Title: The Longest Night (17/?)
Author: Sonya
Rating: R - there will be more character death in this chapter - well, technically it happened during the events of the last chapter, but you find out about it here. This chapter ain't about hugs and puppies, either.
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.
Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.
Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.
Summary: The dust settles from the events of last chapter.
Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgment. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?
Thanks to Calendar and Dawn Wood for the info re: UK train stations - hopefully I've gotten this right. If it's all wrong, that's my fault, not theirs.
And thanks as always to Erin for catching my many and varied typos, misspellings, and other assorted abuses of the language, and also for helping me work though the timeline for these last few chapters.
***
"I hope we'll still be able to get a train tonight," Hermione fussed, standing just inside the door of the Burrow and pulling off her gloves, twisting them anxiously. "I was supposed to meet my parents at King's Cross and we were talking the train right on from St. Pancras to Manchester Piccadilly in Wales to meet my aunt - we were going to spend the day with my cousins tomorrow - but we've missed the train we were meaning to take and now I don't know if there'll be another tonight -"
"You can sort that all out when they get here, dear," Mrs. Weasley said firmly, prying Hermione's gloves out of her tense fingers and stowing them away in the hall closet with her own children's various outer garments. "I'm sure they'll be here as soon as they get the message you left on that answer-er whats-it."
"Answering machine," Hermione supplied distractedly. "I hope Dad thinks to call home and check the messages. Do you think I should let Crookshanks out? I don't want to be a bother, I shouldn't be here long at all, but he's been cooped up all day on the train -"
"He'll eat Errol," Ron interrupted indignantly. "You can't let that -"
"Of course you can let your cat out, dear," Mrs. Weasley said with a stern glance at Ron. "We'll have to find him some scraps to eat, too. Poor thing, having to stay in a box all day."
"Mum -" Ron protested.
"Why don't you help Harry get his things upstairs?" Mrs. Weasley suggested, in a tone that made it an order. Ron stomped off sulkily, grabbing one end of Harry's trunk and pulling it up the stairs so that it clunked on every step. Harry followed after carrying Hedwig's cage and looking vaguely embarrassed.
"Can I borrow Pig?" Fred called up the stairs after his brother.
"What for?" Ron demanded sullenly from the top of the staircase.
"To knit me a pair of mittens, why?" Fred shot back. "To send a letter, you nit!"
"Use Erol!" Ron grumbled, and started off down the hall with Harry's trunk. "Maybe then the cat won't eat him!"
"Ickle Ronnie-kins needs his owl so he can write his Slytherin girl," George piped in.
"Slytherin?" Mrs. Weasley repeated with interest.
"I'm going to go find some scraps for Crookshanks," Ginny announced, darting out of the room towards the kitchen. Hermione had taken the cat out of his carrier and was holding him, petting his ears fretfully as he wriggled and struggled to get down.
"Oh, what if I was supposed to just get on the train?" Hermione exclaimed, the idea just crossing her mind. "Maybe I was supposed to meet them at the other end - I must have forgotten -"
"Wouldn't they have sent you a ticket?" Fred asked, turning towards her. "And don't you have a hawk or something? I've seen a hawk about your dorm -"
"It's Viktor's," Harry supplied, coming back down the stairs. "You could borrow Hedwig."
"But if I don't remember them writing about it, maybe I didn't get the letter with the ticket in it, it could have gotten lost, or maybe I just forgot to ever read it, I've been so busy with finals, I could have forgotten my ticket -" Hermione looked near to tears; Crookshanks decided he'd had enough of his mistress's high emotion and shoved out of her arms with claws extended, landing on the carpet with a yowl and taking off in the direction of the Weasley's Christmas tree, which was rather lopsided and overburdened with home-made ornaments. Harry handed Hedwig off to Fred, who bounded up the stairs taking two steps at a time.
"You won't see her back until New Year's," George commented to Harry, then stomped off into the kitchen.
"You wouldn't forget your ticket," Harry told Hermione distractedly, while shooting a rather puzzled glance after George.
"But they're never, ever this late," Hermione insisted. "They're very punctual people. They wouldn't just forget -"
"Of course they haven't forgotten you," Mrs. Weasley insisted. "It's just a mistake, I'm sure."
"Maybe their car broke down," Harry suggested with a shrug. "It's not like they could call the school to tell you."
"I found some turkey sandwiches," Ginny announced, coming back out of the kitchen. "Would he like that?"
"I found some fudge!" George said around a mouthful of the sweet, following his sister and holding a baking tray.
"That's for after dinner!" Mrs. Weasley protested, snatching the baking tray out of her son's hands and swatting at him. George nicked another piece off the tray and disappeared back through the kitchen door; Mrs. Weasley turned back to Hermione with the tray. "Here, have some fudge, dear."
"That's not fair!" George called out from the kitchen.
"They're never this late," Hermione insisted, staring blankly at the offered dessert.
***
This is really happening. If I were just dreaming this, I wouldn't be getting a crick in my neck, Willow thought, dazed. His lips were warm, and softer than she would have expected, and somehow she'd gotten her hands tangled up in his hair and that was soft too.
But his chest is hard, all planes and angles and so different from kissing a girl - oh god Tara, what am I doing! She didn't move away, though; she was kissing him back and wasn't quite sure when exactly that had happened.
Tara, I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't mean to, but you're so far away, baby, everyone's so far away and this feels so good and I like his chest being all hard and his hands have calluses on them and I can feel them through the back of my robe and I didn't think I got melty like this for guys anymore and I think maybe I don't have a clue who or what I'm supposed to be on the whole guy/girl issue but this is nice, this is very nice, but I really wish my brain would just shut up sometimes, just let me -
Severus pulled back just a little, letting them both breath, and Willow opened her eyes to meet his. They were deep and dark and watching her so intently she wasn't sure she could breath after all. His body had gone tense, waiting for something - waiting for me to kiss him again? To pull away? To laugh at him, slap him, drag him off to the bedroom and tear off his clothes?
Is "all of the above" one of the options?
"That was nice," she said instead, in a hushed and slightly tremulous voice.
Tara, baby, I'm sorry . . I'm so sorry . .
Something of her regret must have shown in her face, because he stepped away abruptly; her arms dropped from his shoulders and fell to her sides. His face seemed to close off, his eyes becoming just hard black eyes again.
"I apologize," Severus said shortly, tone clipped and formal. "That was - utterly inappropriate. There is no excuse -"
Okay, what the hell? What the bleepin' hell? Why is my life always like this? Why do the smoochies always have to come with the confusion and pain and regrets and -
"Oh will you *please* get over yourself?" Willow blurted out. He snapped his mouth abruptly shut. Okay, didn't really mean to say that. "I mean, okay, yeah, I wasn't expecting that, but it wasn't bad. I mean, well, it sort of was. Oh, but not in the being bad, like, blech icky sort of way!" she rambled on, trying to get her thoughts into some sort of coherent order. "It was nice in that way. I mean - you know what I mean!"
"Rarely, if ever," Severus retorted dryly, crossing his arms over his chest and raising an eyebrow.
"And now you're being all sarcastic guy!" Willow exclaimed in exasperation. "And don't think I don't know what you're doing, because I totally do, you're just trying to act all jerky 'cause then you think I'll get mad and then somebody'll leave - and let me tell you, Mister, that'd be you, 'cause these would be *my* rooms - and then we won't have to have this conversation and, well, that's not going to work, because nobody's leaving and we're so having it." She paused for breath. "This conversation, I mean."
"I see," Severus said tonelessly. "And what conversation would that be?"
"You kissed me," Willow crossed her arms over her own chest, glaring.
"I was trying to apologize for that, when we segued into my social defense mechanisms of choice," Severus answered.
"Well I don't want you to!" Willow exclaimed.
"You don't want me to apologize," he said incredulously.
"Nope," Willow shook her head.
"Did you - " Severus drew in a breath, obviously steeling himself, " - did you want me to kiss you?"
She hesitated, biting her lip. Did I? Well, I didn't want him not to kiss me.
Oh god, Tara . . how the hell did we get here . .
No, not we. Just me. You're back in Sunnydale presumably getting on with your life. It's just me who's here all confused.
"I should go," Severus responded stiffly, misinterpreting her silence. He's so tall, she thought innanely at his proud, retreating back. We'd look absolutely ridiculous dancing. I'd have to stand on his feet.
"Don't go," Willow reached out to catch his arm. He paused, back still to her. The arm under her fingers was thin but wirey, muscles palpably tense beneath layers of robe.
"I don't need your pity or your condescension," he snapped out.
"Well that's good, 'cause you ain't got either," she retorted, letting her hand drop away. He stayed, but still facing the door. "I mean, I know people who've had it *way* worse than you, with the whole tortured soul thing. Ask me about Angel some time."
"Ask you about angels?" he repeated her words doubtfully.
"Angel. Singular. It's a name," she corrected, and resisted the urge to giggle. And somehow all things come back to Buffy and her boyfriends. Figures. "You know, people way dumber than us wouldn't be over-analyzing all this. They'd just be ripping the clothes off and getting to it."
He spun around to face her, clearly shocked; she blushed. "Got your attention," she said with a shrug. "But, I think I did. Want you to kiss me, that is. But it's not that simple."
"Not that simple? How shocking," Severus said dryly, voice fairly dripping sarcasm. "Something in my life lacking simplicity. What a new and thrilling experience." She laughed, and some of the tension broke.
"You're telling me!" she shot back. "At least you're not a werewolf." Both eyebrows rose at this, and he looked faintly offended. "Never mind," she waved it away hastily. "Long story. So, um, there's this food that I cooked over here and it's - well, it's not getting cold 'cause there's a warming charm on it. But we could pretend it's getting cold 'cause that'd give us an excuse to go sit down like normal people and not keep on standing here staring at each other."
"There's also wine," he offered, gesturing to the bottle as he moved to sit at the table.
"Right, wine," Willow agreed with a sigh. And please pass the alcoholic beverages this way. "I still don't have a corkscrew."
***
Draco woke slowly to cold and darkness, and a sharp shooting pain that started at the base of his neck and wrapped itself all the way around his skull to his forehead. He seemed to be slumped against something, wedged into a corner; the surface beneath him was very hard and freezing. He tried to shift, frowning and groaning in reluctant near-consciousness. There wasn't any room to shift, though, and he slipped and started to fall, still only half-awake. He flung out a hand, which hit something else smooth and hard, and landed on his side in a tangle of limbs on cold tile floor.
Quite wide awake now, he blinked in the pitch black. The chill of the tile almost felt good against his throbbing left temple, but the rest of him was shivering.
What in the bleeding hell? Where -
Train. House-elf. Threw some kind of curse or something at me -
Dark. It's dark. It's night time, I should be home by now, I should be home being initiated oh FUCK, oh fucking hell and damn it, oh bloody fucking - he scrambled frantically to his knees, feeling first on his person and then on the ground for his wand. It had rolled just behind the toilet; thankfully it was unbroken.
"Lumos!" he croaked out; a rather feeble light blossomed from the tip of the wand. Yep, same bathroom. I'm still on the train.
Father's going to kill me. He's really, actually going to kill me for this. I'm dead.
On the other hand, I don't currently have a brand shiny new illegal tattoo. Gotta look at the bright side. They can bury me with my arm in its original condition. Assuming there's enough left to bury. Fucking hell, why would a house elf want to knock me unconscious in a bathroom anyway?
He stood, a little shakily, and tried the door. At first it wouldn't budge; he twisted the knob harder, verging on panic, and the door flung itself squeakily open. He stumbled and fell out into the corridor. Just a door that sticks. Not any big deal.
Not like, say, getting accosted by a house elf and left on the train and missing your Death Eater initiation. Not that kind of big deal.
This can't be happening. This just can-fucking-NOT be happening.
"Hello?" he called out; his voice came out thin and wavery and entirely too childish for his liking. "Hello!" he yelled again, trying to put a little more force behind it. The sound echoed back down the corridor and into the darkness; nothing else answered. "Anybody home?"
"Anybody home, home, home . . " shivered back to him. He was wearing only school robes, and the pain in his head was making him nauseous and shaky; the cold seemed to seep right through the clothe as if it didn't exist, clinging to his skin and eating into him all the way down to his bones.
I could go back to the compartment and see if my luggage is still there - get a heavy cloak or something -
He stared into the blackness and didn't want to open any of the dozens of identical closed doors. It was stupid and childish and cowardly, he knew, but it was very dark, very dark and very cold and anything could be lurking in there.
"Hello!" he screamed, voice harsh with fright. "Somebody fucking answer me!" He took a tenative step forward, moving towards the front of the train, and the door at the end of the car. "Shouldn't there be a night watchman or somebody here? A bloody house-elf? HELLO?!"
"HELLO, Hello, hello, hello . . ! "
Has anybody even noticed that I'm missing?
Of course they have. I missed my fucking initiation. They noticed.
But nobody's here looking for me . . Father hasn't got the Ministry combing the streets for his lost boy . .
Father could be dead.
I don't suppose Voldemort would be pleased that he'd misplaced his son. His supposed-to-be-initiated son. His supposed-to-be-offered-up-on-a-silver-platter son.
God, he can't be. Nobody can be dead just because a stupid bloody house elf knocked me out in the train bathroom.
Though there's got to be a reason why the house elf did that. Somebody told it to. House elves just don't get bright ideas like that all on their own.
Weasel-girl? Do the Weasleys have a house-elf? Would she have done that?
The Weasleys don't have a house elf, you git. The Weasleys don't have two knuts to rub together. And why the hell would you think she'd go to the trouble, anyway?
I can't think of anyone who'd go to the trouble.
"Hello!" he called again. "Can *anybody* hear me?" There was still no answer.
Is anybody here? Anybody at all? There must be someone in the station. There must be .
But if there's not . . if no one can hear me, no one at all . .
"Voldemort," Draco whispered.
Nothing happened. The train was still a dark, slightly spooky, very freezing old empty train. The shadows stayed just shadows. There was no feeling of being watched, no hiss of serpentine breath. He was still alone.
"Hey Voldemort, you stupid wanking git!" he yelled into the darkness, voice hoarse with the cold. "Misplaced anything? I'm here! Hello! Come and get me!"
But no one did, and after a few moments he trudged his shivering, aching way to the door at the end of the car, charmed it open, and began the long trek back to Hogwarts.
***
"S-sir?" a tentative voice queried; Arthur Weasley looked up from his twitching, hexed leg to see the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts department's newest intern clutching her clipboard to her chest like a shield, watching him expectantly. The girl's name actually was Weatherby, Anita Weatherby - he'd thought it was hysterical. Percy hadn't eaten dinner downstairs for a week after Arthur had hired her, convinced that his father was somehow poking fun at him. Arthur worried about his middle child sometimes, he really did.
Right at the moment, though, he was more worried about Miss Weatherby. She was looking a little green.
Told them they had no business sending a kid like her out on a raid. Wouldn't want one of mine here. Thank God Percy's department has nothing to do with this.
"H-how's your leg, sir?" Weatherby asked politely.
"I've had worse," Arthur answered in a hearty tone. He hadn't really - it hurt like all hell, and he was pretty damned far down the list of people needing medical attention - but there was no need for her to know that. The Malfoy's kitchen had been converted into an impromptu battlefield hospital; Weatherby's eyes kept darting twitchily towards the walk-in pantry at the other end of the room. That was the impromptu morgue. She's got enough on her mind without worrying about my leg, that's for damned sure.
Though I hope the git who hit me got fried.
"Th-that's good, Sir," she nodded.
"Is she injured?" a brusk voice demanded from behind them.
"I don't think so," Arthur told his Aunt Eliza - they're going to bury me before that woman retires, I swear - then turned and frowned at Weatherby. "You're not, are you?"
"N-no-" she began hesitantly.
"Then she needs to get out," the mediwitch snapped. "We're crowded enough." She didn't wait to see if her orders were followed, hurrying back to her patients.
"I just had a question," Weatherby said, clutching her clipboard tighter.
"Ask it quick, then," Arthur advised her. "Trust me, she's a terror when she doesn't get her way." Weatherby blinked, evidently finding that an odd statement - which I suppose it is if you don't know she's a relation - then collected herself. She glanced at the clipboard.
"Well, Sir, there was this device - down in the dungeon, see? - and Coopersmith told me he thought it was a muggle device. He'd read about it. Said it was called an -" she squinted down at her notes; Arthur thought he remembered her in glasses, which were nowhere to be seen at the moment. "- an 'iron maiden'. I think that's what he said."
Oh Lord . .
"But anyway, Sir, I was just wondering - Coopersmith said it's a t-torture device. Th-that's what the muggles invented it for in the first place, see. But it l-looks like it was used here -" she swallowed visibly "- well it looks like it was used in a ritual blood-letting. To raise power, see? So I was just wondering, if the muggles invented it for torture anyway, and that's sort of - sort of like torture, anyway, is that - does that constitute misuse of a muggle artifact?"
She curled her arms around herself, clutching her clipboard tightly, and waited for his answer.
Aw hell. She shouldn't have had to see - I mean, she's just a kid, she can't be any older than Percy, why in the hell didn't they come get me, my leg's not that bad. Coopersmith, I've heard that somewhere before, have to find out what department, there are going to have to be words -
"Sir?" Weatherby prompted.
"Yes," Arthur answered. "Yes, that does. Anything you're in doubt about? Count it. Hell, if you can somehow find a way to make living in a house misuse of a muggle artifact, you go for it, alright?"
"Y-yes, Sir!" Weatherby nodded quickly, and turned to leave; she nearly ran into an incoming gurney. The gurney's occupant was covered completely by what looked to have been a curtain before tonight. Weatherby gave a petrified little squeak and stumbled backwards.
"I need a confirmation of death on a muggle, here!" the wizard steering the gurney called out.
"Why is she still here?" Eliza Weasley demanded, storming up the length of the room, pointing her wand at Weatherby. The girl squeaked again and ran. Eliza tsked and shook her head, walking briskly up to the gurney and jerking the sheet back from the body. Arthur knew better than to look, he really did, but sometimes it's impossible not to; and besides, if his 92-year-old aunt could take it, he could.
Except when he saw the face, he wasn't so sure he could. His leg suddenly didn't hurt anymore; everything went numb.
Aw, hell. Aw, hell, not three days before Christmas - not ever, preferably, but not three days before Christmas. Aw hell . .
Eliza waved her wand dispassionately the length of the corpse's head and torso, and got no response. "Dead," she snapped out curtly. "By about two hours, I'd guess. Did you find ID?"
"Not a bloody thing," the mediwizard complained, leaning his elbows on the end of the gurney and shaking his head tiredly. "And there's another one, a man - we're hoping it's a couple, it'll make'em easier to sort out. We'll get somebody going through the muggle authority's missing persons' reports, but if nobody's reported 'em missing yet, could be weeks. Hate it when this shit happens at the holidays -"
"There's not -" Arthur began, but the words stuck in his throat. "There's no need for that. I can identify them. Or her, at least." Please let it not be a couple. Not both of them, not right before Christmas. Both sets of eyes swivelled in his direction; his aunt Eliza's face seemed to soften for just a moment.
"You knew her?" the mediwizard who'd brought the gurney asked, sounding a little uncomfortable but curious.
"Yeah," Arthur nodded. "Somebody needs to floo Hogwarts, and I guess call the muggle transportation authorities - there's a girl, would have been getting off at King's Cross about four today -"
"Aw, hell," the mediwizard echoed Arthur's sentiments exactly. "She had a kid? Man, I *hate* it when this shit happens at the holidays."
I just hate it when this shit happens, Arthur thought, suddenly anxious to be home. He wanted to see his wife - just see her, and know she was alive.
***
Hermione was staring at the Weasley's clock, wondering if she ought to point out to someone that it appeared to have been malfunctioning. Mr. Weasley's hand had been shimmying back and forth between 'work' and 'mortal peril' for several hours; it seemed to have stopped now, settling on 'work' for the last hour or so. Having nothing better to do, she just watched, waiting to see if it would happen again. In a muggle clock she might have assumed a gear was slipping, but she had no honest idea how a wizarding clock worked. I wish they had a muggle clock, or that I had a watch . . it must be almost midnight by now, and Dad must have thought to check the messages, I don't know why they aren't here, they very nearly could have *walked* here by now.
Ron and Harry were playing a game of chess, which Harry was losing badly. Ginny had tried to stay up with them, but had fallen asleep curled in a ball in an armchair, Crookshanks curled up in her lap. Mrs. Weasley kept saying she was going to bed, then popping back out again in robe and slippers and offering them snacks. Every now an then she'd pull the front curtains back, murmur something unintelligible about how unreliable muggle means of transportation are, and then disappear back upstairs. She had just come down again, commenting that they were almost through the fudge, when the doorbell rang.
"Oh, that must be my mum and dad, finally," Hermione said, stuffing the last bit of her fudge into her mouth and bouncing towards the door. When she flung it open, however, it was not her mother and father who stood there. It was Dumbledore.
She didn't know why, but Hermione suddenly felt her entire body clench in sick fear.
He's out of place. Shouldn't be here. He's horribly, awfully, dreadfully out of place and something's happened, something terrible.
"Why are you here?" Hermione blurted, words made awkward and sticky with a mouthful of fudge. That was very rude, she thought with a detached sort of shock at herself. She had the wild urge to slam the door in his very grim-looking face and run upstairs. And hide under the bed, perhaps. She'd never had such a gut-wrenching feeling of foreboding in her life.
"Professor Dumbledore," said Mrs. Weasley with careful courtesy, coming up behind Hermione and putting a half-restraining, half-comforting hand on her shoulder. "This is a surprise. Won't you come in?"
She knows. She knows too. Something's really, really dreadfully wrong.
Mrs. Weasley's hand steered Hermione out of the doorway so the tall, elderly wizard could duck into the room. No one was saying anything; Ron's jaw seemed to have paused in the act of chewing, his brow wrinkled in concern, which made for a very odd expression indeed. I think that'd be funny, any other time, Hermione thought, through the thick haze that had suffused her brain.
Wrong, this is wrong, Dumbledore shouldn't be here, this is all wrong -
"My mum and dad will be here any minute," she announced to no one in particular. I don't know why I said that. This is all wrong. Dumbledore gave her an almost unreadable look, but she thought she detected just a trace of pity.
"It was just a mistake," she babbled on. "I figured it out. We're all going to visit my cousins in Wales and I should have just gotten on the next train. They must have written me about it but I must have forgotten, because I thought I was meeting them at King's Cross and then we were all going on together, but it must be that I should have just gotten on the train and met them at Manchester Picadilly, because they weren't there. At King's Cross. But I called from a pay phone and left a message at the house, and they're sure to be here any minute, just as soon as they check the messages. It's been hours."
Everyone was staring at her. Only Dumbledore would meet her eyes as she glanced around the room, a little frantic, wanting someone to verify this theory of events. Yes, of course, that must be it. Just a mistake.
"Did they call you at the school?" she asked. "Oh, they can't have, there aren't any phones." I know that, of course there aren't phones at Hogwarts, why did I say that, everything's off-kilter, this is all wrong - "Did they find someone to help them use the Floo system to call? I'm not in trouble for getting confused about the trains, am I?"
"You are not in any trouble, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said in a rather toneless voice, before turning to Mrs. Weasley. "Is there a room where Miss Granger and I might speak alone?"
"Oh," said Mrs. Weasley, wringing her hands and blanching white but not looking at all surprised at the request. Ron swallowed noisily. "Oh, yes, there's the kitchen - but oh, there's no door there, of course, you'll want some place with a door, I suppose a bedroom, though they're all a mess, but I don't suppose that matters -"
"Not at all," Dumbledore assured her. The couch creaked as Harry shifted awkwardly; Hermione turned to look at him and Ron, and they both suddenly found the carpet a fascinating thing to study.
Look at me. Somebody look at me.
This is wrong. Not real. It's just a mistake, I should have taken the train to my cousins', that's all, things shouldn't be all quiet and dreadful like this, please, stop it, it's just a mistake.
"I-I should stay down here," Hermione protested. "In case they come. They'll be in a hurry."
"We'll let you know if your parents get here, dear," Mrs. Weasley said reassuringly, in a tone that lacked the slightest sincerity. That firm hand on her shoulder was maneuvering her towards the stairs. She shrugged it off, some vague part of her aghast at being impolite to Mrs. Weasley, but most of her fighting the urge to scream, if only to break the brittle hush that had fallen over the room.
"I'd like to wait down here," she said firmly. "Just until I hear from my parents. Can't we talk after they've gotten here?" she asked Dumbledore.
"I'm afraid we can't," he answered, very gently.
"They'll be here," she insisted. "It's been hours, they must have called home by now. They'll find a way to call, or they'll be here, any minute now, I'm sure they'll -"
"Miss Granger," Dumbledore reached out, his wizened old hand settling on her shoulder where Mrs. Weasley's hand had been, the weight of it there seeming to carry a terribly finality, "Hermione, I'm afraid they won't."
***
TBC . . . (there's one more Pit of Utter Despair chapter and then there will be happy stuff. Promise.)