Chapter Four: The Past
"Being a woman is a terribly difficult task since it consists principally in dealing with men."
--Joseph Conrad
Her head pounded painfully in time with the ticking of the clock. Rubbing her temples forcefully, she mused that perhaps having a timepiece down here wasn't such a great idea after all. What had started out as an instrument from which she could get some useful information had turned into a torture device, marking the time until she had to meet Cynthia at the dressmaker shop.
Why she had to wear a Muggle dress when everyone else would be wearing dress robes was still a matter of some confusion. When Sly Cindy had heard that she was Muggle-born, she insisted on 'celebrating her differences' from the wizard world. Translation: Call attention to the fact that she wasn't a pure-blood. At least Ron had stuck up for her in his own backhanded fashion, pointing out that if they really wanted to showcase Hermione's differences they'd have her carrying the various awards and certifications she had received from Hogwarts and the Ministry.
To her surprise, Ginny had sided with Cynthia. When faced with Hermione's patented death glare, the self-assured young woman had merely shrugged and suggested, "Wait and see."
She had yet to go home from the previous night, having come across a line in an old journal that sent her off on a tangent concerning the transferal of magical power from one person to another. Since this was the topic the Minister himself had asked her to look into, she had spent long hours pouring over tomes trying to find more details about this ancient ritual. There weren't many facts to be found, only a handful of sketchy eyewitness accounts describing the ceremony.
With a cramp in her neck, she closed her latest dead end and reluctantly decided to organize her notes and call it a day. She still had to go home and shower and maybe even catch a few minutes of sleep before heading to London.
Fifteen minutes later, the words of her outline were beginning to blur and run together, her hand shaking slightly as she tried to make corrections and additional comments. And was it her imagination or was the clock unbearably loud now . . .
Figuring her work would have to take a backseat this once, an admission she would have been proud of herself for making if it weren't for the fact her head felt like it was going to explode, she weakly stood up. The room began to spin mercilessly as she fought to keep from losing her dinner.
"What is happening," she whispered, trying to catch herself on her worktable. Her arms were too shaky to hold her weight though and she fell to the cold floor , thinking she saw a shadow running past her as her head contacted painfully with hard stone.
"She's coming around . . ."
Opening her eyes against her better judgment, she hissed when someone shone their brightly-lit wand in her face. As her vision cleared, she noted there were quite a few faces staring down at her, many of them topped with red hair. Trying to sit up, she only managed a few inches when stars started dancing across the scene. Falling back with a groan, she lied, "I'm fine."
"You look fine," Ron commented dryly, his mouth thinned in anger. It was a testament to how phased she truly was that she didn't ask why he was in the cellar of the Ministry on a . . . well, whatever day it was. As a consultant for the Aurors, he only came in when there was a need. She had heard rumors that the department rarely made a move within getting the input of their chief strategist. "You're lucky Dad came to check on you after seeing you hadn't signed out last night or it could have been days before someone came across you."
That certainly stung . . . surely someone would have noticed her missing. Or maybe not, she was well on her way to becoming an old maid. Maybe she should go ahead and get a few more cats. "On second thought, Crookshanks would probably not take kindly to someone infringing on his territory."
"What are you on about?"
Oops. She was developing a nasty habit of talking out loud when she didn't realize it.
"Ron, stop hovering, she took quite a blow. It completely normal for her to be a little dazed," Mr. Weasley ordered, moving his youngest son out of the way to squat down next to her. Gently he lifted her head and ran his fingers along her skull to check for injury. With a stern look that reminded her eerily of his wife, he questioned, "When was the last time you ate something, Hermione?"
Massaging her pounding head, she frowned, realizing that she had no idea how long she had been out. "I guess that depends on what the time is . . ."
"Almost noon," Ron answered, studying her carefully as his father finished his examination and sat back.
Searching her still foggy memory for why that time seemed so important to her, she bolt upright causing an explosion of colored dots to cloud her vision and exclaimed, "Cynthia!"
Despite the massive amount of pain she was in—just how hard had she hit her head anyway—she noted that Ron had paled considerably. He grabbed her arm roughly and demanded, "Are you saying Cynthia did this to you?"
"Ouch! You're hurting me," she cried, feeling tears in her eyes that had nothing to do with her physical discomfort. It wasn't her fault he had misunderstood her and thought she was accusing the woman of something.
Thankfully most of the crowd had dispersed, leaving only Ron, Bill, and Mr. Weasley. Still, she was determined not to cry in front of them choosing instead to focus on the anger that was now pulsing through her. Yanking her arm out of his hold, which had softened at her outburst, she ground out, "Don't be ridiculous, Ron. Your fiancée would rather have carnations in her bouquet than look at me long enough to cast a spell to knock me out."
Curiously, Bill asked, "What do you mean by that?"
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as the eldest Weasley brother exchanged a thoughtful look with his father but was too caught up in glaring at Ron to ask why they seemed so worried. Refusing the prat's offered hand, she instead had Bill help her to her feet. She felt lightheaded, as if she were underwater and had held her breath for much too long. Leaning into Bill, glad to see Ron looking very irked, she took a moment to calm her temper. "Nothing, just forget about it. I must have been more tired than I thought and fell out of my chair and knocked my head against the floor. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm late for my appointment with the dressmaker."
"You can't go by yourself," she heard from behind her. Rounding to tell Ron off, she was surprised to see it was Bill who had spoken. He must have seen her confusion (not to mention the stubborn cast to her features) because he continued, "I'm done here today, why don't we go grab your dress and some food. You can tell me about those shield charms Charlie keeps bragging about . . ."
Faster than she could 'no thanks,' Bill had her by the elbow and was escorting her through the door and down the hallway. She heard the muffled voices echoing towards them but the words were jumbled and unrecognizable. "This really isn't necessary."
"Oh, yes it is. I didn't want to have to sit through another two hours of Percy's meeting upstairs, where he is currently going over new regulations in excruciating detail," Bill grinned, pulling out some Muggle sunglasses once they finished signing out. Slipping them on to block the intense glare coming off the sidewalk of the hidden courtyard, he gave her a searching glance. "You okay to apparate?"
"I don't exactly know where we're going," she admitted, squinting so much her eyes were aching.
No doubt discerning the fact that she wasn't thrilled about her schedule for the rest of the afternoon, Bill grinned roguishly and tempted her with an alternate plan. "How about I owl Cynthia and let her know we'll be late. You can freshen up while I get Gin and lunch. Then we'll all go to pick out your dress together."
"Actually, that doesn't sound like such a bad—"
"Mr. Weasley!"
Rolling his eyes, he whispered, "I can't quite get used to being called Mr. Weasley, especially with so many of us around."
"Mr. Weasley! Urgent message for you from Gringotts, sir. You're needed immediately," the lady she recognized as the front desk clerk announced somewhat short of breath from her sprint across the courtyard.
Uncomfortable and showing it, he finally turned to her and observed, "I suppose if I told you to wait here while I get Ron to come with you, you'd be gone before I got back so I won't bother. Promise you'll be careful, Hermione."
"Honestly, I think you're making a big fuss—"
"Maybe, but as your honorary older brother, you'll have to excuse me. I'll have Ginny come by to check on you later and you two can sit around and complain about me all you want."
With a flash of a smile, he was gone. Sighing, she followed suit immediately. Best to get it over with as soon as possible.
Several wrong turns later, she nearly staggered into Melody's, the small and well-hidden magical shop that specialized in Muggle-dress for formal occasions. Sickly Sweet Cindy had taken great pleasure in regaling Hermione with tales of the store's popularity for witches and wizards as the place to get their Halloween costumes. The conversation left her with images of plastic masks and ill-fitting superhero capes.
"Here she is," her arch-rival announced, appearing beautiful and poised as always. Haughtily, she narrowed her eyes and asked, "What in the world happened to you? I was beginning to think you had forgotten our little appointment."
"Had some trouble getting away from my desk," she answered, barely stopping the hysterical chuckle that threatened to escape. She could not deal with Cynthia's nasty-nice comments and pointed questions. She was tired, hungry, sore, and bitter. Unconsciously her hand twitched towards her wand . . .
Surely it would be considered justifiable homicide.
"Well since you're so late, I'm afraid I won't be able to stay and see you try on the dresses I've picked out," Cynthia informed her with a long- suffering sigh. "I don't know why Ron's so insistent on having you as his unofficial best man, although with your shoulders . . ."
"I guess it has to do with the fact that I'm closer to him than any other woman on Earth," she retorted, silently daring Cynthia to give her an excuse to excise some of her frustration.
"Oh dear, I've offended you," Cynthia laughed coldly. "Ron never mentioned you being so sensitive. Of course, we normally have more important things to talk about . . . and do."
Obviously happy to leave Hermione to dwell on her innuendo, she waved at the seamstress and breezed out of the shop. Wishing she would keep walking straight into the busy intersection, Hermione turned her full attention back to the matter at hand. She had to get a dress so she could go home and sleep for the next ten or twenty years.
Following the elderly lady--whom she learned was Melody--back to the fitting room, she couldn't help but grimacing at the brightly colored and totally unflattering outfits Cynthia had picked out.
"Yes, I can see now that none of these will do," Melody tutted, taking away the offending garments with a flick of her wand. With a kind smile, she asked, "How long have you been in love with the young man?"
"Only most of my life," she responded, a watery smile hinting at the emotion she had left out of her flippant reply. When it looked like Melody might say something, she held up her hand to stop her. "I don't deserve your sympathy and I probably won't take your advice but I would greatly appreciate you making me look fabulous if for no other reason than to piss her off."
Eyes sparkling, Melody nodded and said, "I know just the dress."