Hello. In case you, like Hermione, (and me,) miss Theo, I've made a scribbly little drawing of the two of them. Link's on my profile - have a look!
This chapter contains many snippets of dialogue "borrowed" from DH. I've done my best to give you a whole new perspective.
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but this twisted so-called "plot".
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...
"What… What's happened to him?"
"Splinched. Quickly, in my bag, there's a small bottle labelled 'Essence of Dittany'–"
"Bag – right –"
"He's fainted...! Unstopper it for me, Harry, my hands are shaking..."
xxx
"Why are we here? I thought we were going back to Grimmauld Place?"
"I don't think we're going to be able to go back there."
"What d'you –?"
"As we disapparated, Yaxley and a couple of other Death Eaters caught hold of me and I couldn't get rid of them… they were still holding on when we arrived at Grimmauld Place, and then – well, they were going to attack, so I brought us here instead."
"But then, where are they? Hang on... You don't mean they're at Grimmauld Place? They can't get in there?"
"I think they can. They got inside the Fidelius Charm's protection. Since Dumbledore died, we're the Secret-Keepers… Harry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"
"Don't be stupid, it wasn't your fault! If anything, it was mine..."
The air before Hermione's wand hazed and shimmered with magic. "Salvio Hexia... Protego Totalum ...Repello Muggletum... Muffliato..." she murmured, as she walked in a rough circle around the small clearing.
Harry was busy setting up their tent, and Ron remained sprawled on the forest floor, winded and in pain, the wound on his arm being the only part of his skin that had some colour.
She could hardly believe that this was the same place that, three years ago, had housed a quidditch stadium large enough to accommodate a hundred thousand people. It was also the place where she'd seen what the Death Eaters were capable of for the first time. It seemed that those woods were destined to induce a rush of adrenaline, be it from excitement, or terror, or the uncontainable anxiety of being on the run.
With a final "Cave Imunicium," she turned to the boys. "That's as much as I can do," she told them, nervously tapping her wand against her knee, "At the very least, we should know if they're coming. I can't guarantee it will keep out Vol–"
"Don't say the name!" Ron cut in severely, sitting up a touch and looking fierce. "I'm... sorry," he added, somewhat diffidently, "but it feels like a – a jinx or something. Can't we call him You-Know-Who – please?"
Harry's eyes darted towards Hermione, before settling on Ron in bewilderment. "Dumbledore said fear of a name –"
"In case you hadn't noticed, mate," Ron retorted impatiently, "calling You-Know-Who by his name didn't do Dumbledore much good in the end. Just – just show You-Know-Who some respect, will you?"
"Respect?" Harry sputtered, "What the –"
But then he decided to heed the cautionary look Hermione aimed at him.
She blessed him a hundred times as they lugged Ron into the musty tent; she absolutely could not endure any more days of bitter brooding. They gently helped Ron down onto the lower berth of a bunk bed, where he immediately fell against the pillows with a groan of pain.
Desperately wanting to make things better, and adhering to the tactic her Grandmother swore by, Hermione muttered, "I'll make some tea," and rushed into the tiny attached kitchen. From there, she could hear Harry and Ron fretting over the possible fate of the Cattermoles, and she let herself hope that henceforth, the tears in their rapport would begin to mend.
Why had she forgotten what the omniscient 'they' said about speaking too soon?
It was among her most favourite places: Hareshaw Linn.
When she was eight, her parents and she had trekked over to see the gorgeous waterfalls, awed by the gushing, frothy cascades... by the fern green, and the jade green, and the flickers of deep olive green and emerald green...
It was where she was now, sat on a rock, marvelling at the contrast between the streams of silvery water and the raw-umber rocks they rushed down.
"Oh!" Luna cried standing by the edge of a brook, "It's an Augurey!" She pointed to a distant tree, "If it sings, one of us is doomed to die."
"That's an old myth, Luna," Hermione said patiently, but Luna just gave her an 'oh-you-naive-child' look.
"I think I could stay here forever," Theo sighed, suddenly draped across a carpet of moss near Hermione's rock.
"Why don't we?" Luna smiled, walking over to curl into Theo's side.
"Indeed, why don't we?" Theo said, throwing an arm around her.
Hermione blinked at them, a bit disorientated. "But..." she mumbled, "The war..."
"If you're talking about your unrelenting war against your hair, Herms, that will never end," Ginny said with a mischievous grin, walking out from behind a tree.
"No... Um. No... I mean... the war... Voldemort..."
"Stuttering again, Granger? Shit, you're a dreadful conversationalist."
She jumped, and whipped her head to the other side. Malfoy, it appeared, was sharing her rock-seat. He smirked at her burgeoning confusion; his pale gold hair was being scattered this way and that by the wind.
"What?" she shook her head to settle her thoughts, "No... this isn't... Harry and Ron... the tent..."
"Do shut up," Malfoy suggested, "Don't try talking – it's clearly beyond your capabilities. Here, have an apple. Go on."
He held a bright, blood-red one out to her, a single eyebrow arched in challenge, and she looked from his face to the apple... and back to his face...
"AHHHHH!"
Hermione's eyes flew open in alarm, and the book on her lap fell to the floor with a thud. She glanced, wide-eyed, at Ron who was attempting to sit up in his bed.
"Harry...!" he exclaimed, "Outside!"
She charged out, nearly tripping on the way, and found her tormented friend slumped on the forest floor, alternatively twitching, muttering, and crying out.
"Harry!" She knelt by his side, shaking him desperately. He clearly was back in Voldemort's head, and she needed to bring him back. Shit, she –
"Harry!" she yelled.
He woke up with a gasp. At first, he stared up at her with fright and mystification on his face, but little by little recognition dawned, and he sat up in a hurry.
"Dream," he stuttered promptly, "Must've dozed off, sorry."
Hermione's worry turned into anger at the barefaced lie. "I know it was your scar! I can tell by the look on your face! You were looking into Vol–"
From within the tent came an infuriated shout: "Don't say his name!"
"Fuck – Fine," Hermione growled, "You-Know-Who's mind, then!"
Harry's own eyes flashed with irritation. "I didn't mean for it to happen!" he protested vehemently, "It was a bloody dream! Can you control what you dream about, Hermione?"
Hermione's felt herself flush deeply, but she persisted, "If you just learned to apply Occlumency –"
"He's found Gregorovitch, Hermione," Harry rushed out, cutting her short, "and I think he's killed him... but before he killed him he read Gregorovitch's mind and I saw—"
Since one good turn deserved another, she cut him short too. "I think I'd better take over the watch if you're so tired you're falling asleep."
"I can finish the watch!" he objected indignantly.
"No," Hermione snapped dismissively, "You're obviously exhausted. Go and lie down."
So he went, with a parting vituperative glare. Hermione was sure that he and Ron would have a ball dissecting his "dream," (a "dream" she was nearly sure was another of Voldemort's - successful - attempts to derail and distract Harry).
And she – alone in the dark with nothing but shadowy trees before her – felt herself sink into a deep hole of isolation, where all there was to do was gaze dully at the blue-black, and the grey-black, and the flickers of deep charry black and sooty black...
The very next morning, they packed up and apparated to the outskirts of the town of Nantwich. Ron claimed he didn't particularly care where they camped, as long as it was near enough to civilisation, so that they might get something to eat.
Hermione repeated the same cycle of protective enchantments, their tent was set up once more, and then Harry wrapped himself up in his Invisibility Cloak and went off in search for provisions.
To bide the time till he returned, Hermione plunged back into 'The Wizard and The Hopping Pot'. She was getting better at deciphering the runes, and it wasn't long before she reached the end:
But from that day forward, the wizard helped the villagers like his father before him, lest the pot cast off its slipper, and begin to hop once more.
Well, wasn't that precious. Was Dumbledore trying to teach her tolerance towards Muggles? If she had but one failing, it was certainly her prejudice, right? With a soft scoff, Hermione turned the page... and was confronted by an interleaf that was crammed with writing. The words were – thankfully – in English, and written in brilliant purple ink. ...Notes! Dumbledore's notes!
Brimming with excitement, Hermione read; it was a fascinating history of the tale, and how it altered as Wizardkind's opinions of muggles changed.
She was just about to get started on 'The Fountain of Fair Fortune', when Harry stumbled, panting and wheezing, into the tent.
"Dementors," he breathed, and collapsed into the nearest armchair.
Ron looked profoundly aggrieved, and whined pitifully, "But you can make a brilliant Patronus!"
"I couldn't ...make one," Harry gasped, "Wouldn't... come..."
"So we still haven't got any food," Ron grumbled.
"Shut up," Hermione told him, "Harry, what happened? Why do you think you couldn't make your Patronus? You managed perfectly yesterday..."
"I don't know," he replied, looking chagrined.
Then there was an almighty clatter of wood on floor as Ron kicked a small side table. She gaped at him in absolute disbelief – what sort of imbecilic child had he turned into?
"What?" he roared, "I'm starving! All I've had since I bled half to death is a couple of toadstools!"
Harry immediately sprang to counter-attack; "You go and fight your way through the dementors, then!"
"I would, but my arm's in a bloody sling, in case you hadn't noticed!"
"That's convenient."
(Oh god, Hermione groaned. A testosterone-fuelled showdown. Harry hadn't been this touchy since fifth-year when...)
"And what the fuck is that supposed to –?"
"Of course!" she exclaimed, jumping onto her feet. "Harry," she said, rushing over to his side, "give me the locket! Come on!" Harry stared at her blankly, and she snapped her fingers in front of his face. "The Horcrux, Harry, you're still wearing it!" And when he finally relinquished the locket she asked, "Better?"
"Yeah, loads better!" Harry said in wonder.
Cautiously, she put forth her next question – "You don't think you've been possessed, do you?"
"What? No!" he averred immediately, "I remember everything we've done while I've been wearing it. I wouldn't know what I'd done if I'd been possessed, yeah? Ginny told me there were times when she couldn't remember anything."
Hermione looked closely at the chunky adornment, and just the notion of what it was... and that it was in her hand... made her shiver. "Well," she mulled, "maybe we ought not to wear it. We can just keep it in the tent."
"We are not leaving that Horcrux lying around," Harry said decisively, "If we lose it, if it gets stolen–"
"Oh, all right, all right."
Without giving too much thought to what she was doing, Hermione set the locked around her neck and tucked in under her shirt. "We'll take turns wearing it, okay? So nobody keeps it on for too long."
"Great," Ron resurfaced, just as prickly as before. "And now we've sorted that out, can we please get some sodding food?"
"Fine," Hermione relented, "but we'll go somewhere else to find it. There's no point staying where we know dementors are swooping around."
They were camped in the Hexamshire moors, and it was Hermione's turn to keep guard outside the tent. She looked at her watch – eleven fifty-eight PM.
The flatlands seemed to stretch for billions of miles, and the moon was full. It was the sort of place where Macbeth's witches may congregate when storm clouds gathered, or where a Highwayman may come riding... riding, riding...
There was a rustling sound from within a nearby shrub, and a snake darted out. It slithered across the plains without looking her way. A gust of cool wind swept by, gently caressing her face. She looked at her watch – midnight.
She was officially an adult in both the worlds she inhabited.
She wondered what this day might have been like had the war not befallen them. She'd be at Hogwarts... in the Gryffindor common room with Harry, Ron, Ginny, Neville, Dean, and Seamus. Maybe she'd have mended fences with Parvati and Lavender too. They've have all gotten her food from Hogsmeade, and they'd have had a small party.
The next morning, the parcel from home would've arrived, along with a long letter, ("...would you please STOP growing up, my darling? ...don't listen to your father, Hermione; have a wonderful day...").
Theo had promised her a unicorn, hadn't he?
Fred and George would've sent her something mad and (as much as it would pain her to admit,) ingenious.
Mrs. Weasley would've knitted her something.
Professor McGonagall would've stealthily handed her a parcel, (without a doubt some interesting book on her subject,) after class...
Another nippy breeze wafted across the empty moorland. Hermione jerked oddly when she felt something burn against her thigh. She stuck her hand into her pocket and pulled out the old DA Galleon, and printed on its facade was: 'Happy birthday buddy.'
She was crying before she'd even fully understood what she'd read. Clutching the coin to her heart, she took in a dozen shuddering breaths, overwhelmed by that strange feeling of happy sadness that had all the potency of a heart attack.
She replied: 'U O me a unicorn.'
A minute later: 'How bout a Wrackspurt?'
'Nothing Invisible, prat.'
In the morning, Harry asked her if Vol – ("DIDN'T I ASK YOU TO STOP SAYING THAT?" "FINE, YOU-KNOW-WHO THEN!") could have hidden a Horcrux in Albania, where he'd spent his years of exile.
"Yeah, let's go to Albania," Ron snarked, "Shouldn't take more than an afternoon to search an entire country."
Hermione ignored him. "There can't be anything there," she said to Harry, "He'd already made five of his Horcruxes before he went into exile, and Dumbledore was certain the snake is the sixth. We know the snake's not in Albania, it's usually with Vol—"
"Oi!"
"For god's sake! The snake is usually with You-Know-Who – happy?"
"Not particularly." Ron scowled into the distance. "So where next?"
They were camped in Epping Forest, under a large oak tree. It was early in the evening, Harry was keeping watch, and Hermione once again curled up with The Tales of Beedle the Bard. She couldn't focus. Ron was sitting across from her bunk, silently glowering at her.
"What is it, Ron?" she asked tersely.
"Do you reckon Harry has any idea what he's doing?"
Hermione put away the book with a sigh. "Look," she whispered, glancing nervously at the entrance of the tent, "None of us have any –"
"Oh, stop that!" Ron snapped loudly, and she quickly cast a wandless muffliato around them, "Stop fucking coddling him. He's completely clueless, and he's dragging us around on leashes like we're pathetic little puppies."
"He's... he's doing his best, Ron..."
"WELL THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH."
Hermione clenched her fists. She wanted to punch him. She wanted to douse him in cold – freezing cold – water. "What do you want me to say?"
Ron sneered, "For starters, maybe you could bloody well admit that you thought he knew what he was doing! That Dumbledore had actually told him... something... that would justify dragging us –"
"He isn't dragging us anywhere! We volunteered! We –"
"YES, because we thought he had a plan. How long are we supposed to bugger around like this?"
Hermione stood up and walked away.
"HEY? WHERE ARE YOU GOING?"
"To get food," she replied coldly.
Under the invisibility cloak, Hermione apparated to a small alley in Essex. She crept down a sparsely populated street till she found a convenience store, which she entered smoothly alongside an elderly couple.
Once inside, she went straight to the loo so that she could remove the cloak without scaring the life out of unsuspecting bystanders. Yes, she was well aware that it wasn't quite prudent to walk around so freely, even within some random muggle shop... but just the illusion of temporary freedom was something worth cherishing.
She drifted down the aisles, looking dispassionately at all the goods for the sale. The neat and clean shelves, the bright fluorescent lights, and the perfect, controlled temperature all seemed so alien to her. She filled her basket with things that she thought the boys would like, which resulted in her spending the longest time in front of the shelf stocked with sweets. She picked up some instant noodle soup, a small loaf of bread...
She had to remember that her funds were very limited and that their quest was nowhere close to being over.
Eventually, she went and stood in the line leading up to the cashier. The sky was just beginning to darken, and she knew she had to get back. Idly, she glanced to her left... and froze. She was confronted with, in the glass door of a refrigerator full of beverages, her reflection. Her hair looked awful, even though she'd tried so hard to braid it neatly. Her frayed and faded jumper hung off her shoulders, and her jeans were stained with dirt. Hermione Granger in the prime of her youth, ladies and gentlemen!
Pointedly, she looked away. There was girl before her in the line, who looked about the same age as Hermione. Her hair was bleached blond and tied up in a high ponytail. She wore a tight denim dress and platform heels, and her toes were painted electric blue, and she pulled out a shiny pink snakeskin wallet to pay for her... her bottle of vodka and cigarettes.
The cashier was a man of about forty, with soft, hazel eyes. "Alright lass?" he asked kindly, and Hermione nodded with a wan smile.
I mind me of my youth and sigh,
Alas for youth, for youth gone by!
They were camped on Lyscombe Hill, and at five in the morning, Hermione took over guard duty from Ron. "Bloody pointless," he muttered under his breath as they passed each other.
The sun rising over lush green hills: It was probably the epitome of pastoral beauty and blah-bloody-blah, perhaps Constable would've got something out of it, but as far as Hermione was concerned, it was a routine, mundane phenomenon, and Mother Nature was nothing more than a frightful show-off.
She flipped open The Tales of Beedle the Bard, but then swiftly slammed it shut. Fuck off, Dumbledore. If this... this... inane children's book was what he presumed her intellect was worth, he well and truly could fuck right off.
Brightest Witch of Her Age. God, she wanted to scream, to rend her voice box until it bled, until her screams would be echoing across all the hills in Dorset for eternity. She wanted to scream at Ron; she wanted to scream at Harry. She was better than this, better than them... she should just run away to Istanbul and study about Byzantine's clandestine cabal of witches. She should go to China and learn about the warlocks of the Xia dynasty. In Varanasi, she could live with Yogis and discover the secrets of Vedic magic. She was mired in mediocrity here, because of some vagrant boy who wanted to play hero, and –
WHAT WAS SHE THINKING?
She exhaled hard, horrified at her herself. With a sniffle, she pulled the Horcrux-locket away from her skin, in the vain hope that that would stem its evil influence.
'I hate Ron.'
'Finally! Thank Theo!'
'CANNOT BECOME A THING.'
'Too late. May Theo bless u.'
They were camped on the bank of River Clwyd, and they were out of food again. The cicadas were chirruping, the river was quietly bubbling... inside the tent, the air was thick with animosity.
Ron was picking dourly at the food on his plate as he said, "My mother can make good fear appear out of thin air."
From the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Harry aim a ferocious frown at him, but somehow, he summoned the forbearance to stay quiet. She, however, had no patience left for him.
"Your mother can't produce food out of thin air," she snapped, "No one can. Food is one of the first of five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfigur–"
"Oh, speak English, can't you?" Ron erupted with a full mouth.
Hermione grit her teeth. "It's impossible to make good food out of nothing! You can summon it if you know where it is, you can transform it, you can increase the quantity if you've already got some –"
"Well, don't bother increasing this shite. It's disgusting."
And that was it. She set her fork down and glared daggers at the perpetually malcontent pain in her arse. "Harry caught the fish and I did my best with it! I notice I'm always the one who ends up sorting out the food, because I'm a girl, I suppose!"
"No, it's because you're supposed to be the best at magic!" Ron retorted baldly.
She leapt to her feet, uncaring as some of her fish landed on the floor. "You can do the cooking tomorrow, Ron! You can forage around for ingredients and try and charm them into something worth eating, and I'll sit here and pull faces and moan and you can see how you –"
"Shut up! Shut up now!" It was Harry who had expostulated roughly, and she felt a sharp sting of betrayal. She turned to him in indignation.
"How can you side with him, he hardly ever does the cook–"
"Hermione, be quiet! I can hear someone!"
She ran to her bag and took out three extendable ears, and tossed the boys one each. Then, with her knuckles pressed against her lips and her eyes fixed on Harry, she listened.
Her terror ebbed when she found out that their 'visitors' were goblins; it turned into intrigue when she realised that Ted Tonks was with them, and then, when she heard Dean's voice, it took all the self-control she had not to run out and meet him.
Then it got thrilling – there was a bit about Neville, Ginny, and Seamus trying to steal Gryffindor's sword from Snape's office... the fact that The Quibbler had become a mouthpiece for rebellion...
When they drifted away, Harry gaped at her. "Ginny – the sword –" he stammered.
"I know!" she squealed.
She ran, once again, to her bag; there was a portrait of a former headmaster of Hogwarts within, with whom they might possibly have an illuminating chat.
Jubilant over the discovery that the sword of Gryffindor could destroy Horcruxes, Hermione and Harry were pitching ideas about its probable location.
"Think!" she rasped excitedly, "Think! Where would Dumbledore have left it?"
"Not at Hogwarts," Harry said, pacing in his exhilaration.
"Somewhere in Hogsmeade?"
"The Shrieking Shack? Nobody ever goes in there."
"But Snape knows how to get in... wouldn't that be a bit risky?"
"Dumbledore trusted Snape."
"Not enough to tell him that he had swapped the swords."
"Yeah, you're right!" Harry grinned brightly, "So, would he have hidden the sword well away from Hogsmeade then? What d'you reckon, Ron? ...Ron?"
Ron? Where was he? Hermione spun in a circle, scanning the tent, and came to an abrupt stop when Ron's low voice emitted from his shadowy bunk. "Oh, remembered me, have you?"
"What?" Harry asked, moving closer to him.
Ron waved him away, "You two carry on. Don't let me spoil your fun."
Harry looked at Hermione pleadingly, but she was just as much at a loss as he was. It had begun to drizzle outside, and the drops falling on the roof of the tent marked the 7... 8... 9 seconds they stewed in confusion. Hermione was sure that Ron would be pleased that they finally had something to go on.
"What's the problem?" asked Harry, by and by.
"Problem?" Ron spat, "There's no problem. Not according to you, anyway."
"Well, you've obviously got a problem. Spit it out, will you?"
Slowly, Ron sat up. His face – half in shadow, half doused in candlelight – looked more sinister than she had ever seen it. And by god, he did spit. He spewed venom like she'd never imagined him capable of... and there she'd thought she'd seen the worst of his nastiness.
xxx
A forceful shield charm stretched between: her and Harry on one side and Ron on the other. For 12... 13... 14 raindrops, Harry and Ron looked at each other, their expressions full of intense loathing.
"Leave the Horcrux," Harry commanded sharply.
Ron yanked the chain off his neck, and threw in onto a chair. Then he turned to Hermione, raising his eyebrows. "What are you doing?"
"What – what do you mean?" she whispered.
"Are you staying or what?" he barked.
"I'm staying, Ron. WE said we'd go with Harry, remember. WE said we'd help–"
"Shut the fuck up. I'm so sick of your righteous bullshit. You choose him. Fine."
"No – please – just listen –"
"I get it, alright?!" he yelled, "If you could choose Malfoy over me... of course this is a no brainer."
With that, Ron burst out of the tent. Unable to help herself, Hermione ran after him. She saw him charging to the edge of their protective barrier, and she gave chase, blinking as raindrops fell onto her eyelashes. "RON!" she called... but he disapparated. Her voice travelled over empty cold night air, down the churning black river, into ether...
She walked back inside with heavy, sodden steps, her muddy shoes squelching sickeningly. She kicked them off and lowered herself into an armchair, and pulled her knees up to hug them to her chest.
"He's gone," she told Harry quiveringly.
Harry looked too stunned to speak. With jerky motions, he draped a blanket over her hunched form, and then slipped into his bed on the other side of the tent.