"Long, Long, Long"
PART THREE: THE LONG-EXPECTED REUNION
The Weasleys agreed to take Harry to St. Mungo's and inform the Ministry of what had happened, for which Hermione was very relieved. As much as she wanted to stay with Harry, who had collapsed seconds after his victory, she did not want to be arrested by the Ministry for what was now to be three murders. The thought made her insides squirm. How could she have done this? Was her anger really that far out of her control? She had always thought of herself as a stable, reasonable person. Apparently she had always thought wrong.
Hermione watched the Weasleys disappear towards Hogsmeade, rolling Harry before them on a conjured stretcher. Knowing that Ministry wizards would be there within minutes to take the stunned Death Eaters and Dumbledore's body, Hermione turned and slowly started heading up to the castle.
She pulled open one of the heavy wooden front doors and slipped inside. Almost complete darkness surrounded her, the exception being the slit of light coming through the crack between the doors leading to the Great Hall. Hermione stepped carefully towards it and pushed on the doors when she reached them.
The Great Hall was filled with the gray light from the overcast sky outside and Hermione gasped at what she saw. The hall had been torn apart; tables were overturned, benches broken, plates and glasses shattered and littering the floor… the sight was terrible. She bent down and picked up part of a broken candle, examining it. As she had always preferred fire light to magical light, she light the candle with her wand and stepped back into the Entrance hall to examine the damage there.
It, too, was in shambles. Pieces of suits of armor were scattered here and there, classroom doors had been broken off their hinges, and broken glass and china covered the floor in various places. Stepping tentatively through the mess, Hermione headed towards the stairwell. Standing at the top of it and looking down in horror, Hermione wondered what could possibly have happened to the school after everyone had left.
She continued to wonder as she walked through the halls, frowning at the devastating mess the library appeared to be in. Hermione didn't even bother to enter, continuing her trek through the corridors and up flights of stairs. Many subjects in the portraits seemed to have disappeared and Hermione figured they must all be hiding somewhere or visiting their alternate paintings. As it was, she couldn't get into Gryffindor tower, which, she reminded herself, might not have been possible anyway, since she didn't remember the password.
A Dark Mark carved with a blade into the back of a wooden chair cleared a few things up for Hermione; she figured that, in their search for Harry and Dumbledore, the Death Eaters must have thought of Hogwarts first. They probably searched it, took anything left behind that they wanted, maybe even used it as a shelter for a time, and left it in ruins. What pathetic excuses for human beings, thought Hermione angrily. Who was to blame her, really, for ridding the world of three of them? Even with this justification, Hermione felt a bit sick whenever she thought of what she'd done.
Hermione smiled sadly as she passed certain rooms and decorations, but the one that made her most sad and which she subconsciously saved for last, was the tower. She stared at the tapestry for a moment, thinking, and then pulled out her wand and tapped it lightly three times. It, as expected, rolled up, and Hermione entered.
The stairwell was, like the rest of the castle, darker and colder than she remembered. The walk to the top seemed infinite and when she finally reached it, it was to find the room in much poorer shape than they'd left it. The breeze through the broken windows blew out her candle and Hermione set it aside. She started to step towards the windows opposite her, hoping to gaze out at the grounds as she used to, but stopped mid-step when she remembered what the view would be. It would be more pleasant, she decided, to remember it as it had been.
Sliding down the stone wall to a sitting position, Hermione found herself getting caught up in her memories and fell asleep lost in them.
…
No one knew how Lucius had escaped. Draco had theories, but no more than that. When he read the article in the Daily Prophet, which described in detail all that had happened, he assumed that his father had been revived by one of the other Death Eaters before they fled. Draco suspected that the Weasleys and Hermione had been too preoccupied with Harry's condition to notice or care what the Death eaters did or where they went.
Draco took another sip of his coffee and instinctively pulled his scarf up around his lower face as someone entered the nearly deserted café in which Draco was sitting. Seeing that it was only another unfamiliar muggle, Draco relaxed and looked back to the Prophet, which he'd charmed so the pictures stopped moving. He realized then that his paranoia was getting a bit out of hand. True, it was almost certain that Lucius was on Draco's trail, determined as he must have been after the incident on the first to teach Draco a lesson—perhaps even a final lesson.
Draco set the small amount of muggle money he had on the table in payment for his drink. He had returned ever so briefly to Malfoy manor after running away to pick up a few things, including a small stash of muggle money his parents had for unknown reasons in a small box in the front hall. Draco did not know, nor did he particularly care to know, specifically how or why his parents had acquired this muggle currency, which after all was of little use to them.
At any rate, Draco had spent most of it on his cheap London hotel room and had little left for food. As he pulled the hood of his jacket up and readjusted his thick scarf in preparation for walking the streets, Draco wondered what on earth he was going to do next. He was virtually broke, as wizarding money was of no use in London; he had no place to stay after the week was out and the hotel wanted another payment; he was being hunted down by at least his psychotic father, if not a few extra Death Eaters; he was still wanted by the Ministry for being a Death Eater…. His situation was, to put it mildly, unfavorable.
Maybe I could get a job, thought Draco, but his hopes weren't high. What would he do? And for how long would he be able to stay at one position before he had to run again? Would he just have to keep jumping from place to place until he died of starvation or his father was arrested? What an unpleasant thought.
Draco turned right after a few blocks, heading back to his hotel and ignoring the strange looks he was getting from passersby for wearing a jacket and heavy scarf in early autumn. It was a bit cold, but he was still unnecessarily heavily dressed.
Draco stepped up the short stairwell to the front door of his hotel and yanked it open. It smelled musty and old inside, the only window being inoperable, but Draco had learned to ignore this. He stepped up to the reception desk and rang the bell. An unnaturally thin man of at least seventy years of age appeared after a moment, walking feebly. "Room number, sir?" he rasped.
"Thirteen," said Draco.
The old man reached up for the key on the wall and placed it gently on the counter. Draco nodded and turned away, taking his key in his hand. Just as he had reached the narrow stairwell, he heard the old man call out to him.
"Oh, Mr. Malfoy!" he called hoarsely. Draco turned back. "Someone asked for you earlier. I believe he is waiting in the common area down the hall."
Draco froze in surprise. Who wanted to see him? Who even knew where he was? His first thought was Lucius, but he hoped that was just his heightened paranoia kicking in. He waved to the receptionist in thanks and headed cautiously down the hallway. It, like the rest of the building, smelled funny and damp, like a cellar, and the walls were sparsely decorated with cheap prints and ancient photographs. The sitting room was down at the end, near the second set of stairs, and contained only a few armchairs and magazines. The hotel wasn't exactly high-class.
Draco inched his way toward the entrance to the sitting room, wondering if he dared enter or if he should just take his chances with whoever it was, pack his things, and run. Not breathing, Draco slowly peeked around the corner, quickly searching the area. A snoring man in a gray suit sat in a pink armchair in the corner, and the only other person present had his back to Draco, reading a newspaper—in which the pictures moved. Draco continued watching, trying to see more of the man without drawing attention to himself.
Draco started when the man abruptly closed the newspaper and slammed it down on the coffee table beside him, apparently in frustration. The brief glimpse Draco had of the man's blond head was enough for Draco to duck back around the corner and take the stairs beside him two at a time, up to his room.
He sprinted down the upstairs hallway, looking quickly back in the direction he'd come from before unlocking his room's door and slamming it behind him. Thankfully, he didn't have much stuff to pack, and if truth be told, Draco was too preoccupied to worry whether he got it all together in his bag. Once again pulling his hood up to conceal at least part of his face, Draco opened the door again but had to immediately slam it shut once more at the sight of what was on the other side.
Lucius stood outside Draco's door, smiling smugly.
…
Hermione sat beside Harry's bed at St. Mungo's, her head resting precariously on the back of her chair as she slept. Harry hadn't woken since his arrival at the hospital, and Hermione had refused to leave his side until he did. She had come in the morning after the duel, exhausted and depressed from her uncomfortable sleep and trip down memory lane at the school. The healers were beginning to worry as much for her health as Harry's; she had, after all, not eaten for days in all likelihood and she looked pale and sick, probably from lack of sleep.
At any rate, they hadn't been able to convince her to go home and sleep, and the Ministry had been too busy celebrating the downfall of Voldemort to arrest her. She doubted they even knew where she was or that she was, in fact, alive. She estimated it would be at least a few more days before they caught up with her.
Dawn broke outside and bright sunlight started streaming through the window onto Hermione's face. She squirmed in the light and tentatively opened her eyes. She tried to lift her head but groaned in pain—the unfortunate position she'd fallen asleep in had tensed her muscles and they now ached horribly. Trying to stretch out her neck, Hermione looked around and found that no healers were yet there. It was probably too early.
A noise from Harry's bed drew her attention and she looked over at him. He moved his head a little bit and then slowly, very slowly, opened his eyes. He squinted in the early morning light and looked at the ceiling for a moment, clearly trying to bring it into focus. Hermione, excited that he was finally showing signs of life, quickly reached over to the table beside his bed and grabbed his glasses, gently putting them on his head.
Harry looked over in surprise and smiled when he recognized her. She returned the smile and asked, "Are you alright? How do you feel?"
It seemed to take Harry a moment to register the question, then he said hoarsely, "I'm fine. I think." He looked concernedly at her, "You don't look so great, though."
Hermione shrugged, "I was just worried."
Harry nodded slightly. He knew how Hermione got when she was worried about something; already he could picture her stubbornly telling a healer that she would not go home and sleep until he had woken.
They sat in silence for a moment while Harry fully came back to earth. He tried once to sit up, but gave up after a moment when he suddenly felt a searing pain in his side. He looked down towards the foot of his bed and was surprised to find a large table covered in flowers and cards.
"What's all that?" he asked Hermione, nodding to the table. She raised an eyebrow at him. "What?" he asked.
"Well, I suspect you'd be enough used to saving the world by now to realize that those are gifts from your fans—basically the entire magical community right now," explained Hermione. "There were a lot that the healers had to throw away, as well—far too many for them to fit in this room."
"Oh," said Harry as it all started making sense to him. It wasn't until that moment, when Hermione mentioned his "fans" that Harry really remembered what had happened. Since he had woken up, he actually hadn't thought once of the duel and that, somehow, he had managed to survive.
Not just survive. Win.
It surprised him now that he hadn't questioned before why he was lying in a bed in a hospital or why his body ached all over. After a moment's thought he imagined that it was probably because he had never expected to be there. Sad as it was, Harry really hadn't expected to come out of the duel alive—even if he won, he'd thought that he would die from the strain or at the hands of an angry Death Eater immediately afterwards. He had gotten used to the idea.
At any rate, it was over now; a wave of relief passed over him and he smiled a little. "So…what happened? While I was fighting Voldemort, I mean?"
Hermione leaned back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling, trying to remember. "Well, after the dome sealed over the two of you, the Death Eaters started to attack us and Dumbledore gave me your cloak—in case things go badly, he said.
"My spirits weren't that high, but thankfully most of the Weasley family came to our aid about that time—Dumbledore had sent them an owl, I think—and everyone started fighting." Hermione paused here and wondered how best to continue. "Lucius was chasing after me for a while, but I got his wand away from him and snapped it before stunning him. I heard he got away anyway…." She frowned, still angry about this. Then, straining to recall what else had happened, she remembered that Harry did not yet know of the biggest event, and though she didn't particularly want to, she knew she would have to tell him…
"Harry," she said quietly, "Dumbledore is dead."
…
Draco, his heart pounding furiously, scrambled around his bed and grabbed his bag before flinging himself at the window. Too late, he realized that it, like the ones downstairs, was not supposed to open. With a painful crash, he shattered the glass and fell one story into the bushes below. As bits of glass fell around him, Draco rolled over and looked up into the angry expression of his father, who quickly withdrew his head from the broken window so as not to be noticed by passersby. Draco mimicked Lucius's earlier smirk and disapparated.
He reappeared instantly on the ground in a narrow alley a good ten miles from the hotel. It wasn't nearly far enough from Lucius, but he doubted that his father would even know where to begin to look. Draco guessed he would go back to the manor and re-strategize. That gave him maybe a day. Probably less, considering that Lucius had nothing to do but hide from the Ministry and figure out where Draco was.
Groaning, Draco rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself slowly off the ground. His shirt was ripped all over and soaked in blood. Muttering a healing spell under his breath, Draco managed to stop the bleeding in most places, but the shirt was forever ruined. He threw it in a dumpster on his way out of the alley, wearing instead just a jacket that he had brought with him.
There was probably a less painful way for Draco to make his escape, but he knew the one thing that scared Lucius right now was the idea of being noticed—it increased the likelihood of arrest. People noticed when someone flew through a window, and if Draco was lucky, some muggles would be there quick enough to find Lucius before he got away. The chances for this were beyond slim—they were infinitesimally small—but he could always hope.
Draco reached an intersection with several cars and immediately reached to pull up his scarf, but it was gone. Cursing, Draco realized he'd probably lost it in the bushes. Ah, well. He'd have to live without it.
The intersection, however, raised yet another problem: where was he going? He had no money, no source of such, no food, few clothes, nothing to sell…. "Fuck!" he groaned, looking right and left down the street. Where to? He decided to head left, out of the city, figuring that the fewer people that saw him, the better.
Hours upon hours he headed down the road, watching the closely packed buildings separate out as he reached the suburbs, eventually petering out altogether as he reached the border between them and the empty fields. Beyond that point he saw maybe two cars, neither of which took any notice of him.
The sun set slowly, and Draco's muscles grew so weak he thought he might collapse. When darkness had settled completely, and Draco could see nothing but the half-moon and glittering stars above, he tripped over a large tree root and moved no further.
…
Harry stared at Hermione for a moment, uncomprehending. The words really weren't registering in his mind. It couldn't be true. It wasn't true. It didn't help that his brain was working slower than usual anyway. Hermione took his hand and nodded sadly. "But…what…I…" he couldn't even find words for a question. It just wasn't possible.
"It was right before we saw you. He was fighting a Death Eater, and I guess he just…made a mistake."
"What? Dumbledore is a genius, he doesn't just make mistakes," argued Harry, visibly upset.
"Well, I don't know, Harry. He was probably distracted, like the rest of us."
"He isn't like the rest of us!" said Harry, raising his voice and trying to sit up in his bed. "What could distract him if he was fighting for his life?"
Hermione realized that Harry was just upset because he didn't want to believe it. She didn't want to believe it, either, but she couldn't help feeling that he was somehow accusing her of something and combined with her irritability from lack of rest, she got a bit upset as well. "He was worried, Harry! Don't you understand?"
"Worried about what? What, at that moment, was more important than the Death Eater he was dueling?"
"YOU, Harry!" shouted Hermione, creating enough noise that Mrs. Weasley, who has apparently been outside, thrust open the door and looked around worriedly. Hermione was standing now, eyes locked on Harry's, who she realized at that moment finally understood and allowed himself to believe that Dumbledore was indeed dead. She turned and passed Mrs. Weasley without a word, leaving the room as quickly as possible.
Tears fell from the corners of Hermione's eyes and she wiped them away hastily with her sleeve. She hadn't meant to say that, or even yell at Harry at all. He wasn't himself, and she shouldn't have gotten so upset. Now, she knew, he would feel responsible for Dumbledore's death.
Hermione stopped mid-step in the deserted hallway, tempted to go back and somehow reverse the damage she'd done. After a moment, however, she realized that she might only make things worse and slowly started walking again.
The guilt eating at her insides only intensified on her walk to the lobby. Wasn't it bad enough that Harry blamed himself for Sirius's death? Did he really need to add Dumbledore's death to that? Thanks to Hermione, now he would.
She passed glumly through the lobby, distracted from her thoughts only when the receptionist called out to her from across the room.
"Hey!" Hermione turned. "Didn't you used to work here?" A couple of people started looking up from their morning newspapers at the sound of the receptionist's shouts in the otherwise silent room.
"Wait!" said one of them suddenly, examining Hermione. "You're Hermione Granger! The Ministry was looking for you back in the spring."
"Hermione Granger?" asked a man suddenly, "I thought she was dead…"
"Missing," corrected someone else.
Hermione didn't like this conversation. She slowly started stepping towards the door, hoping in their distraction that none of the people in the lobby would notice her go. No such luck.
"You're a murderer! You killed those men that were here!" This was a small voice. Hermione looked around briefly and saw a child pointing accusingly at her. The young girl couldn't have been more than ten.
An uproar from the twenty or so people in the lobby erupted in response to this; accusations, defenses, commands for Hermione to freeze were all thrown around and Hermione took the commotion as an opportunity to run for it. However guilty it made her look, Hermione knew that if she didn't run for it now, the Ministry would be there in a few minutes to arrest her and she just needed a little more time. She couldn't handle it just then.
Hermione bolted for the entrance to the hospital, dodging those in her way. A hand caught her around the wrist, but Hermione shook it off and slipped out the door, sprinting down the streets of muggle London to her old apartment.
Hermione found her old place without being caught and sighed as she pushed her front door closed with her back. Looking around, she noticed that the apartment had been thoroughly searched. It looked as though this had been a long time ago; everything, including the books and clothing strewn about the floor, was covered in a thick layer of dust.
She kicked some of the stuff on the floor aside as she headed for her room. There, too, heaps of clothing and stacks of newspapers, magazines, and books took up most of the floor, but her bed, thankfully, looked exactly the same as she had left it.
Hermione stepped over to it and swept off some of the dust with broad strokes of her arm. She sneezed and decided she was too tired to clean thoroughly. Plopping on the bed in a tiny heap, Hermione fell asleep without another thought.
…
Author's Note: I am incredibly sorry for not updating sooner, but I was depressingly busy this month. Please forgive me and review anyway.