told of his disappearance. Ron followed afterwards, his own expression stern and filled with dread. Hermione followed, remembering the spot she was meant to appear at with a sudden desperation. If she was going to have to do this, she was going to do it without looking like she wanted to be anywhere else.
Sudden screams assaulted her ears, and flashlights from press bulbs blinded her. A hand gripped her upper arm, steadying her as the crowd began to press in closer, a vice that she couldn't escape from. Panic began to envelop her, wrapping her up in its choking embrace as the voices seemed to merge into one. Her vision began to blur. The smell of burnt flesh began to seep into her nostrils, the cries of grief becoming all too clear; all she had to do was kill the last Horcrux…
"Don't fall," Ron's voice came in her ear, his breath tickling her ear. She snapped back into her senses. Unwilling. The flashes seemed to increase, and the throng surged closer, hungry like a starved pack of wolves spying their prey. The bodies pressed closer. Realising where she was, her eyes roamed the yelling faces, trying to spot Harry in the crowd. A noise high pitched and awful rang loud and true over the cacophony; everyone gathered slapped their hands over their ears, falling to the ground in agony. It ended just as it had begun; suddenly, and Hermione got to her feet as quickly and as gracefully as she could. The fewer pictures of her looking out of her depth and muddled the better.
"This is not the designated waiting area for the press." Shacklebolt's voice boomed over the gathered crowd, severe and unforgiving. "You will wait there, or this conference will be over, and I will personally do everything in my power to make harassing these three for information on the war a criminal offence. Do I make myself clear?" The answering clamour for the doors that were now visible each side of the room elicited a feeble chuckle from Hermione as the press fled. Shacklebolt strode towards them, flanked by six aurors. His face was livid, the expression mirrored in those following him.
"Come," he said, gesturing for them to follow; "we will take you to the hall the conference is to be in and give you time to get settled." Kingsley said, the anger melting from his face like ice in the midst of summer. He smiled kindly, and as Ron took a step forward, he was instantly between two aurors.
"We're being guarded?" He asked bemused, eyeing his two guardians with awe.
"You were meant to be met by us, not that mob." Kingsley replied, his voice showing his displeasure in an obvious manner. Hermione and Harry exchanged a surprised glance before stepping forward, their own aurors tailing them the moment they moved.
Shacklebolt led them through a corridor that looked to be in the midst of re-decorating, and a sudden shot of bile made Hermione dry heave. She gasped, stopping dead still and latching on to Harry for support.
"You alright?" Harry muttered, his eyes filled with alarm and concern, the aurors shifted uncomfortably, one of them gripping his wand overly tightly.
"Just…remembering the last time we were here, and why the halls are obviously being re-decorated." She murmured, making to walk forward again to catch up to Ron and Shacklebolt who were pausing at the top of the corridor almost impatiently. Harry's face paled further, his scar vivid on his forehead, his eyes bright.
"Yeah, yeah…I understand." Harry said quietly, slipping his hand into Hermione's in his brotherly fashion, and giving it a comforting squeeze. "Let's go" he said with a tug on Hermione's hand, gently pulling her after him. Together they caught up with Ron and Shacklebolt, Harry staring Shacklebolt's inquisitive gaze down with a brief shake of his head. Kinglsey gave an understanding nod in reply, clapping Hermione fondly on her back.
"You can do this Miss Granger." He said encouragingly, pushing open a pair of double doors with his other hand. He walked in, and Ron swore loudly. The room was large, but smaller than the Great Hall at Hogwarts Hermione thought thankfully. A podium at the opposite end had a long table set up, with four seats ready and waiting. It was well lit, as if all the attention would be there instead of anywhere else in the room, with the sinking feeling of dread, it was there Hermione realised they would be answering the questions. Rows upon rows of chairs were facing them, with a wide passage through the middle. It was an intimidating sight. She whimpered quietly to herself, brushing a strand of mahogany hair out of her eyes as Shacklebolt lead them through the aisle between the chairs, and onto the podium.
They grouped up at the end of the long, white table, eyeing it nervously. Shacklebolt turned to look at them and chuckled slightly, his expression sympathetic.
"You have name plates, so sit behind yours. Ron, you're here, Harry, next to him, and Hermione next to Harry." He ordered, pulling out the chair the other side of Hermione and sitting in it. He turned to face the doors, a resolute expression on his face, and a quick glance to his watch. "Five more minutes. I'd pour your selves a drink and get comfortable." He advised, as Harry threw himself down into his chair with a grimace. The room was unbearably empty, Hermione thought as she settled down into her chair which was thankfully soft. There was nothing on the table save her name plate, and a glass next to a filled jug of water for each sitting. She sighed, placing her hands around the glass and spinning it about, desperate for something to keep her mind off the wait.
"Just remember what we said," Harry's voice came, stronger than it was before, the determined edge to his tone a familiar and welcome blessing.
"Two minutes, ok; this is what will happen. You sit here, just sit here. I will take control of everything. When I pick a question for you, you listen, you answer. It'll stop after two hours. You're going to start with the story of what you were doing on the run, and how you killed Voldemort, then the questions. That clear?" Shacklebolt told them, his voice low and reassuring.
"I'll tell the story; they'll want to hear it from me." Harry deadpanned, pouring himself a glass of water as the aurors began to let the journalists in.
They came in like a swarm of insects. In the two minutes leading up to the conference, they infested the room at an alarming pace. A Witch Weekly journalist was fighting with someone from Quidditch Daily and the Daily Prophet for seats directly in front of Harry, while photographers tried to sneak as close as they could to the table to snap pictures with blinding flashes. Kingley's head remained down, his wand in the air, his eyes on his watch. At eleven o'clock exactly, his wand shot blue sparks, and the aurors shut the door to the dismayed screams of those who hadn't managed to get in fast enough. Silence fell over the previously buzzing room with a terrifying speed, and Hermione swore she could hear a pin drop.
"Welcome to the Press Conference regarding the Second War of Voldemort, with Mr Harry James Potter, Order of Merlin First Class. Miss Hermione Jean Granger, Order of Merlin First Class, and Mr Ronald Bilius Weasley, Order of Merlin First Class." Shacklebolt began, as the trio looked to him in shock, Ron's mouth falling open. "I will be presiding over this conference, and I ask that you remain quiet when someone is speaking. I will not hesitate to have you removed should you fail to obey. The conference will begin with the story of how they were able to defeat Voldemort from Mr Potter. You will then be free to ask questions. Pictures may be taken at any time. When ready Mr Potter," Shacklebolt said, gesturing to Harry with a gentle flick of his wrist, his gaze stern over the journalists. Many however had set up self-writing quills, and were leaning forward with eager hungry expressions. Hermione shuddered slightly, hoping to Merlin that it wasn't visible. The scrutiny was unbearable. The eyes of the witches and wizards of Britain stared with soul-sucking gazes. They stripped, searched, and leered at her. Their gazes were vile; the intrusion began to make her skin crawl. There was no where she could go. Nowhere to run too. Slipping her hand into Harry's she gave it a comforting squeeze for herself and for as Harry began his modified tale.
Harry's voice began in a nervous tumble, before gaining strength and momentum. Out it came, the story of how their love for each other had meant they'd practise hexes, curses, and defensive spells in random locations in the country. All too aware of whom they were, and what would happen to them if they were discovered. The looks from the female journalists were ravenous, torn between adoration and jealousy as they eyed Hermione, the flashes from the photographers capturing her emotionless looks. Harry recounted how they'd done everything they could to keep her away from the snatchers; her intelligence meant she could learn a spell faster and teach it, and anything that they could learn would help them against Voldemort. Hermione had become the valuable one, above Harry, above Ron; who tied them together with his laughter and loyalty. Hermione's mouth went dry as Harry spoke of loyalty, the memories of Ron leaving a bitter sting in her heart. Harry's voice continued, like waves on a shore as she watched the rapturous crowd bathe in his tale. The sickness she was beginning to feel began to build up and her head began to throb under the scrutinizing stares of the press. Then he stopped, and his hand squeezed Hermione's tight before letting it go, and resting on the table, his expression exhausted and defiant. Instantly, arms shot into the air, eyes pleading at Shacklebolt who remained impassive, watching Harry closely.
Eventually, Shacklebolt chose at random, shooting a lone spark from his wand at a random journalist. It tagged a woman in a deep purple robe, and peculiar red hair with an all too eager expression. She stood up in a rush, and the arms fell, a wave of disappointment becoming crushing as the woman leant forward to make sure her voice would reach the ears of those at the table.
"Elsa Canavan, columnist for Witch Weekly, Miss Granger; could you please confirm the rumours that you and either Mr Potter or Mr Weasley are a couple?"
The question was obtuse, Hermione thought as her jaw dropped slightly, and the weight of the gaze of everybody in the room made her feel as if she were only ten inches tall.
"Harry is my brother, and while I love Ron, I'm not in a relationship with him." She replied, as Harry shook his head with dismay beside her. Ron seemed to go bright red, and to Hermione's shock she clearly heard Ron's distinctive voice say; 'yet'. Harry groaned, and Hermione wished for the entire world that no one had heard him say such a thing. Shacklebolt had already chosen another person to ask a question, and as the woman sat down, a man rose, placing his wand to his stubbly throat to amplify his voice.
"Jason Lloyd, Wizarding World reporter; Mr Potter, Mr Weasley and Miss Granger, what are your opinions on the recent Malfoy trials, and your opinion on Mr Draco Malfoy as it is known he is in your school year." Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, whilst Hermione tipped her head to the side in a feigned display of thinking. It was Ron who spoke first, and his angry stance made Hermione's insides squirm with dread and hope that he wasn't about to humiliate himself.
"They can all go die for what I care. Draco, especially, rotten bloody ferret all the way through he is." He snarled, and the quills of the reporters began to scratch upon the parchment with glee, the delight for drama rife.
"I'd say Draco is probably having an awful time right now, and I don't want to speak about him." Harry answered, his face twisted with distaste and irritation.
"I think he just needs a chance to be himself for once." Hermione found herself saying, as the words of Arthur Weasley floated to the forefront of her mind, the revelations of his upbringing on the tip of her tongue. She swallowed, and blinked furiously, looking down as the humiliating wetness of tears began to fill her eyes. Hoping they'd dissipate she looked up, thankful that only a few flashbulbs went off this time. Shacklebolt was relentless, and another witch was clambering excitedly to her feet, her wand at her throat before Hermione had even realised she'd retrieved it.
"Jessica Travers, Daily Prophet; Mr Potter, it was said that only you could have killed the wizard Vol…Volde- Voldemort, is this true?" She seemed proud of herself for some reason, and Hermione deduced it was probably the first time she'd said the name 'Voldemort' aloud. She resisted rolling her eyes; feeling oddly spiteful that she should have to endure such a thing, listen to people who couldn't even speak the wizard's name. She breathed in deeply, calming herself, reminding her mind that it was the fear talking; and not just for herself.
"I'm not sure, probably; I think anyone could have done it. There wasn't really much to it, I guess." Harry's response was awkward, and vague. Hermione found herself filling with pride at his answer, despite it not really answering what was most likely the only question related to the press conference they were going to get. A small river of relief was flowing, their desperate plan to not mention the terrible dark magic of immortality, lest someone else get ideas was working. Horcruxes seemed to be forgotten, as had the majesty of the Deathly Hallows. Harry's speech after killing Voldemort had been omitted, as had the Horcruxes and the Hallows. The public could forget all that in due time. It was better for the world that they revelled in the world free of Voldemort.
Another spark of light was already seeking out another reporter, and as the questions came, Hermione found herself answering inane questions about how she kept clean on the run, did she cook for the boys, was she sure she wasn't with either Harry or Ron? To which Hermione began gritting her teeth in annoyance as Ron would repeat the single word 'yet'; each time she denied it. It was only a matter of time someone heard it, and noted it down. A twisted relief had begun to numb the headache of blind panic that had formed, the questions were inane, barely touching on the matter at all; but the looks and constant camera flashes were the real danger.
She dreaded picking up the paper to see her gaunt face stare at her. She dreaded seeing how her words would be twisted. She dreaded seeing who she would be romantically paired with.
"Joselin Martin, Daily Prophet; Miss Granger, it heard that you arrived at Malfoy Manner in the hands of snatchers. Is this true? If it is, can you tell us what happened to you there, and how you came to be there?" Her voice was triumphant, and if Hermione could see her face she would bet it was filled with smug glee. Harry tensed beside her, and Shacklebolt shifted in his seat. Their modified tale had left out their tryst at Malfoy Manner, and Gringotts had been explained away by Bellatrix Lestrange, the goblins unwilling to correct anyone on the matter. Panic began to bubble and boil, the scorch Bellatrix had stabbed into her skin began to burn. Blood withdrew into the darkest depths of her being. The world began to spin.
She swayed.
The world went white.
The world went loud.
The world went black.
A fresh, sweet, yet medicinal smell wafted over Hermione. The world seemed bright, but blessedly quiet. Gentle footsteps were approaching her, and she felt stiff; exhausted and starving.
"Miss Granger, you're awake."
Pomfrey. She was at the hospital wing in Hogwarts.
"What happened?" She asked, her voice an effort to release from her throat.
"You fainted at the conference. Mr Potter apparated you to here, thinking you'd prefer it here than St. Mungos."
"He wasn't wrong," Hermione replied, as Madam Pomfrey smiled, pressing a steaming broth in to her hands.
"Eat; it'll make you feel better. There is today's paper on the table beside you to read. I'll release you once you're finished. You simply fainted after all."
"Thank you," She smiled, picking up the spoon and taking her first mouthful of the food. It was hearty, and tasted like nothing she'd had in a year. She balanced the bowl on her lap, carefully moving to grab the paper. The headline was brash, bold and unforgiving, and it made Hermione's heart stop.
LUCIUS MALFOY TO RECEIVE THE KISS
Underneath was a picture of him being led away in chains. The two aurors either side of him looking disgruntled at his desperate thrashing. His hopes for freedom dashed as they took each step. Behind him were Narcissa and Draco Malfoy. Her eyes scanned over Narcissa, her face impassive, her back rigid. She was a picture of pure-blood perfection in comparison to her husband. Her eyes lingered onto Draco, he was in a suit; again. As if he wore anything else, his hair falling into his eyes as he shook his arm to fix the cuff. His expression was disinterested, almost bored with the entire thing, but the ever so slight twist to his mouth betrayed him. He walked after his father with a lithe grace that became hypnotic. She took another bite of her food, savouring the mixed vegetables and meat, and spying a layer of noodles beneath.
She scanned the article in an absent manner. The tone was clearly delighted that the Dementors Kiss was to be bestowed upon a Malfoy, and spoke of the rest of the family. She blinked with surprise when she realised that Draco was now the head of the Malfoy family, and was now an extremely rich man. Weather he was able to be free long enough to use and enjoy his wealth was another matter. She found her eyes wandering over to Draco again and again, fascinated with the regal air he displayed despite his father's situation. The way his mother mirrored it told her that it was a family trait; look as though having all your secrets splashed upon the entirety of a newspaper was nothing to you. They were above this. Behave as though nothing can hurt you. Like nothing can ever hurt you. Like you've never been hurt in your life.
The memory of Malfoy smashing up the transfiguration classroom flashed back into her mind, the two winter like eyes alight with agony as he stared at her.
The Malfoy's could feel alright, they just weren't going to show it.
She ate her meal in a surprising speed, feeling as though she'd eaten an abraxan afterwards. Slipping out of her hospital bed; she steadied herself, feeling like the evening couldn't come fast enough. She made up her mind to go find Harry, an irritated prickle at the back of her neck when her thoughts came to Ron. She pulled her sleeves up, only to stare at her arm.
The wound she'd earned from her time at Malfoy Manner had reduced. It wasn't a long, irritated scorch upon her arm, red and angry; painful to the touch. It was all but vanished. Its length had slipped back, and now a pale little starburst was just below her elbow. The scar was whiter than her skin, but only visible in some lights; she turned her arm wondrously, looking at it from all angles.
"I did my best," Madam Pomfrey's gentle voice came from behind her; she jumped, a blush spreading to her cheeks.
"Thank you…thank you so much."
"It's the least I could do, I can't do anything about the burns, bruises and cuts…still don't have everything brewed and re-stocked, but I did have a few spells and potions for that. It won't go completely – time will take care of it, Dark Magic did that, and I think Mr Potter can tell you that Dark Magic always leaves a mark." She smiled, taking the bowl from Hermione's bed. She flicked her wand, and the bed was unmaking itself, priming for its clean and next sheets.
Hermione smiled warmly at Madam Pomfrey and left the hospital wing, aiming for the Burrow, with a much lighter heart.