Forty
Day: 1531; Hour: 4
It has been over a week since she left the safe house, and the eight days make her long for the broken down house before they even patched the roof. She spends her days patrolling the perimeter of something. Wards are placed around it, and she's careful not to edge too close. She isn't told if she is protecting it or minutes away from breaking into it, or even what it is.
She had come with a team that included Ron, but he had been taken to a different area. She's with Tonks instead, who supplied good company for three days and nothing else - she has no idea what they're doing either. All they do know is that they are constantly on guard for an enemy or unfamiliar face, making them completely twitchy and jumpy, even in the shifts they take to sleep. Hermione has felt this level of paranoia all through war, but it kicks her in the gut after the ease of being in the safe house. It takes her two days before it feels natural to her, or at least natural enough not to make any stupid mistakes.
She and Tonks patrol the perimeter they were given, their backs to one another but sticking close together, back and forth, back and forth. It rains for seven of the eight days, and by the fifth she is thankful for it, having gone too long without a shower. The days are hot and damp, the bugs circling and biting constantly. She feels as if she has been stranded in a jungle.
The night is the worst, no magic allowed unless necessary, and the woods fill with the sounds of animals and the distant rampage of howling. Sometimes Hermione can feel it reflected off the inside of her chest, banging down into her gut. A sort of wildness that she understands, that the night had taught her somewhere back at her first dozen missions. It reminds her of apes in their cages, slamming against the bars. Something is coming, and I'm ready, because I have no where else to go.
They can't stop being afraid, no matter what they talk about or remember.
Day: 1531; Hour: 17
Tonks looks up at her, her hair tossed about her head in a mousy brown. "Everyone wants peace. They just want it in their own ways."
"I guess that's why we'll never have world peace. Even after the war, there will still be those who want the world a different way."
"But as long as there is enough peace, as long as people aren't killing each other over beliefs... That's good enough for me."
"I think..." Hermione whispers, her fingers ghosting down rough tree bark as her eyes linger on the glimpse of sky through the trees. "I think that might be the closest we can come. And I think that's okay with me too. I'll be happy. With that."
Tonks is silent for five squelching steps, and both their heads jerk to the call of a bird from the trees. "There were a group of war protesters outside of the Ministry the other day."
"What?" Hermione pauses, and her boot sinks further into the mud.
That's all the ground is now. Mud, and slick mud, and thick mud, and deep mud, and more mud. Hermione and Tonks are both completely covered in it, and soaked from the rain. The wind rattles their bones, and both of them are sick. Today is cold, the season beginning to change, and Hermione can't help but be afraid of pneumonia.
"There's some who believe we could have made peace with...Voldemort, without the war. More have started coming because they think the war should be over now."
Hermione is pulled between two worlds. She never believed in war either, but she has learned that sometimes there is no other option. At the thought of people protesting, she is stuck between understanding and anger. She doesn't want the war either, but it's not like anyone had a choice. Here they were, fighting for their lives, while people were angry because they were taking too long. As if they wouldn't have just snapped their fingers and been done with it years ago. And were the lives of her friends, sacrificed for the sake of this war, nothing but a tragic mistake in a failure to communicate with the most powerful Dark Wizard of all time? This isn't about choice, or superficial sacrifice, it never was. It is about the value of life, the rights of humanity, and of a world that can be any sort of beautiful thing it wanted to be.
They will never understand. They will never grasp what has been seen, done, and felt while spinning wildly in the vortex of war. While standing wounded and afraid in the middle of a battle, while the screams ignite your blood and the only path to survival are brutal musts even if you felt you never could. They can't know that this is life, within war, and consequences they take to their graves. But they try to, she knows, and that's why they want it to end too.
She also understands the desire to have your family back at your side, or to look at the face of this beast that claimed their lives and want it gone forever. She understands the raw need for no more deaths and fear, and for a world washed anew. Since the Graveyard, mixed with all the other emotions that claim her, there is now an impatient rush to the pulse of her existence. As much as she tries to steady herself to the thought of another four years, every time she wakes, she thinks is it today? Will it be today? Hope is ugly, but she hates it as much as she clings her life to it, and she cannot blame them for trying, even if she knows they can't succeed.
Day: 1532; Hour: 5
She hasn't gotten more than two hours of sleep a night for five days. It is amazing, the sort of places you can fall asleep at when you're that tired. Though her paranoia makes her alert, when it is her turn to sleep, it leaves her in a cloud. Maybe it is because of the depth of her exhaustion, her trust in Tonks, or the fact that nothing has happened since they arrived.
She collapses against the tree, the bark scratching down her back. Her bum sinks into mud, her boots scraping it up like a blanket over her feet. The back of her head hits the tree as she watches Tonk's searching eyes for a couple seconds before she is lost to dark, dreamless sleep.
Day: 1532; Hour: 10
Tonks grinds her kneecaps into Hermione's thighs, her fingers pushing Hermione's arms into the mud with more force than she ever though the woman had in her. One moment Hermione had shivered, like she had a hundred times the past few days, and the next her body was shaking uncontrollably. She had fallen to the ground in jerks, as surprised by it as she had been the first time.
She closes her eyes to the desperate look twisting Tonks's face, trying to calm a part of herself she didn't know, and feels wetness wiggle at the corner of her eyes. "Cru—Cru-"
"Why didn't you tell me?" Tonks snaps, pressing her forehead to Hermione's and pushing the back of her head to the ground. There's a rock that digs sharply into the side of her neck.
"I—I-hope-"
"Sh, sh. It's alright, Hermione. Keep calm. It passes quicker."
Tears coat her eyeballs, and though they make her lashes heavy with wetness, they do not fall this time.
Day: 1532; Hour: 16
"I still can't believe they haven't told us what we're doing out here." Hermione scowls at the bag in her lap, and her dirt-stained hand when she grabs an apple.
Tonks grabs a few more crackers and zips her bag back up, looking just as weary as Hermione at their depleting food stock. "The less people know about anything, the better. You know that."
"Yes, but I'm not usually this uninformed when it comes to a mission."
"Usually," Tonks pauses to take a swig of water, the empty container refilled from the rain the night before, "the more important it is, the less we know. The only thing we had to know is what they told us. Just like every mission. They never give out more details than what we need. We keep an eye out for anything odd or someone not on our team, and dismantle the wards if the coin gets hot. Basics."
"Well, at least I always know if we're defense or offense."
Tonks grins as she stands, offering Hermione a hand up. She doesn't need it but she takes it anyway. "Who cares? We'll just take down anything ugly."
"I think we would be taking ourselves down then, at this point." Hermione is pretty sure there are things in her hair that she will never get out, and at least a dozen different layers of mud on different parts of her body. The rain had washed most of it off their bodies last night, but they were still dirty, and covered again a couple hours later.
Ironic, she sometimes thinks, when she's in a bed of mud. Ironic, when she pulls back dead shoulders to find a mask, and mud and blood covers her hands. So ironic.
"Hermione, you have to tell Rem-"
"I can't." She had known this was coming. She had hoped that it wouldn't, because this isn't over yet. Not for her, not for any of them.
"You have to. If you have a...an episode during a mission..."
"Arthur still-"
"That's different."
"How?" This comes out too much like a petulant child, and Hermione clenches her fists.
"Because we know his condition, along with most of everyone else who suff-"
"I'm not leaving this war, Tonks," Hermione whispers, but her voice is more steel than a plead. She can't leave this war. It is huge, but there is a part of it that is only hers to finish.
"You have to go through testing. The Guard and the Ministry will discuss the results, and if you're fit enough to keep going on missions, you'll be put on a list. The mission leaders might choose you, or they might not, but your condition has to be listed for the-"
"It's only happened twice."
"And it could happen again, any time. You could die. Your team members could-"
"I could Portkey out the second it comes-"
"A minute after, maybe. You would have to keep yourself calm while convulsing in the middle of a battle, get your hand in your pocket, and the Portkey out. A second counts, Hermione. A minute? That's-"
"My choice. I know that if my team members don't know about it-"
"Their reactions could be-"
"I don't want to go get tested, and have them tell me I can't go on missions, when I'm perfectly capable-"
"Then the test results will show th-"
"Tonks," she says, and now she can't keep the desperate edge from her voice. "Please. Please, you can't do this to me. You can't let them..."
There is a nervous tremble in her hands, and a ball at the base of her throat. She stops, turning to face the other woman, willing strength into the set of her bones. Tonks refuses to meet her eyes. Deep breath, Hermione, calm down.
"Does anyone else know about this?"
"No," she lies. If Tonks tells Lupin, she can't allow for Draco and Harry to get in trouble for their silence.
"Let me think about it, alright?" Tonks sets her jaw and her fingers run up, down, up her wand. "Twice in how long?"
"About two months." She should have said three, but Tonks might have traced it back.
Tonks gives a solid nod, then keeps walking.
Day: 1533; Hour; 6
"Ron," Tonks gasps out the split second after the wards fall.
Hermione automatically yanks her feet from where they have sunk in, like she has never walked a different way in her life, and turns. The bright red of blood stands out through the layers of brown and the pale white of his face, despite that even his hair looks maroon under the filth. Five Aurors rush forward from their meet-up point, and she pulls her arm out of one of their grips. Harold stays beside her, ignoring the demands to run forward now that the coin has been activated and the wards broken. Maybe it's some loyalty to Lavender, or to her after their rogue mission, or maybe because the man they had went on that mission to find is now standing in front of them marked in blood.
"Ron, are yo-"
"Wolf. James. Killed him."
"Are you injured?" Tonks rushes.
"Werewolf?" Harold asks.
"Werewolf," Ron pants with a nod, and clunks forward, grabbing Hermione's arm. "I'm fine. Let's go."
"Are you lying?" Hermione's voice is a little high when he pulls her forward, and the four of them begin to run.
"No, I'm fine. James... Brutal, bloody hell, it was..."
He drops her arm and Hermione reaches out to take his hand, ignoring the wetness. He still pulls it away from her, pumping his arms to move faster. The run is the hardest Hermione has had to endure. Past the wards are just more woods, more mud. With every slam of their feet, their boots sink down into the earth, and they have to wrench them out with every step. Her thighs and calves burn not two minutes later, and grunting accompanies the gasps for oxygen all around her.
The Aurors in front of them come to a sudden halt, and someone yells something she can't understand. Three of the Aurors disappear immediately, the other two following shortly after. Now that the line of Auror backs are gone, they can see Lupin's jolted run toward them. He looks clean but wild, and his face is pulled with the animal inside of him.
"Apparate back to Headquarters!"
"What?"
"We can't do-"
"-coin was activ-"
"-happened?"
"-was killed!"
"Now!" Lupin screams through their hesitancy, and they follow their orders with a single, booming crack.
Day: 1533; Hour: 16
The sky is a light purple and pink from the window of Draco's bedroom. A dead garden stretches out across the grounds below, a lake no longer shimmering in the twilight, and color is peeling from the gazebo. The grass is overgrown, and the trees are perfectly still in the quiet. It would be peaceful if she wasn't trying to get the knots out of her hair, and coming away with far too much hair in the brush.
She watches the sky turn to a deeper purple, the trees become black, and she counts the strokes of the brush so she doesn't have to think about anything else.
Day: 1534; Hour: 10
"I felt like I was getting punished with that mission," Ron groans, his heels thudding against the overly-expensive looking coffee table.
"It was horrible. Ten days on the ground, in the mud and rain, with a cold-"
"And bad food," Ron throws in, making a face when she sneezes into a tissue.
She shoots him a glare, blowing her nose, and throws the tissue with the rest of the mountain in the rubbish bin. "I wonder why Lupin sent us back."
"He won't ever say."
"I know. McG-"
"Hey!" They both look up toward the grinning face of Harry in the doorway. "I was told I would catch death if I went looking for you two, but..." Harry trails off with a wince at the body-wracking cough from Ron.
"Oh, come on," Ron leans over her toward the bin to spit out the phlegm he just got up before continuing. "You know death can't catch you, Harry."
Hermione purses her lips at him, in part from his comment and because another sneeze was about to attempt dislodging her brain. She pulls a tissue from the box in front of her, waiting, waiting... Ron pushes himself further away from her when she sneezes again, just to sneeze himself.
"Uh... I think I'll sit..." Harry pushes a chair to the wall on the other side of the room, "here."
"Didn't you miss us?" Ron asks, and Hermione smiles, wiping her hand across her scorching forehead. She had been about to suggest Harry leave the room, but it feels too good. Ron is starting to come back into himself, and even told her that he only had to take his anxiety potion once during their stay in the forest. If Harry's presence helps that, she'll just try to breathe in the opposite direction.
"Hey, I'm risking it, aren't I?" Harry raises his eyebrows, gesturing toward her when she starts coughing.
"Gross."
"Oh, shut up."
Day: 1538; Hour: 8
She mostly sleeps for two days straight, her dreams fevered, and her body sweating through the sheets. She deals with her sickness in a daze, Harry forcing her tea and soup. Tonks joins the sick party long enough to complain, and inform Hermione that the next time the shaking started, she was to Apparate or Portkey to St. Mungo's immediately for testing. While it isn't something Hermione wants to do, she understands the need for it above her own selfishness. At least Tonks hadn't told Lupin, which surely would have put her behind a desk or something until she had another episode and could be tested properly. She doesn't think she can take a daily work schedule at P&P. The thought of it alone is ridiculous, and makes her anxious when she stands still.
On the fourth day, while reading a book to them, she falls asleep with Harry's head on hers and Ron hogging all the blankets. It tears open and fills something inside of her at the same time, and though they are gone from Headquarters the next morning, she feels better than she has in weeks.
Day: 1538; Hour: 14
She talks to McGonagall for three hours about charms, transfiguration, and the history of Hogwarts. They share tea, stories, and a common need to communicate about something other than the war. Her old professor considers her opinions, begins debating with her, and insists upon being called Minerva. Hermione is struck with the thought that maybe she's passed that elusive line between thinking she's an adult and adults recognizing her as such. It makes her feel brittle and triumphant at the same time, and she has no idea why.
"I have to admit, it would be amusing." Prof- McGo- Minerva – and it sounds strange and disrespectful in her head – smiles, and pours another cup of tea.
"Oh, yes. A couple dozen twenty-somethings strolling into Hogwarts in our House uniforms. It would make an interesting final year."
"To say the least. Of course, when Hogwarts reopens, we will welcome back any students who wish to return. I'm sure the favorable option will be to complete your N.E.W.T.S through the Ministry."
Hermione smiles to herself, stirring in her sugar, and making sure not to hit her spoon off the sides. "I have to admit, the idea of returning to Hogwarts is very alluring. It was...home... But I'll be going through the Ministry, once I study properly."
She wants to go back to Hogwarts so badly she can taste it in her throat – bitter and bubbly, sweet and tart. No matter what prejudices she had to fight there, or dangerous times with her best friends, or how much she missed her parents at times, there was no other place in the world where she could walk through the front doors and know she belonged there. That sense of proper placement, of destiny, wonder, youth, contentment, and hunger for everything was mirrored nowhere else. The idea of returning to Hogwarts is like the idea of going home after several horrible, wandering years.
But she knows that those years have changed a lot of things. Even if she did return to Hogwarts, it would never be the same. She has gone through too much to feel naughty sneaking out past curfew, too old to not feel ridiculous in general. There would be no rowdy celebrations as Harry recounted catching the snitch, the weight of a heavy book bag would no longer be comforting, the absent faces in the Common Room would sing louder than the lullabies she hummed, and Lavender wouldn't care about who was snog- okay, maybe not that far. The point is that it's the past, and no matter what, she can never get it back again. Hard and heavy to swallow, she no longer belonged at Hogwarts.
It's what it gave her that she longs for now, but she'll never find it there. The past is something that you miss, and not something you get back. The only thing in life that doesn't change is the fact that everything changes.
"We will have a few teaching positions open." Minerva pauses to take a sip, her eyes bright and trained on Hermione over the rim of her cup. "If your interest sways you back to Hogwarts upon completion of your N.E.W.T.S, the doors are open for you." The older woman gives Hermione an affectionate look that makes her miss her mother and her chest tremble. "As well as mine, no matter the path you choose."
She's not sure if it pushes her back over the elusive line or not, but she doesn't care, when she reaches across the small table and hugs her old professor. A surprised oh is muffled in her hair, and thin hands press to her back. Teaching at Hogwarts is not something she has ever considered or even knows if she would do at this point. What she does know is that she's happy in this moment, and she's learned not to pass that up.
Day: 1539; Hour: 7
She feels good. She feels really good, and becomes slightly aware of the world on a moan, floating between that cozy, dreamy area of sleep and wakefulness. Something is...is that...what the... Hermione's eyes snap open to dull morning light, blond hair at the edge of her vision, and a very familiar back moving in a very familiar way. Her hand slaps against her face, she moves them so quickly, rubbing her eyes and moaning when Draco starts thrusting harder. What are you doing, how did I sleep through the beginning of this, this is a little rude, don't you think? combine into a gurgle of weird noise.
She grunts, trying to get her bearings, and there's a soft, cool breeze against her that brings the scent of...roses? Flowers, and birthday bouquets, and first dates. His hand skims down her stomach as he lifts his head from her neck, and she gasps in pleasure and fear at the same time. The sound brings his eyes to hers from some spot on her shoulder, and his expression is blank. His eyes don't even convey the passion and lust she usually finds there, but some cool, aloof semblance of need in a way only he could pull off.
"Draco?" she rasps, and her fingertips brush down his cheek as his eyes dart back to her shoulder. "What..."
There are streaks of dirt and blood on his face, his shoulders, and a splatter of dried blood on his chest. The sun peaks out from clouds or trees, and the room brightens, birds chirping to one another outside of the open window. There's a huge bruise across his shoulder and upper arm, spreading down across his collarbone, but she can't see any open wounds. Her fingers are shaky when she reaches up, ghosting fingers down his cheek and through his dirty hair.
His hips speed up, his jaw clenching, and his fingers digging violently into her skin and the sheet beside her shoulder. She wishes he would just stop for a moment, but she knows he won't, that maybe he can't. Her thumbs move gently along his cheekbones, tugging his face toward hers. He gives into the pressure of her worry and kisses her, hard, their teeth clinking and his tongue plunging into her mouth. The headboard pounds against the wall with his movements, and she lifts her lazy legs to wrap around him.
She grabs the nape of his neck and the wrist next to her, smelling the richness of dirt and tasting the metallic scent of blood. She tastes her own then, yelping past the breathy sounds of her pleasure when his teeth sink into her bottom lip. He groans, swiping his tongue against it, again, again, the rasp of his taste buds and then the suction of his lips. He reaches a hand down to rub at her furiously, and when she squirms and pushes her hips away from the roughness of his fingers, he calms them, the gentleness a strong contrast to the rest of him.
Despite her confusion, fear, and worry, she can't help the pleasure that washes over her. She gasps and moans against his mouth, knotting her fingers in his hair and yanks, pushes, yanks. She bites the tip of his tongue as he pulls away, grinding herself against him. When she moves to enter his mouth, he forces her back, claiming hers again with a growl.
He shoves his arm under her hips, angling her, and she lets go of his wrist to palm the headboard in an effort to keep her head from smashing against it. He grabs her hip hard enough to leave bruises, and his head drops to her shoulder, biting into her skin as he pulls tight above her. Her breath comes in heavy and hot, burning down her throat as she looks up at the ceiling with wide eyes. She loses rhythm with him as his thrusts grow erratic, and he groans hard and deep through his teeth and against her skin.
He collapses on top of her moments later, his breath rushing, and everything relaxed. She takes a shaky breath, uncurling her fingers to grasp the back of his head, and her palm drops from the headboard. His lips brush softly against the sore spot on her shoulder, and he's asleep before she even turns her head to look at him. She blinks slowly, and strokes his hair.