A/N: Ronlings unite! Writing his POV was so much fun, even if it was on the shorter side. Definitely an avenue to explore in the future if I can think of something for him to do.
Chapter Fifteen: Safety in Numbers
Wednesday, May 13, 1998, Mid-Morning:
Ron hadn't appreciated being woken up at such an early hour, especially as there was no longer a war to heighten the urgency of all action. He had rather been enjoying the restful days proceeding You-Know-Who's death, even if he was required to look busy every once in a while. He was the Chosen One's best mate after all, and it would be more than a little humiliating to be found lounging about when the castle needed fixing. But that was more or less finished now. Everyone's hard work had seen Hogwarts fully functioning in only a few sleepless days.
He missed Fred. His older brother could enter his mind at any given moment, blasting away whatever trivial musings happened to be hogging the spotlight. He hated it, in a way, but there was no getting around the truth. His thoughts had been tangled ever since the battle. A bundle of snakes slithering over and around each other, never still or separated. It was hard keeping himself from falling down the dark holes that tried swallowing him up.
Mum was doing the worst for sure. He couldn't look at her most days. It hurt too much. Distractions helped, but a scrap of red cloth or a child's distant laughter always brought him back. He would be lying if he said that Fred hadn't gotten on his nerves sometimes, more than sometimes if he was being totally honest. But he had always been there, whether it was a piece of good advice, or a Puking Pastille in his pumpkin juice. That was over. So much was over now. The world was utterly different, uncompromisingly changed from how things used to be. He couldn't think like that though, not all the time at least.
It didn't take long for him to figure out why his slumber had been so rudely disturbed. Detective Weasley always cracked the case in record time, and this was no exception. The bushy-haired beauty in front of him conjured butterflies in his stomach, something she had done for longer than he could recall. The crease in his brow softened as he met her shining eyes, her face-splitting smile filling the dormitory with pale yellow light.
"What are you so happy about? Good to see you too I suppose," he mumbled, sitting up with a small grunt.
Something big and spongy whacked him in the face, and he flinched back without thinking. His assailant continued to barrage him with a beating that was more surprising than painful. Eventually, he managed to grab hold of it and toss it across the large room. Only then did he realise that his adversary had been a fluffy feather pillow, and that he had cleanly come out the loser in their heated exchange. The girl, for he was sure women were above such petty uses of magic, smirked down at him, her wand conspicuously absent from her hands.
"Awake yet?" she asked sweetly, resting a hand on his chest. "I have news."
"What was that for?" Ron asked, attempting to rub the sleep from his bleary eyes.
"Think of it as your personal wake-up call," she replied, grinning wickedly down at him. "Also for assuming that you could possibly put me in such a good mood. Harry said yes!"
"Hey! At least I don't—" The rest of his retort crumbled away as her final statement penetrated his foggy head. "What? That's great!" he exclaimed, squeezing Hermione to him in a tight embrace. She squeaked in delight, and Ron grinned into her hair. They stayed like that for a while, appreciating each other's company in a time that was otherwise pitch-dark and empty.
They were all alive, but what else was there to look forward to? All they could do was keep going. Bill would tell him to hold his head high and get on with it, though not without a warm smile and a pat on the back. Charlie would let him cry on his shoulder, but only if no one was looking. There had been times, like at the end of his third year, after Scabbers had transformed into the traitor Pettigrew, when the brawny dragon tamer had been all Ron had in the world. That Summer had been especially tough. Harry was being tortured at the Dursleys, Hermione was off galavanting somewhere with her parents, and he was facing his entire family as the failure who had harboured a Death Eater. No one could have known, but that didn't make endangering Harry for years any less stupid. Fred would have made a joke, he eventually decided. A bloody good one too.
"So, when are we going to start looking?" he asked, finally pulling away from his favourite person in the world. Well, maybe after Harry, though he would never say it out loud.
"We're finishing the wards today," replied Hermione, her expression dulling slightly. "Just a couple more to connect all the anchor points. Then I have to go— do something. Tomorrow maybe?"
"What are you gonna do?" Ron asked, not expecting to find out but trying his luck anyway.
"Nothing," she said too quickly. "It's silly, not important. I just… need to."
"Alright then," he said, knowing that pressing her would not end well for either of them. He simply nodded, finally rising from the soft mattress. "You go off and be the best witch in the world. I'll speak to Minerva about interviewing the house elves."
"Good boy," she said, patting his cheek with a soft hand. She watched him exit the dormitory, trying not to enjoy the view too much.
._.
Don't think about it, she told herself. You have to do it, whether you want to or not. But you'll have to get through this first. The mantra played itself over and over in her head, its steady rhythm beginning to slow her breathing and still her heart. Hermione sat crossed-legged on the bed for several minutes, absent-mindedly trailing her fingers across Ron's pillow. It was still warm, and she allowed his lingering presence to feed her with his resolve, though it often manifested as an infuriating stubbornness she had not yet managed to beat out of him.
Why did everything have to be so hard? Succeeding at school, stopping Voldemort, even empowering the wards required so much constant effort. She hadn't gotten a break in seven years. And this wasn't the end of it. The pain would never diminish, let alone leave her. It was her fault, and this was her reality. She clutched Ron's pillow to her face, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. She couldn't do this. It leered at her out of the darkest corner of her mind, all pointed teeth and red-rimmed eyes.
Get it together, they're all waiting for you. Don't let this be your fault as well. The voice in her head was ruthless and cruel, but it gave her the strength, or fear, to stand up and shuffle toward the open dormitory door. Her feet carried her down the familiar passageways and shortcuts to the Entrance Hall. She was grateful for her intimate knowledge of the castle. Hanging around with Harry had its advantages, she supposed.
"Ah, there she is. I was beginning to think Ron had convinced you to ditch us for something more—"
"Quiet, you," growled Bill, slapping the back of his younger brother's head. "It's great to see you, Hermione," he went on, offering her a warm smile. She gave him one of her own, the pink in her cheeks already beginning to fade.
George had joined them in the latter half of the exhausting process. He likely needed a distraction. She could understand that. They all did. And he was good at magic, even if he wasted his talents on Skiving Snackboxes and practical jokes. An extra source of magic was always welcome when it came to empowering the castle's petulant anchor points. Each required a great deal of magical energy to fuel the various enchantments, and one tiny lapse in concentration meant they would need to start the ritual all over again. They had learned that the hard way. Several times.
"So," said Hermione, facing the three Weasleys. "Shall we do the primary or secondary anchor point first?"
Molly was no longer part of their squad. She had been struggling to concentrate due to stress and grief. None of them held it against her. It made their duties even more draining, but the woman deserved a break from hard work for a while. Ginny, Neville, and Luna had all come to help out on different days, but the magical strain eventually exhausted each of them. Their aid had been instrumental in getting the wards running once more, as Arthur had been forced to abandon their task at some point almost every day. The Ministry was in shambles, and his presence was usually required in some department or another to smooth over a difficult decision, or give his two cents on a future plan of action when Kingsley was too busy.
"Secondary I think," said Arthur, offering Hermione a grim smile. "It'll be a nice warm-up for the last one, and I fancy a look at Harry's handiwork."
The others nodded, and the four of them set off toward the Quidditch pitch. There had been a number of anchor points that needed to be taken care of. Most of them were inside or near the castle; the top of the Astronomy Tower, the Entrance Hall courtyard, the Clock Tower, and several others made up the secondary anchor points. Oddly, there had been one on the seventh floor near the blank stretch of wall that concealed the Room of Requirement. Now there was only one left to recharge, and it was hidden somewhere Hermione had not expected. Headmistress McGonagall had briefed their little group with all of the locations the previous Monday, and they had been chipping away at the task gradually so as not to enervate themselves.
The group never empowered more than two or three anchor points each day. They had taken Saturday off due to a collective feeling of overwhelming fatigue. George had pushed for Sunday as well, but Hermione didn't want them getting too far behind schedule. The sooner they finished their task, the sooner she could finally relax. Thankfully, there was no specific order or time frame they had to abide by, and even Hermione knew better than to rush such a strenuous and trying process.
But the end was in sight, a fact almost personally responsible for Hermione getting out of bed that morning. Harry agreeing to her idea had definitely put a bounce in her step though, and she greatly appreciated the emotional pick-me-up. There was only one primary and one secondary anchor point left to reconnect to the network. Then the castle's protections would finally return to full strength. Everyone had been more than a little on-edge without the wards in place, and Aed's Muggle friend showing up out of the blue last week only added to the survivors' distress. Hermione couldn't wait to sit down with a good book and a mug of strong tea once their work was done. Perhaps a flask of Firewhiskey as well. Merlin knew she was long overdue.
Hermione reached the freshly laid grass a few steps behind the Weasleys. They were waiting for her by the closer set of goalposts with grim, determined expressions. She took out a long roll of parchment from a pocket of her robes and scanned the list of anchor point locations. The Headmistress had given it to her that first day, and she had memorised it in minutes. She still carried it around though, just in case she forgot an important detail. Two years ago, she wouldn't have bothered keeping the information on her person. But now she didn't trust herself to recall it, was all too aware that true perfection was unattainable, far beyond her reach.
"It says the anchor point is below the announcer's box," she said, staring down at the parchment for a few seconds before looking up.
Wordlessly, George turned and led the way to where Lee had sat for almost all of Harry's games. The rest followed, their footsteps near silent atop the dazzlingly green field. The sun was approaching its zenith, washing the grounds in sheets of purest gold. Tiny white flecks of light reflected off the shiny new goalposts, giving the pitch an unearthly air that made Hermione shiver.
They stood in a line facing the wooden structure, their wands directed at a point just below the box. There was no obvious difference between this stretch of wood and any other, but days of reactivating anchor points had allowed them to feel out the weakest magical residue. It pulsed with a dull grey light, bereft of whatever it needed to function properly. But there was still a spark of power that clung on, if barely. Voldemort had not been able to completely destroy the charms and enchantments that comprised the magical protection, and soon his efforts will have been for naught.
"Everyone ready?" asked Arthur, glancing down the line. They nodded, unsmiling and focused.
Arthur gave an experimental push with his magic toward the anchor point, unable to hold back a soft grunt of effort. His brow creased, sweat already beginning to bead from beneath his thinning hair. A warm white glow spread from where the grey light had been, brighter than the sun above their heads. Hermione attempted to feel out the anchor point's particular magical alignment, how exactly the various spells had been placed all those years ago. Each ward was slightly different, likely to make a would-be intruder's task more difficult by requiring them to figure out each unique setup. But Voldemort had simply brute-forced his way through, destroying the intricate patterns with his dark, destructive magic.
She pushed and prodded, poked and pawed at the unyielding ward. Her will had to be channelled at just the right spot. She thought of it like a pressure point in the body. Distributing her power around it would accomplish only exhaustion and a waste of their time. It was a slow, fastidious process, adjusting the trajectory of her magic in increasingly smaller increments. She was getting close, so close, to finding what she was looking for. There was a growing tug inside her chest, as if a living entity was trying to absorb every last drop of her power.
There! With one final shift, she struck the point's centre. She screamed inside her head, forcing her magic to flow without restraint. There was some resistance, but far less than she had become accustomed to when dealing with the other wards. This location must have been relatively undamaged compared to the rest of them, magically speaking anyway. The anchor points were usually rather stubborn, perhaps enjoying a rest after so many years of constant magical output. But this one seemed almost eager to turn back on.
After several minutes of channelling, and muttered swearing on George's part, the dazzling white globe of light adopted a pale blue tint around its edges. It grew to encompass the announcer's box and stretched far beneath the ground as the anchor point rooted itself in place. With a small mental click, Hermione felt the magic settle and solidify, their combined will finally forcing the raw power into the correct configuration. The blinding blue-white light faded quickly, receding back into the ancient wood with a soft, contented hum.
"Thank God," breathed George, wiping his damp face with the back of his sleeve. "I'm so sick of pouring myself into these magic-guzzling gits. They're like one of your batteries, Dad. Except these ones actually work." He winked over at the older Weasley, a ghost of the familiar mischievous grin appearing for a brief moment on his lined face.
"I'll get them working just as soon as I figure out how to charge them up," said Arthur, eyes twinkling. "I think it's got something to do with elephant city or whatever the blasted thing's called."
"You've been saying that for years," retorted George, his grin growing bigger. And I'm pretty sure you mean El Trice tea. It's foreign."
"Details," drawled Arthur, waving a careless hand. Unfortunately, it was his wand hand, and a number of multicoloured washers and spark plugs burst from its tip and spilled over the ground. "Ah! That's where I put them. Now, don't tell your mother, boys."
"We won't," chorused Bill and George.
"How many anchor points left, Hermione?" asked the younger Weasley. "I'm spent. Think we should stop past the kitchens to refuel our magical reserves?"
"You just want Kreacher to make you something nice," said Hermione sternly, but couldn't keep the smile off her face. She missed her friends' antics. Laughter had been noticeably absent for what felt like a long time now. "Perhaps a quick visit," she allowed. "And just one anchor point to go. A primary. It's—" George's whoop interrupted what she had been about to say. After brief consideration, she decided to keep the anchor point's location to herself.
The four of them turned away from the fading light emitting from the announcer's box but stopped partway through the motion. "Is that normal?" George asked in a shaky voice.
"No," said Bill, taking a step back. "Duck!"
The announcer's box was obscured from view as light from the reactivated anchor point flowered outwards. The entire Quidditch pitch exploded into flaming motes of energy, streaking toward the castle and around the grounds. The group looked on in terror as they danced and flickered in several directions, thick beams of blue-tinted white light rocketing along their trajectories faster than Hermione's eyes could track.
"They're heading towards the other secondary anchor points," she exclaimed, relieved to finally understand what was going on. "This must be how the ward network links together!"
She had learned a bit about wards in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, but nothing practical. Over the course of her schooling, Hermione had discovered that a more hands-on approached taught one far more than simply reading a textbook. The beams of magical energy gradually dimmed as the anchor points connected to each other, a loud, reverberant thud punctuating the heavy silence.
"What was that?" asked George, looking around nervously. "Did the Ford Anglia just land or something?"
"I think," replied Hermione, rolling her eyes at his lame attempt at humour, "the sound means that all the different secondary anchor points have settled into the castle's innate magic. What I mean is, they're now using Hogwarts as a sort of battery rather than relying on people like us to keep them charged. That's probably how they ran for so long before Voldemort severed the connection between them and their power source. I suspect the primary anchor points will do something similar. I did some personal research back in sixth year while we were learning about wards in Arithmancy." She shrugged, and the others gaped at her with varying degrees of slack-jawed shock. "Come on," she went on, rising to her feet and dusting herself off. "Let's grab a snack before finishing this. I can already hear my bed calling."
"Are you real, Hermione?" George asked. "Ron talks about you going on like you've swallowed a textbook, but it's something else seeing it in action."
Hermione blushed but kept walking. "Well, it's good to know he thinks of me when I'm not around."
"I'm sure he does," replied George. "But what do I know? I haven't slept in the same room as him for years."
A/N: Can you tell I'm making up the ward stuff as I go? Well, how dare you, because I'm not. I wrote notes! Okay I made like three dot points. But I totally know how it all works in my head. I think. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and see you next time!