The Marshland(5)
Hermione did feel a bit guilty about the way she had treated Ron, but honestly, he thought she was a stupid "damsel in distress". He should never think that. And the way he had talked about Ginny...No, the way you talked about Ginny, she told herself. You, Hermione Granger, hardly gave him a chance to speak on the matter. Shame made her face flush, and she plunged it into the pillow, the cotton of its case warming with the heat. Don't think about that, she chided herself. Ron just doesn't know what's good for him. There are more important things than worrying about Ronald Weasley, and you'd better realise that soon. Still, her face refused to lose its pink colour, and she gave up on it, rolling herself back, closing her eyes, and falling into a vivid dream.
She'd been walking for almost an hour now, just trying to get her thoughts straight. She felt crowded at the Weasleys', which she had never felt before, and memories of that fateful night when Harry had discovered the Prophecy kept filling her thoughts. What did it all mean?
The squish of a boot, not her own, made her stop abruptly and spin round. God, Hermione, she thought to herself, you may be at the Weasleys', but the Muggle world still exists. You should know better than to go wandering about in the dark. A man (Muggle, obviously; probably from the neighbouring village) was pointing a pistol straight at the back of her skull. Dammit, she cursed herself, where is a wand when you need it?
"You got anything on you, bitch?" said the man, his face menacing. "Tell me now, or this here bullet goes straight through your brains, and I get it anyway."
Trembling, Hermione took the locket, a gift from Ron and Harry for her birthday, from her neck. It was solid gold, and had a tiny diamond in the centre. It was supposed to remind her of their unwavering loyalty to her; or rather, to her intelligence.
"Well?" The man held out his hand, her own poised to drop it onto his calloused palm, when a sharp cry rent the silence of the night.
"Hermione! What the hell is going on?" It was Ron. Though she would likely never admit it to anyone, the sight of him was the best thing she had seen. The wand he held in his hand was like a saviour to her.
Ron pointed his wand to the man's throat. "Hand over that gun now, you sonofabitch, or I'll blast your head off now."
It was the mugger's turn to tremble now, as he dropped the metal weapon into the green muck and shoved it to the side. Ron picked it up and, without hesitation, shot the man, point-blank, in the head.
"That bloke committed two Muggle murders; he deserved to die anyway," he said as Hermione flinched. "Here, let me help you – "
He never got to finish that sentence. The shot had awoken a greenish giant he didn't recognise, and the creature splashed through the swamps, advancing toward them with every second.
"Shit!" Ron swore, as he found the chamber to be empty when he tried to fire the pistol again. Pulling a switchblade from his boot, he lunged at the thing just as it went for Hermione. She screamed and clutched the locket tightly in her palm. Its blackish-blue claws scraped against her knee, and she cried out in pain. Ron then performed a manoeuvre quite like the one in the girls' lavatory in their first year – without the hovering charm. Jumping on its shoulders, wand thrown aside and forgotten (besides, even in this sort of situation, he didn't want to be a carbon-copy of Harry in his fifth-year summer, with the Ministry taking him to court and all) he held his dagger in his fist, and leapt onto the back of the monster, plunging it deep into what he knew was a lung. The creature would die a slow and painful death, but for now, he would be able to watch the blood flow from its mouth, and feel the adrenaline pumping through his own veins.
"It's okay, Hermione," Ron said. She replied vaguely, and everything went black, the golden locket still clutched tightly in her palm.
Hermione sat up in bed, gasping. Sweat was soaking her brow, and the bright yellow sunlight of high noon in summer was pouring through the window. Lying slowly back down, she clutched at the locket, which now hung safely around her own neck again. She had lied to Ron when she had acted as though the incident was not a worthwhile incident to remember. She would remember it, always.
Ron walked in then, obviously alerted by her cries in her sleep.
"Everything all right, Hermione?" he asked, a look of concern lining his countenance. "I thought I heard something."
"I'm fine, Ron, perfectly fine," she replied, a bit more scathingly than she had intended.
"All right, Hermione, keep your hair on," said Ron, looking like he dreaded another verbal attack like the one she had delivered him five hours earlier. And, quite frankly, she didn't blame him.
"Look, Ron – "
"No, Hermione," he said, his voice detached. "It's okay. I understand that you don't want my help."
"Ron – "
"Lunch is ready, Mum said to tell you. She still's angrier than ever at me. I wouldn't cross her if I were you."
"Ron, I'm sorry about earlier..."
"Yeah, I know," he said, looking quite unemotional and at the same time, begrudged. "Look, we'll talk about it later, okay? I'm not really in the mood to be flown at for helping you right now." He turned his back, clearly ending the conversation there, and closed the door after him.
He didn't forgive her. That was it.
Ron stormed out the door, still moody. Why did girls always have to be so off-the-handle at simple things?
He bumped into Harry on the way down the stairs.
"Hey, what were you and my sister up to at the enclosure today?" he tried to keep his voice neutral.
"Playing Quidditch, Ron, why? Did you want to join us? We're going back out after lunch – "
"Listen," Ron said. "I don't mean to sound accusing or anything, but if you lay a hand on my sister...well, I'd hate to kill you, but I want you to leave her alone."
"Ron, nothing's happening. How's Hermione?"
"Fine," Ron said guardedly. "Why do you ask?"
"Look, she's my friend, too. It's not illegal to worry about her, especially if something's happened back in the marsh."
"Well, she's fine, she says, and she wants us to leave her alone."
"Hello, Ron," said a cool voice from behind them. "Harry," Hermione said, slightly warmer. "You lot going to lunch?"
"Hermione, we're sixteen-year-old boys. Where else would we be going at noon?" Harry joked, trying to lighten the mood slightly.
"Well, let's go, then," she said. "It smells great."
Even after lunch was over, the kitchen was cleaned, her leg re- bandaged, and her spirits brighter, Hermione hardly spoke to Ron at all.
Hermione did feel a bit guilty about the way she had treated Ron, but honestly, he thought she was a stupid "damsel in distress". He should never think that. And the way he had talked about Ginny...No, the way you talked about Ginny, she told herself. You, Hermione Granger, hardly gave him a chance to speak on the matter. Shame made her face flush, and she plunged it into the pillow, the cotton of its case warming with the heat. Don't think about that, she chided herself. Ron just doesn't know what's good for him. There are more important things than worrying about Ronald Weasley, and you'd better realise that soon. Still, her face refused to lose its pink colour, and she gave up on it, rolling herself back, closing her eyes, and falling into a vivid dream.
She'd been walking for almost an hour now, just trying to get her thoughts straight. She felt crowded at the Weasleys', which she had never felt before, and memories of that fateful night when Harry had discovered the Prophecy kept filling her thoughts. What did it all mean?
The squish of a boot, not her own, made her stop abruptly and spin round. God, Hermione, she thought to herself, you may be at the Weasleys', but the Muggle world still exists. You should know better than to go wandering about in the dark. A man (Muggle, obviously; probably from the neighbouring village) was pointing a pistol straight at the back of her skull. Dammit, she cursed herself, where is a wand when you need it?
"You got anything on you, bitch?" said the man, his face menacing. "Tell me now, or this here bullet goes straight through your brains, and I get it anyway."
Trembling, Hermione took the locket, a gift from Ron and Harry for her birthday, from her neck. It was solid gold, and had a tiny diamond in the centre. It was supposed to remind her of their unwavering loyalty to her; or rather, to her intelligence.
"Well?" The man held out his hand, her own poised to drop it onto his calloused palm, when a sharp cry rent the silence of the night.
"Hermione! What the hell is going on?" It was Ron. Though she would likely never admit it to anyone, the sight of him was the best thing she had seen. The wand he held in his hand was like a saviour to her.
Ron pointed his wand to the man's throat. "Hand over that gun now, you sonofabitch, or I'll blast your head off now."
It was the mugger's turn to tremble now, as he dropped the metal weapon into the green muck and shoved it to the side. Ron picked it up and, without hesitation, shot the man, point-blank, in the head.
"That bloke committed two Muggle murders; he deserved to die anyway," he said as Hermione flinched. "Here, let me help you – "
He never got to finish that sentence. The shot had awoken a greenish giant he didn't recognise, and the creature splashed through the swamps, advancing toward them with every second.
"Shit!" Ron swore, as he found the chamber to be empty when he tried to fire the pistol again. Pulling a switchblade from his boot, he lunged at the thing just as it went for Hermione. She screamed and clutched the locket tightly in her palm. Its blackish-blue claws scraped against her knee, and she cried out in pain. Ron then performed a manoeuvre quite like the one in the girls' lavatory in their first year – without the hovering charm. Jumping on its shoulders, wand thrown aside and forgotten (besides, even in this sort of situation, he didn't want to be a carbon-copy of Harry in his fifth-year summer, with the Ministry taking him to court and all) he held his dagger in his fist, and leapt onto the back of the monster, plunging it deep into what he knew was a lung. The creature would die a slow and painful death, but for now, he would be able to watch the blood flow from its mouth, and feel the adrenaline pumping through his own veins.
"It's okay, Hermione," Ron said. She replied vaguely, and everything went black, the golden locket still clutched tightly in her palm.
Hermione sat up in bed, gasping. Sweat was soaking her brow, and the bright yellow sunlight of high noon in summer was pouring through the window. Lying slowly back down, she clutched at the locket, which now hung safely around her own neck again. She had lied to Ron when she had acted as though the incident was not a worthwhile incident to remember. She would remember it, always.
Ron walked in then, obviously alerted by her cries in her sleep.
"Everything all right, Hermione?" he asked, a look of concern lining his countenance. "I thought I heard something."
"I'm fine, Ron, perfectly fine," she replied, a bit more scathingly than she had intended.
"All right, Hermione, keep your hair on," said Ron, looking like he dreaded another verbal attack like the one she had delivered him five hours earlier. And, quite frankly, she didn't blame him.
"Look, Ron – "
"No, Hermione," he said, his voice detached. "It's okay. I understand that you don't want my help."
"Ron – "
"Lunch is ready, Mum said to tell you. She still's angrier than ever at me. I wouldn't cross her if I were you."
"Ron, I'm sorry about earlier..."
"Yeah, I know," he said, looking quite unemotional and at the same time, begrudged. "Look, we'll talk about it later, okay? I'm not really in the mood to be flown at for helping you right now." He turned his back, clearly ending the conversation there, and closed the door after him.
He didn't forgive her. That was it.
Ron stormed out the door, still moody. Why did girls always have to be so off-the-handle at simple things?
He bumped into Harry on the way down the stairs.
"Hey, what were you and my sister up to at the enclosure today?" he tried to keep his voice neutral.
"Playing Quidditch, Ron, why? Did you want to join us? We're going back out after lunch – "
"Listen," Ron said. "I don't mean to sound accusing or anything, but if you lay a hand on my sister...well, I'd hate to kill you, but I want you to leave her alone."
"Ron, nothing's happening. How's Hermione?"
"Fine," Ron said guardedly. "Why do you ask?"
"Look, she's my friend, too. It's not illegal to worry about her, especially if something's happened back in the marsh."
"Well, she's fine, she says, and she wants us to leave her alone."
"Hello, Ron," said a cool voice from behind them. "Harry," Hermione said, slightly warmer. "You lot going to lunch?"
"Hermione, we're sixteen-year-old boys. Where else would we be going at noon?" Harry joked, trying to lighten the mood slightly.
"Well, let's go, then," she said. "It smells great."
Even after lunch was over, the kitchen was cleaned, her leg re- bandaged, and her spirits brighter, Hermione hardly spoke to Ron at all.