Disclaimer: I don't own anything Harry Potter. He belongs to J.K. Rowling, whom I heartily thank for having created him. I just happen to have been knocked in the head by my muse one evening, and took it upon myself to write this bit of fiction based on the characters she created.
Author's Note: I've never written fanfiction before, so you'll have to bear with me. It's rated R for language and possible violence in later chapters, and because at this point I really don't know where exactly the story is going to go. At the moment, I'm letting inspiration guide my hand, though I suspect it's going to take some help. This piece was begun before Book 6 came out, and I've decided not to let that volume influence my take on events as I have them written here. Also, I'd like to thank, in advance, all my online friends who I'm going to pester into reading this, as well as those people I'll more than likely turn to for help when my muse deserts me. And, of course, my husband, who has always been my biggest fan as well as my most honest critic. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I'm going to try, very hard, not to disappoint.
Chapter 5
CRACK
Someone's Apparated, close by. I can't see. Why can't I see?
CRACK
Closer, the sound is closer. I remember why everything looks blurry, there was a flash of light... Harry!
I can't recall at what point I've dropped to my knees and curled up on myself, but I lift my head, straining to see past the spots left in my vision from the brightness when Harry and Voldemort faced each other. It takes longer than I'm comfortable with, and there are more of the unsettling sounds of Apparition, but when my vision clears I realize the sounds are teams of Aurors, Apparating in, and Dark Wizards trying to Apparate away, without success.
I can't see Harry. Where's Harry? What happened to him?
I look around wildly, trying to remember where I saw him last, and catch sight of the incline where he was facing Voldemort, but there is no sign of either of them. The grass is charred and blackened, and a rock nearby has scorch marks on it, but there's not so much as a singed hair of Harry or his greatest foe. They are gone, both of them.
CRACK
The last sound awakened me, and the instant my eyes opened I knew the sound wasn't a remnant from my sleeping mind. Harry was already there, faintly luminescent in the darkness, but he said nothing, and the noises from the living room carried clearly. Someone was in my flat, and whoever it was had Apparated in.
I slid my hand under my pillow, my fingers closing around the handle of my wand. There were no whispered voices, and I remembered only hearing the sound of one entrance, so I was fairly certain that whoever was prowling my living room was alone. Getting up out of bed was easily enough; I hadn't bothered with the covers, nor undressing, so modesty wasn't an issue.
Creeping to the doorway, I shielded my eyes with my hand before moving my wand and whispering, "Lumos Maximus." The sudden light was near-blinding after the darkness, but I'd been prepared for it, whereas the man near my desk was taken completely off-guard.
He was half-crouched behind my desk, wand at the ready, poised as if ready to sweep a spell across the room at the slightest provocation, and very likely he was. "Hermione." It was all he said, all he needed to say, as his voice, his face, his red hair were all familiar to me.
"Ron," I murmured. It was followed immediately by, "Nox Minimus," to my wand, allowing the light to dim halfway, to a more reasonable level. "Ronald Weasley, what on earth are you doing here?" I hadn't seen him since Harry's funeral.
"I'm with the Ministry now, Hermione." He sounded better, he sounded stable. He looked better. "I'm in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, conducting an internal investigation of one of our Aurors."
"Draco Malfoy." Curiouser and curiouser. One of his eyebrows lifted briefly, confirming my suspicions, and I lowered my wand to my side, still glowing. "Internal investigation? Does that make you an Auror as well, then?" He nodded his head in answer, and I sighed. "Is there a reason why you felt you had to sneak in here in the middle of the night?"
"One of Malfoy's contacts lives across the hall from you," he replied. Official-sounding, his speech, as if we hadn't been the best of friends for seven years. "The nature of my investigation requires that he not be aware of my movements." A pause, and then he remarked, "I see you still have your wand."
I felt my cheeks reddening at his offhanded comment, and I rubbed at the left one with my free hand. "Nox," I muttered, flipping the light switch to turn on the lights as my wand went dark. "Would you care for some tea, Ron?" I asked, as I couldn't think of anything else to say.
"If that makes you more comfortable with my being here, Hermione, then by all means." His reply was accompanied by a small nod, and it wasn't until he said something that I realized I wasn't comfortable with his dispassionate scrutiny. If anything, it was even more unnerving than the dangerous, predatory look I'd seen in Malfoy's eyes; there was a cool detachment in Ron's gaze that spoke of a deep commitment to putting away wizarding criminals. It was not a look I'd ever seen there before, and I didn't like it.
I led the way into the kitchen and pointed him to the same chair Malfoy had sat in mere days ago. Taking my time preparing the teakettle, I used it as a cover to observe my old friend in silence. There were unfamiliar lines in his face, a more determined set to his jaw. This Ron would likely be able to listen to thirty renditions of 'Weasley is Our King' without batting so much as an eyelash. "What's happened to you?" I finally asked him.
One of his eyebrows lifted in faint surprise. "I've no idea what you're talking about, Hermione. I'm the same old Ron."
"No, Ron, you're not." As with Malfoy, I was reluctant to put myself within his reach, so again I leaned against the fridge. "It's in your eyes, the way you walk, even in the way you sit."
The faintest of smiles lurked at the corners of his mouth, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Of course. I should have known better that to try to fool you, Hermione. You always could see right through me." Unsettling as the trace of a smile was, his expression was even more so when it faded, and he looked down at the table. "We thought it was over, when our side won, but we were wrong, Hermione."
"I never thought it was over." It wasn't something I'd ever thought about at length, and certainly I'd never talked about it, but there the words were, just the same, and they kept coming. "Voldemort was the enemy, yes, he was the big bad guy, he stood for everything we'd been fighting against ever since we'd met Harry. Cut off the head, and the body will die, that was what we'd all hoped for, in our hearts, but I knew, in my head, that thinking that way was just going to lead to disappointment."
I had more to say, but something flickered in Ron's eyes that stopped me cold, and I was glad, suddenly, of the distance between us. The tea kettle chose that exact moment to emit a high-pitched whistle, and I flinched at the sound, turning away from my guest in the process.
"All right there, Hermione?" Ron's voice, and while there was some concern in it, it was very far away, and I couldn't bring myself to look back at his face.
A deep breath, followed by an exhale, and I willed myself back to rights. "Fine." I sounded a great deal more composed than I felt, which was some small comfort, and I pushed away from the fridge to return to the stove, reaching for the tin where I kept my tea. "Still two lumps and a dash of cream, Ron?" He'd changed a great deal in four years, but I was fairly sure the way he took his tea was minor enough to remain constant.
"Right." The confirmation felt like a small victory, against the rising tide of foreboding that was waging war within me. He hadn't changed entirely, not if he still took his tea the same way. A ridiculous thing to feel good about, but I couldn't help it.
Turning around, I managed a smile that I hoped didn't look too forced, and carried the teacups to the table. With the tea made, my excuse to remain out of reach had vanished, so I joined him at the table, trying not to look uncomfortable. "So. What was it you wanted to ask me about Malfoy?"
Ron sipped gingerly at his tea, oblivious to any sign of discomfort I might have been displaying. I'd been counting on it, another constant from our school days. "I was assigned to Malfoy's case when it was opened two weeks ago, after he started skipping training sessions, slacking off on his duties," he began, looking back up at me. "My superiors are worried he's thinking about changing sides, and I can't say I blame them." There was a note in his voice that was familiar, but hardly comforting, a note that spoke volumes of his distrust of Malfoy. I could hardly blame him.
"Malfoy told me he's been looking into a series of vampire killings that the Ministry is trying to cover up," I informed him, meeting his gaze in spite of how much I wanted to look away. "He brought me a blood sample to analyze, and from what I could tell, it was genuine. While I had nothing to compare it to, there were definitely some anomalies that looked consistent with most prevailing theories about vampirism."
He was staring at me, and I realized I'd slipped into doctor-speak without thinking. "I'm sorry, I forgot you aren't familiar with Muggle medical terms," I began, attempting an apology.
"No, it's all right, I actually got most of it." I must have looked as stunned as I felt, because his expression changed, became almost wistful. "It's just that you sounded so much like you, Hermione. I've missed you, you know." His hand reached for mine, across the table, and I was frozen in place, unable to move, to pull away.
Exactly why I didn't want him touching me, I couldn't say, but I was betrayed by my own body, sitting there immobile. His hand was warm, almost feverishly so, and he took mine gently, lifting my fingers away from the edge of the cup and enfolding them with his own. I was trapped in his gaze, and some part of me backed away from what I saw in his eyes, though thankfully it didn't seem to register with him. "Ron, I--" I began, only to have my voice crack on the second syllable, and I cursed myself for being such a damn woman.
It was enough to break the spell, however, and he let go of my hand, sitting back and turning his attention to the tea in front of him. My hand dropped uselessly to the table, and I stared at it while concentrating on controlling my breathing. "Ron," I repeated, finally, when I was sure my voice would remain steady, "why come to me? About Malfoy, I mean?"
"I wanted to warn you." I could feel the weight of his eyes on me, but I didn't look up, and he sighed. "Just... be careful, Hermione. Please? Malfoy's dangerous, there's no telling what he's capable of, and I don't want you getting hurt."
In spite of myself, I could feel my lips curling into the faintest of smiles. "I don't think that will be a problem, Ron. We didn't exactly part on good terms, last time he was here."
"About your wand..." That got my attention, and I finally looked up at his face, met his gaze, boldly. "I won't tell anyone that you still have it, if that's what you're worried about. I'm not here to make trouble for you, Hermione." Again, there was that smile on his lips that didn't reach his eyes. "I'm glad to see you still have it, is all. Maybe, someday, you'll come back to the wizarding way of life."
"I've moved on, Ron," I told him, firmly. "Malfoy's visit, you dropping in, these are exceptions to the normal routine I live by. I made my choice, four years ago, and I stand by it now."
He stood up so fast I was afraid, for half a second, that he was going to hit me, or worse. Instead, he simply turned away from me, taking a step toward the kitchen door. "Hoping you'll have a change of heart won't kill me, though, will it?" I felt a pang, in my chest, at his words, but said nothing, and he took another step toward the door. "Take care of yourself, Hermione." I expected another step, but there was none, just the too-familiar (even after four years) CRACK of Apparition, followed by a slight whooshing of air rushing to fill the Ron-shaped void he'd left behind.
Leaving the teacups on the table, I got up and made my way back to the bedroom. Harry was there, his shade hovering to one side of my bed. "I told you--" he began.
"Don't," I snapped, cutting him off with a ferocity I'd never used with Harry before. "Not now, Harry, not ever. Don't you ever say those words to me." He looked shocked, and hurt, and tried the kicked-puppy look on me, but I turned away, curling up on the bed. I waited, eyes closed, until I was sure he was gone, before finally letting loose the tears that had been waiting since halfway through Ron's visit. I wasn't sure whether I was mourning the loss of his innocence, or the loss of our friendship, or something else entirely, but I was mourning something. At some point I left off crying in favor of praying, not for Ron, or even myself, but to simply be left alone, forgotten, the way I'd wanted to be when I walked away from being a witch four years ago.
Sleep, when it finally came, was blessedly dreamless.