Author's Note: Written for the "I Can Do Better!" Challenge #1: Voldemort Wins

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns all; I don't.

Unraveled

Hermione opened the door to her flat, returning from her shift bone tired and reeking of grease and customers' cigarette smoke. Hannah was waiting.

"You're so late! What happened?"

Hannah set aside her knitting. A blanket — that was what it had turned into by now. Hermione had introduced her roommate to the hobby, hoping it might calm her nerves. Instead, it seemed to make them worse. Whenever Hannah was at home, she couldn't seem to stop knitting. She was actually much better at it than Hermione had ever been — and all without using magic, of course — but in her worrisome fixation, she had not even bothered to go out and buy more yarn of the same color. She worked her way through the bits and pieces of Hermione's stock, and the result was a strange patchwork of mismatched colors.

Hermione sighed, and decided against questioning Hannah's obsession tonight. She only said, "We had an unexpected rush around eight o'clock, and the manager begged me to stay." As she left for her bedroom to change out of her work clothes, she added, "Don't worry, we'll make it in time."

Hermione had been panicking a little herself, glancing at her watch as time flew by while she rushed from table to kitchen and back again. But she had stayed until the café had cleared of customers enough that she could excuse herself. There was no doubt she could use the extra money, and she did not want to lose this job. Since the Death Eaters had gained control of the British Wizarding world, a Muggle-born like herself was unemployable in the magical professions for which she had been educated. Meanwhile, in the Muggle world, her lack of a traditional education had hampered her, but above all her "tainted" past followed her. The barrier between the Wizarding and Muggle communities had been breached enough to strike fear in the hearts of Muggles. And when word reached an employer that Hermione had once actively fought against Voldemort — or, most damning of all, she had been friends with Harry Potter — she would then find herself out of a job.

At the downscale café where she now worked, they were either unaware of her past associations, or were careless about such matters. Nevertheless, Hermione worked to ensure that she was indispensable, by being simply competent and willing to acquiesce to unreasonably long hours when her fellow waiters made a fuss.

It was tricky, balancing this with her work for the Order, and tonight, if the manager had not let her leave, she may have had to walk out. If she was forced to make a choice, the resistance had to come first.

After changing into discrete, dark, comfortably warm clothes, she retrieved her wand from a hidden compartment in her wardrobe. It was a second-hand replacement provided by the Order, not the wand that she had taken to Hogwarts so long ago — that had been confiscated under the new regime — but it would do. She rejoined Hannah, who stood prepared, her hands clutched at the lapels of her winter jacket. Hermione knew Hannah's own wand was within, slipped into the inner pocket. This was not their first mission together.

"Let's go," Hermione said. Two friends going out for a night on the town. What could be more normal?

They had received their instructions earlier in the week, beginning, as usual, with the phone call from their good friend "Paul," who about once a month invited the young women to some entertaining Muggle activity — this time, to the cinema. They always cheerfully accepted. They never actually went. That unreliable Paul, Hannah would laugh, had the habit of canceling on them.

In reality, it was a signal for one of them to meet him at a noisy, dank pub run by a Muggle by the name of Roger who had joined the resistance. Roger had looked the other way when, after having one drink to keep up appearances, Hermione had slipped into the proprietor's back office, where she was greeted by "Paul" — otherwise known as Bill Weasley.

He gave her a wan smile before launching into the business at hand, talking in a low voice, though anyone not in the small room would have been unable to hear him over the din of the drinkers beyond the door.

"The Longbottoms have been captured," he told her. "Exposed as 'blood traitors.' As far as we know, they're in Azkaban. That's bad enough, but it's presented us with a pressing problem. Lavender" — the Order's mole at the Ministry of Magic, Hermione knew — "has told us that all magical items in their household were taken to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at the Ministry. There was one object among them that belongs to the Order and we need it back. They can't know what they have; if they did, it would be closely guarded, but Lavender says it's simply among a large collection of confiscated objects in storage."

"And you need Hannah and me to go get it."

"That's right. With Lavender's help, we've set up a Portkey that is enchanted to get you past the magical barriers preventing entry into the Ministry after hours. It will take you to her office; the storage room will be two doors down to your right."

"And the object?"

Bill held out a drawing. "Take a good look. I have to destroy this before I leave here."

She studied it for a minute, then handed it back to Bill, who set the paper alight in an ashtray on Roger's desk as he told Hermione the location of the Portkey in the northwest corner of a city park.

It was time to leave; she knew all she needed, but she paused at the door. "Bill ..."

"I'll tell him you're okay."

Tell him I want to see him again. Tell him I miss him ...

But she merely nodded, and left the office.

It was forbidden for Muggle-borns to have any kind of association with purebloods, and the only time Hermione spoke with anyone who was still part of the Wizarding world was when she received a mission from the Order. Bill always telephoned — maintaining ties with banished Muggle-borns and half-bloods had forced members of the Order to learn to use some Muggle technology — and mostly it was Bill who met them at the pub.

It was never the one person she longed to see. It couldn't be. Her cover was that of the cowed Muggle-born who had learned her place. For the sake of that cover, and for their safety, she had not seen Ron for well on a year now. Until the yoke of the Death Eaters was lifted, it was the way things had to be.

The Portkey — which was a guidebook to London hidden in some shrubbery — successfully got them through the ministry's security charms. Hermione and Hannah found themselves in Lavender's dark office. They left the guidebook on her desk, and tentatively stepped into the hallway. It appeared to be empty.

Hannah stayed at the door as a look out, while Hermione entered the storage room and began scanning the tables for the object. She spotted something else first, and it led her to a table that was indeed labeled, "Longbottom," where she picked up Neville's Remembrall. No scarlet swirled in its depths; it was dead, silent.

She replaced it on the table carefully and a couple of feet away located what she was seeking — a delicate silver instrument, as still and silent as the Remembrall, though it seemed to have parts meant to be moving. It seemed impossibly fragile as she carefully placed it in the bag slung over her shoulder. Supporting the bag with her hands, she crossed back to Hannah, who was watching and listening intently, wand at the ready. With a nod, they exited, noiselessly closing the door behind them and returning to Lavender's office.

Even as they did so, Hermione marveled, not for the first time, at her companion's equanimity on a mission. Maybe the knitting was what really did it, it occurred to her. All Hannah's fears and nervousness were poured into the endless handiwork at home — leaving nothing for her to carry along when they were in real danger.

So far, so good. They touched the guidebook simultaneously, and in a moment were back in the park.

And that was where it all came apart.

Hermione never saw them; Hannah did. "Hermione, the Underground station — run!" she hissed.

Hermione did not think, did not question. She held the bag close to her chest and bolted for the street that was just over a hedge. She could hear Hannah running behind her and throwing back curses at their pursuers, giving Hermione the chance to escape with the object. Then, in her peripheral vision, Hermione saw the terrible green flash, and she could hear Hannah no more. She had no choice; she kept running, dodging into traffic, ducking as she made her way across, until she reached the entrance to the Underground.

She plunged headlong down the stairs. She considering hurtling the gate, but determined that she'd draw less attention to herself if she paid the fare. Ducking into a clump of people, she filed in with the rest, digging into her pocket for her passcard. Once inside, she did not resume running but walked at a clip, randomly turning this way and that until she heard a train arriving and dashed for that platform and boarded.

When she sat down in the car, she gasped for air, feeling as though she had been holding her breath for the past ten minutes.

She rode that train for a while, before getting off at a stop that seemed vaguely familiar. From there she worked out a circuitous route that took her to the pub, where, as she had been instructed, she left the bag with Roger. He frowned at her with concern, but she only shook her head and weaved her way out through the raucous crowd.

After another trip on the Underground — this route a little more direct, as she didn't see whom she'd be throwing off now — she came above ground near her building, and attempted to walk with an unconcerned attitude through the cold, menacing streets until she reached her empty flat.

There, she sat in Hannah's chair, picked up the blanket and stared at it in her lap. After a while she realized what she was doing: waiting for them to come for her. But no one had come — yet. Better to make a decision, she told herself, than let others seal her fate.

And so, first, she began to inexpertly finish knitting the blanket. It didn't take long; Hermione made no attempt to make the edge even or attractive — just completed. She then folded it neatly and took it with her, along with all the cash she had in the flat, and headed out the door.

She used her last token as she got on the Underground one more time. It was okay; she knew where he was, and it was all she needed to get there.

Dawn was just beginning to break when she arrived outside his building. Checking first for any observers, she Apparated into Ron's bedroom.

He was sprawled out, apparently deep in sleep. But when she sat as softly as she could on the edge of the bed, he immediately jerked awake — he had learned to sleep lightly. He peered at her in the gloom.

"Hermione?" Ron tried to disentangle himself from blankets and get up. He only succeeded in sitting up, enough to grab her and pull her into a hug. "What ... what are you doing here?" he asked. "Are you all right?"

She was suddenly conscious of her bedraggled state. Her clothes were dirty and sweaty from her flight through the Underground. Her unruly hair, still smelling of cigarettes and grease, was escaping from the bun she had put it in when she had left for work the previous morning. All that, and she incongruously clutched a knitted blanket of clashing colors.

"I wanted to see you." She gently pushed herself out of his embrace and met his eyes. "I was on a mission tonight, and ... Hannah was killed."

Ron's mouth moved helplessly, but no sound came out. She understood. It was news they had both faced far too often. But it seemed that for Ron, since Harry was killed, there were no words left to say.

She continued, "I may have been recognized. I'm not sure. But if I was, my days living an innocent Muggle life are over."

"It's that's true, maybe it's time for you to leave the country, Hermione. There are safer places for you to be."

"No, I have to stay and fight this. We can't let them win. I'm tired of letting them win, of living by their rules. I won't do it anymore."

"Living like a Muggle?"

"Living without you."

He began to protest, "I want you to be safe —" but she interrupted him by wrapping Hannah's blanket around him. He frowned down at it, perplexed, and she allowed herself a smile, knowing he was remembering shapeless hats hidden throughout the Gryffindor common room.

"I want you to be safe, too. But it's not possible. If we're going to stay, we stay and fight together."

"... together," he echoed, and the Weasley spirit, Gryffindor courage, call it what you will, stirred in the undertone of that one word. "We can't let them win," he murmured, as she grasped the knitted blanket around his shoulders and pulled him toward her to meet his lips with a kiss.

The End