"Hermione."
She lifted her head from where it rested on the couch. "Yes, Harry?" she asked, her voice soft. Christabelle lay next to her, her head on Hermione's lap, her blond hair falling around her in a tangled mess.
Harry stooped and looked at the little girl. "Is she finally asleep?"
She smiled. "I am pretty sure, Harry." She gazed down at the sleeping girl, then looked up at Harry. "Did you want something?"
Harry folded his legs under him, sitting on the ground. He looked as exhausted as she felt. His hair was matted with mud, sweat, and blood. Dark circles had appeared under his eyes. He looked as though he had aged several years since they had first set out from the Weasley's home.
He sighed. "Yes. There was something, Hermione. I need to head out; check the town for any more survivors." He ran a hand through his hair, loosening some of the dried mud. It flaked off, falling to the ground. "I couldn't live with myself, Hermione, knowing that there may be a few more like her," he inclined his head towards Christabelle, "out there. Which reminds me, have you checked to make sure that she is not hurt?"
She nodded. "Just a few scratches here and there, Harry. And a bruise or two. It is surprising; it almost seems as though she was overlooked entirely."
Harry shrugged. "Maybe. Look, I don't want to leave you here alone, and neither does Ron—"
"But you can't leave here alone and there is no way that we are going to leave Christabelle," finished Hermione with an odd, lopsided smile. "I know, Harry. I know. And I will be safe here. Besides, I can apparate and take Christabelle with me, if I need to. And you know that I can warn you if there is danger here." She held up her hand. Around her wrist hung a silver bracelet.
It was Harry's turn to smile. "And you can defend yourself. All right then." He rose to his feet. "Ron. We are going."
Ron, who had been in the adjacent room, poked his head around the wall. "Ah, wonderful." He walked over to where the two of them were. "Just great. And we are leaving Hermione, Harry?" His voice was laced with anger, causing Hermione to flinch.
"Keep your voice down, Ron! And I just told Harry that I can defend myself if the need be. Just go."
Ron closed his eyes and sighed. "Fine." He leaned over, catching Hermione's face in one hand. "Just be careful."
She smiled at him. "I will be." He kissed her, then moved away, following Harry out the door. Hermione watched them as they left, turning her head so that she could see them as they disappeared into the rain and fog.
"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine," she whispered again, laying her head back and closing her eyes. It had only been a few months. Only a few months since she had left her parents, telling them that they needed to leave the country. Telling them that they needed to get away.
"From what, Hermione?" her father had asked, looking at her with serious eyes.
"Haven't you been listening to the news, father?" she asked, her breakfast left unattended on the table. "All those murders? All the 'accidents'?"
"What about them, darling?" Her mother had been cleaning the pots and pans used for making their breakfast. "No reason to leave the country."
"Mother! Father! Haven't you been listening to anything that I have been saying over the past years? About Voldemort?"
Her mother had laughed. "Oh, you and this Lord Voldemort! Tell me, where are these ideas coming from?"
"You know that I go to a school for magic, mother. What is so unbelievable about a dark wizard who wants to take over the world?"
"Sounds like one of those American books. You haven't been reading those, have you?" her father had asked, looking up from the newspaper. "And these murders…it has just been a bad year. That is all."
"So you think there is nothing magical about this?" How could she get the importance of this across to them? She had told them over and over, but them never seemed to completely believe her.
"Isn't magic just fairies and pink clouds of smoke and the such?" Her mother never believed. She still thought that Hogwarts was something that Hermione's overactive imagination had cooked up. Even after the trip to Diagon Alley in her second year, her mother had never believed. She told everyone that Hermione attended a private school for the academically talented. Hermione sighed. True enough.
"No, mother! Well, yes, there is that! But I have told you before, there is so much more! Can't you just listen to me? I told you about what happened just before school let out—"
"Ah, yes. That." Her father had set his paper down and was staring at her over the rims of his glasses. "Hermione, every time that you come home from that—that school, you have a new story that involves you almost getting killed! If that is really true, then I—we—don't want to send you back."
If her father had said this even a month before she would have started yelling. Demanding that he let her return to school. But now…
"All right, father. I wasn't planning on going back, anyway. I told you where I am going already."
"Oh, yes," said her mother. "You are going to that Ronald Weasel's house—"
"Weasley."
"Of course, dear. Your boyfriend's house, right? The red-headed boy? Whatever happened to that foreign boy? Viktor, was it?"
Hermione jerked herself out of her reverie, waking up Christabelle as she did so. The girl gave a little scream, before she realized where she was.
"'mione?"
Hermione gathered the girl up in her arms, holding her close. "Yes, Christabelle. I'm here.
"Where's 'on an Hawwy?" Hermione noticed that the girl's speech had rapidly been falling into the patterns of an even younger child. Brought on, no doubt, by the horrors that Christabelle had seen.
"Harry, Christabelle. Can you say the name correctly?"
"Hawwy."
"No, Christabelle. Harry."
"Harwy."
Hermione grinned. "Much better, Christabelle. Harry. Harry and Ron are…out." She did not know what to tell the child. That they were out searching for more survivors of the massacre? She could feel a headache coming on. "And they will be back soon, no doubt."
Christabelle had turned herself, sitting in Hermione's lap so that they were facing each other. She began to play with Hermione's long hair, twisting it in her fingers. Hermione bit back a groan. Children playing with you hair either ended with large chunks being pulled out or with the entire mass being so tangled that it would take hours to get it smooth again. Not, she thought, that it really mattered with her hair. Ever since they had set out it had gone from bushy to a matted tangle.
"'mione?"
"Yes, Christabelle?" she answered softly, her eyes meeting the large blue ones of the child. Christabelle still had her fingers tangled in her hair.
"Who w—we—were they?" Hermione could tell that Christabelle was trying to make an effort to speak correctly.
"They," she responded, not wanting to tell the child this, but knowing that lies were not good in a time like this, "were called Death Eaters. They are the followers of a man named Lord Voldemort." Not that he was much of a man anymore.
"I've head that name before."
Hermione took a deep breath. "Yes? Where?"
"From the scary men."
"Can you tell me about the scary men, Christabelle?"
Christabelle let go of Hermione's hair. "Yeah. They were…tall. And dark. With…with white faces. They were really scary! And they hurt my momma!" Christabelle buried her face in Hermione's chest. "They were really mean an' scary!" Hermione could feel the child's tears soaking her shirt.
"It's all right, Christabelle," Hermione said, wrapping her arms around the fragile girl. "I'm here and I will protect you."
…
"Do you think she is going to be all right?" Ron asked for at least the tenth time since they had left the house. Harry sighed, though inside he felt as worried as Ron sounded.
"Yes, Ron. Hermione is as good a witch as either of us…though we are wizards, of course. She won't let any harm come to herself."
Ron rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them. It was freezing outside and even with gloves he was losing the feeling in his fingers "I'm just…just worried, Harry. I'm sure that you are worried about Ginny."
"Yeah, well…" Harry raked a hand through his hair. "Look, they both are incredibly bright. And worrying about them won't help up. Besides, would it have been any safer to bring Christabelle with us? Which reminds me, we are going to have to figure out something to do with her. She can't travel with us."
Ron was silent for a moment. "Hermione could bring her back to Mum and Dad. They could watch out for her. Hermione could probably pull of that side-along apparition thingy. Whatever it is called."
"Yet another reason, Ron, why you shouldn't be worried about her. If anything happens, she will be able to get herself out of there." I think, he added in his mind, but he didn't want to add to Ron's worry. "Look, I think I see some movement over there. Wands out."
They walked in relative darkness towards where the movement had come from. Before a house, behind a tree. A body. As they came towards it they saw that it was a man whose legs had been crushed. Mangled.
And he moved.
He was still alive.
His face was white, blood dripping down his chin. It looked as though he had bitten through his lower lip to take his mind off of the pain in his legs. He raised his head just a little, saw them, and dropped it back to the ground with a strangled moan.
"Kill me. Just kill me…"
Harry was the one who knelt beside him, Ron standing behind him. "Sir, we aren't going to hurt you."
"What are we going to do, Harry?" whispered Ron, his face white as well. "Wait, hold that thought…" He turned and was violently sick. "Sorry." He wiped his hand across his mouth. "It's just…"
"I know, Ron." Harry's eyes never left the man. "My name is Harry."
"Greg," responded the man hoarsely. "Please, can you make the pain stop?" His eyes were wide and pleading. "Please."
Harry swallowed hard. In this case, would killing him be the kind thing to do. "I—"
Greg's eyes focused on Harry, for the first time really seeing him. "Wait…you said that your name…Harry?"
Harry nodded. "Yes. Hold on, don't try to talk—" He had no experience in healing what should he—
"Harry." The man gave an empty, cold laugh that ended in a coughing fit and his face going even whiter. "That was the name. That they said. You…you're the…"
"The what?" asked Ron, unable to contain himself. "What is Harry?"
"The reason…that they…came…They said that Harry…Potter…was sure to…come." Greg screwed up his eyes, wincing in pain. "Please…the pain."
Harry held out his wand before him. "Ron…did you understand that?"
Ron nodded. "Yes, Harry. They…they know that we are here."
…
Hermione had finally moved from the couch, getting up and stretching her legs, Christabelle in tow. Actually, the real reason that she had gotten up was because Christabelle had complained that she had to go to the bathroom, but was too afraid to leave Hermione's sight.
Though it was embarrassing, Hermione waited in the bathroom with the girl. She could guess how frightened Christabelle was. How she was afraid that Hermione would disappear if she left from her eyesight.
"'mione?" Christabelle said, washing her hands at the sink. Hermione had her hoisted up so that she could reach the faucet.
"Mh-hm?"
"Can you do magic?"
Hermione gave a small start. "Why do you ask that, Christabelle?"
Christabelle shrugged, drying her hands on Hermione's travel stained cloak. "'cause I saw Harwy start a fire without a match."
Oh. That. Harry had used the lighting spell. Lumos. Not fire, but close enough.
"Yes, I can, Christabelle. So can Harry and Ron." She picked up Christabelle, carrying her back down the stairs. "I can make fire and then water to put out the fire."
"Can you make fairies?"
Hermione laughed. "I suppose that I could."
"Can you make me a fairy?"
She had anticipated this question. "No, Christabelle. Not right now. Besides, I—"
Her words were cut off as a gloved hand covered her mouth and Christabelle screamed, a shrill, piercing sound. Hermione felt an arm wind around her waist, pulling her backwards. Someone had Christabelle.
She struggled, kicking, but whoever was holding her was far taller and much stronger. Her arms were pinned to her side. She couldn't reach her wand.
She couldn't see Christabelle anymore, but she could hear her screams. She would have screamed as well, had the hand not been over mouth. Acting on instinct, she bit down. Hard. But the tough leather that made the glove prevented her from hurting her captor.
She heard laughing. Deep, harsh laughing.
"So, mudblood, think that you can hurt me?"
Hands jerked her head, twisting her so that she was looking up into the white masked face of a Death Eater.