A/N: *peers from around corner*
*clears throat*
*waves*
Ron and Hermione left the safehouse so early the next morning that the sun had yet to breach the horizon. In stillness and darkness, Hermione again climbed into the passenger seat of the rented sedan, this time sporting a long bob of straight black tresses. She'd darkened her brows and applied a heavy glamour on her skin, and though she felt quite beautiful when she looked in the mirror, she had to search to see a semblance of her natural face underneath it all.
They'd woken hours ago to charm alterations to their appearances, the small changes being much easier magic to maintain than total makeovers. Ron had lightened his red locks to a dirty blonde colour, and managed to hide most of his facial hair with a temporary vanishment charm. He'd left a thick moustache, the ends of which they'd curled up a bit, and sported thick-rimmed fake glasses, giving him an appearance that Hermione had immediately deemed "hipster-esque." He'd even been able to cover some of his freckles, reducing their overall influence on his skin, and worn a shirt with sleeves long enough to cover all of his unique tattoos.
Despite the changes to his appearance, he was still a very attractive man. Hermione hoped he wouldn't draw too much unwanted attention. Still, she missed his multi-toned copper hair and the freckles that covered his high cheekbones and long nose.
At least his eyes were the same.
After their pizza dinner the previous night, Hermione had set about transfiguring the clothes Ron kept on hand so they both had full outfits that were, at the very least, sized appropriately. She did not have an eye for fashion, but, as Ron had said, they needed to stay under the radar anyway. He'd packed two bags of gear he'd dug up from around the small cottage, things like gloves, ropes, binoculars, and utility knives. Hermione added clothes, blankets, and a box of protein bars she'd found in one of the kitchen cabinets. They'd decided to leave their phones behind in case the Ministry deigned to use Muggle technology to ping for their locations. It seemed unlikely but prudent.
Throughout the previous evening, he'd maintained a steady stream of advice for not drawing attention to herself. Don't make eye contact. Move in the same direction as the crowd, even if it's not the way you need to be going. Don't exchange pleasantries. Look straight ahead of you. Don't be too loud. Go at the same pace as everyone around you. Too slow or too fast will draw the eye.
She was glad for his sleepy silence in the car this morning as she sipped on her hot tea. Her nerves were on edge enough without a reminder of the upcoming day.
It was just that…Ron was so good at these things. She was way out of her depth and would have been completely lost if not for him. It was exactly like when they'd been back at uni: she'd always felt calmer when he was around, more whole in his presence.
She glanced at him, then mentally shook herself. By and large, letting him affect her in such a way was a dangerous habit to fall into. He'd made it clear that he didn't trust her. That he hadn't forgiven her. Honestly? She couldn't blame him one bit. It was ten years too late, but she was beginning to think that she needed to sort her priorities.
Back then, when she'd been graduating, it'd felt like she'd be asked to choose between a man and her job. She was a young woman on the brink of independence, of course, she'd picked her job!
But now?
She bit her lip, once again glancing at the quiet driver. She hated to admit it, but perhaps she'd been wrong. Perhaps the choice hadn't been simply between a job and a boyfriend. It wasn't as though she'd relocated, and they'd mutually decided not to continue their romantic interests because of it.
No, the true decision that the Department of Mysteries had asked her to make was between them and everyone else in her life. She'd had a choice between her many relationships, all the friends and family she'd loved, the ability to cultivate connections and let people into her heart…and a job.
Her department wanted soulless drones to work for them. People who had nothing else to distract from their work, who could give eighty-hour weeks and dedicate their lives to ingesting the DoM propaganda.
She'd been living the last decade in shades of black and white, but after three days– a measly three days– of interaction with Ron Weasley, the colours of the rising sun were permeating the folds and wrinkles of her disillusioned life.
Stifling a groan, she let her forehead rest against the coolness of the car window. Is this what Ron did to her? Their interactions hadn't even been that pleasant on the whole. But they were real. Real, living moments of a life that she'd forgotten could be.
Was this what she'd been missing all along?
"We're almost there," Ron grunted, and she swung around to face the front, nodding.
He pulled the car into a small lot, and they got out, removing bags from the boot. Hermione touched her right fingers into the cuff of her left sleeve, comforted by the feeling of her wand strapped against her inner arm. True to his word, Ron had given it back to her first thing this morning. It'd been like returning a missing appendage.
He tucked the keys under the floor mat of the car and locked the door with his wand.
"I don't want to risk asking Harry to return it to the rental company," he said, frowning as they walked away. "Rule number one of being off the grid: be off the fucking grid."
"We're going to wrack up quite a few late fees."
"If we make it to that point, I'll gladly pay them."
"I assume that's where we're going?" She pointed at the small, dank building nearest their car lot. They were nestled in a rundown industrial district near Dublin. The lot wasn't very big, but, she supposed, there probably weren't many wizards who drove Muggle cars to a magical transit hub.
Ron nodded, and she hitched the shoulder straps of her bag as she followed him along the pavement to the entrance. Through the dusty glass, the building looked like an empty, abandoned warehouse, but once they'd pushed their way through the revolving door, it transformed into a bustling hub.
The space was arranged rather like a Muggle train station. Numbered gates were spread throughout, each with signs indicating the destination and countdown timer for that portkey. Wizards of all varieties of dress filled the building to the brim, either rushing through crowded aisles or milling around the vendor-lined perimeter, shopping the many wares. Hermione's attention was consumed by the security guards, her heart racing at their leering expressions.
"C'mon," Ron murmured.
Remembering his many pieces of advice, Hermione kept her head down, letting her hair cover her face and following him through a crowded aisle. They stopped to examine the Departures board, which was covered in paper notices that kept rearranging themselves in order of timing. Once a portkey left, the sign associated with it wiped itself clean and moved to the back of the queue, while the ones behind it all shoved to the left for easier viewing. The overall effect was rather boisterous, but after a few minutes, Hermione got the hang of it.
"Looks like we're on time," she said, keeping her voice low. They'd agreed not to say Santiago out loud on the chance that someone was here looking for them.
Ron glanced over his shoulder, disguising the activity with a big yawn. "There's a bloke standing guard at the South America check-in."
She stepped closer to him and peeked around. "Is that not normal?"
"Hard to say." He threw a lazy arm over her shoulder, tucking her into his body. "Remember," he murmured, and in this proximity, his minty scent permeated her senses. She could barely concentrate on his next statement. "We're going to Argentina for our fifth anniversary."
"How could I forget?" she asked, and half facetious, half flustered, she tangled her fingers in his and spun out from under his arm. She needed to put some distance between them to keep her head clear. "Let's go, dearest; I don't want to miss our portkey." She tugged on his hand and he begrudgingly moved his feet.
"Dearest? How old are you, Neave?" From the corner of her eye, she caught the outside of his lips curling upward. "Who in our generation says 'dearest?''
"I didn't realise I was going to be under such scrutiny this morning, Ivan, dearest." She squeezed his fingers as tight as she could and did her best to shoot him a suppressed glare.
To her utter amazement, he seemed to light up at her response. "Suppose that it's been so long, you've forgotten how to flirt."
The shock must have registered on her face, and a low chuckle escaped the infuriating man at her side. "I haven't…" She blustered, then blushed at his raised brow. "I have not!"
He laughed again. "If 'dearest' is the best you got."
Something about the twinkle of his eye filled her mind with memories of his face, ten years younger, soaking wet and feigning chastisement over her water bubble prank. He'd looked at her the same way back then, right before he… She blinked, forcing the memory away. When was the last time she'd thought of that?
Hermione forced herself to speak, to say something so he wouldn't know that he'd gotten to her. "If not 'dearest', then what would you prefer I call you?"
"Oh, do I get to choose? Hmm, I suppose I'd go with 'handsome,' or 'sexy,' or 'my king' in a pinch."
She snorted, rolling her eyes. "How about I don't curse you into next week and we call it a day?"
"Well look at that." He smirked and tugged her so their shoulders were touching. "You do remember how to flirt."
She shook her head, fighting a smile so as not to give Ron the satisfaction. She disentangled her hand from his and pulled Neave's apparition licence from her jacket pocket as they approached the check-in counter for South America.
The wizard working at the small station checked her licence against a large, handwritten ledger of names that Hermione assumed were banned from travel to this particular continent. Not finding Neave Wallingford, he handed the ID back to Hermione and waved her through. She wondered if her real name had been added to the ledger already.
Ron followed behind her and they ambled over to the waiting area for Buenos Aires. The eyes of the guard followed them to their destination, and the levity Hermione had briefly enjoyed on the walk over was crushed beneath his gaze.
"Eight minutes," she muttered, staunchly avoiding looking at the security guard and wringing her hands.
Ron leaned against the railing that enclosed the immediate portkey area, and, taking her hand, pulled her to stand nearly between his knees. "It'll be alright, Neave," he whispered, running a large hand up and down her arm in a comforting way.
She knew that their current position was a cover for him to be able to scan the room over her shoulder while keeping her within safe proximity, but she closed her eyes and breathed, letting herself get carried away in the comfort of his touch.
The Buenos Aires portkey was scheduled to leave five minutes before the Santiago one, so it wasn't long before witches and wizards around them bustled into life, congregating towards a rusted metal watering can sitting on a lit pedestal in the middle of the partitioned space. They fell in line with the other dozen people, touching their fingers to the portkey as the overhead announcements counted down the last thirty seconds.
She tried not to look at Ron but was keenly aware when a gum wrapper fell from his pocket, and he swooped to pick it up, releasing something in the process that walked away of its own accord. When he stood to full height again, not more than a few seconds later, Ron met her eyes, and she was not altogether surprised to find that instead of looking nervous or apprehensive (the way that she herself most certainly felt), he grinned at her and winked.
When the Buenos Aires portkey countdown hit ten seconds, something right outside the security gate to South America exploded with a bright light and a loud bang. Hermione had just enough time to see the additional guard turn his gaze from them before she ducked away, following Ron at a quick walk. In the ensuing chaos of lingering smoke and people shouting, Ron pulled off his glasses and jammed a beanie on his head. Hermione pulled her long, straight black hair into a low ponytail and then tapped both their shirts with her wand, changing their colours to different, neutral shades.
By the time the security guard looked back, the Buenos Aires portkey had departed and Neave and Ivan Wallingford were nowhere to be seen.
Ron and Hermione strolled as casually as they could to the Santiago portkey, which was a dozen gates away and already two minutes into its own five-minute countdown.
Hermione's heart was pounding so hard she was sure the entire transportation depot could hear it. She registered the gentle movement of his thumb along the back of her knuckles, though she was unsure exactly when they'd clasped hands again.
The last ninety seconds seemed like both an eternity and the blink of an eye all at once. She was sure someone was going to shout, call attention to their presence, chase after them. But, when the countdown completed and, with her finger pressed to a bicycle frame with no front wheel, she felt the familiar jerk behind her navel, she was fairly certain that they'd somehow managed to get away with their plan.
At least, the first half of it.
Moments later, her knees were shaking with the impact of their landing. She stumbled, letting the familiar warmth of Ron's rough, calloused hand lead her away from the Arrivals bay and into the main atrium of the transportation hub. It was easier to blend in with the crowds here, even in the middle of the night. Santiago was almost ten times more populated than Dublin, so Hermione supposed she shouldn't be surprised.
Ron made a pit stop at a Muggle money exchange, swapping euros for pesos. They pushed their way through the exit doors, hidden in a group of other travellers, and emerged into the pitch black of night. Hermione, blinking, looked around, attempting to get her bearings. The exit of the magical transport centre disappeared into the landscape of tall bushes and long, brown grasses, illuminated only by the pale reflection of the moon. Other travellers, seemingly knowing where they were going, disapparated within a few steps of the hidden doorway, disappearing from all around her with little pops.
Needing to get away from the traffic, Hermione spotted a footpath and shuffled through the dry dirt towards it. Ron followed, and they soon crested a small hill. In wonder, Hermione gasped and spun in a slow circle.
They were surrounded by breathtaking views of the city of Santiago, a sea of twinkling lights in the night. A tangled web of countless buildings, set against a sprawling skyline, seemed to stretch on and on. Streaks of fast-moving cars lit the grid-like roads. Long, dark tendrils of wispy cirrus clouds reached for the silhouetted peaks of rock that cut imposing figures into the neverending horizon.
San Cristobal Hill, of course. Where else could they be? She'd known the depot was located here, but not that they'd be let out right at the top of such a famous site. Perhaps that was why the portkey hub was so crowded even though it was the middle of the night…most of the magical travel must be scheduled during hours when Muggles weren't allowed.
Caught in the astonishment of the unexpected beauty, her senses whirred in overdrive. It was amazing. So much movement, so much life.
A small shifting of gravel caught her attention, and she noticed Ron staring at the tallest tower, the blue of his eyes vibrant, even in the dark.
"Gran Torre Santiago," she said, unable to resist answering the unasked question. Filling the silence was a nervous habit. She turned her gaze back to the skyscraper, the colours of the nightlife reflecting off its mirrored sides. "Second tallest building in Latin America."
He graced her with a small smile. "How is it that you know everything?"
"Being here, and seeing this?" She gestured around, the enormity of the view consuming her. "I don't know, it makes me feel like I understand next to nothing."
"What do you mean?"
"It's so…" A chill of wind blasted around her and she folded her arms, struggling to verbalise her thoughts. "I've spent the last three days thinking the world was ending but…" She let her voice trail away, surprised when Ron supplied the words.
"The world is so much bigger than just us?"
Us. Hermione let the word sink into her heart. He could have said you, but he hadn't. He'd said…us.
She met his eyes under the folded edge of his beanie, letting herself get pulled into the swirling whirlpool of blues and greys, his face eerily bright in the shadows of midnight.
"Yes," she whispered.
When had she moved so they were close enough that he could put his hand on her hip like that? His grip burned like fire. The wind whipped about them, pulling on her hair and clothes, but it was the brush of his thumb on her waist that made her shiver.
"Ron, I–"
"Ivan."
She blinked. "What?"
"Ivan," he repeated, soft but gruff. He stepped away from her and, just like that, the moment was broken.
"Right, yes." She ignored the dropping of her stomach, taking a step back. "Of course."
"Do you think we can risk apparition?" He lowered his voice so she could barely hear it over the wind.
She nodded, biting her lip. "Yes, there are so many people apparating right outside this depot that it would be impossible for anyone to distinguish our unique frequencies, even if they happened to be standing right beside us."
"I doubt anyone is, or they'd be on us already." He glanced over his shoulder, his actions superseding his confident words.
She felt a tingle in the back of her neck, suddenly nervous. "We should go."
"Agree." He offered her his arm. "Same plan?"
She nodded, looping her hand through his elbow and spinning her heel.
They appeared at the bottom of the hill, having decided previously that it was too risky to apparate any further in an unknown city. The Muggle funicular was closed, and they crept in the eerie darkness through the deserted station, following the sounds of music and voices to Pio Nono street.
The contrast between the closed park and the crowded nightlife of the street was jarring. After a glance at Ron's clenched jaw, Hermione raised a wavering hand to call a taxi.
By the time she'd watched the sunrise for the second occurrence of the day, Hermione was buckled into the window seat of a large passenger jet. Flight attendants bustled about, preparing the plane and its patrons for take off. She felt oddly calm, but perhaps she'd been on edge for so long that she welcomed the chance to sit and relax for a moment.
Ron shifted in the seat next to her, and the anxiety in his tense whisper made her turn to analyse him. "How long is this flight again?"
"Five and a half hours," she answered.
He winced and tightened his grip on the armrests, his knuckles a stark white.
"We haven't even taken off yet, Ron," she said, tapping the back of his hand. "You may want to relax a bit."
"I don't like flying."
"What are you talking about?" She lowered her voice to a whisper. "What about all that Quidditch?"
He shot her a look as though she were being intentionally obtuse. "It's not the same."
The plane began to move, picking up speed as the wheels left the runway. During their gain in altitude, the plane lurched, making Ron jump and wrap a vice-like grip around her wrist. Hermione looked down at his long fingers and touched them gently as she spoke in a calming voice.
"It's much safer than a broomstick, you know."
He opened his eyes and exhaled as the plane's pitch levelled, then released her wrist. She snagged his arm, noting the subtle tremor, and, without considering the consequences, thinking of nothing more than trying to assuage his obvious discomfort, she tangled their fingers together and pulled his hand into her lap.
She froze upon realising what she'd done, and when she braved to turn her head to look at him, found his piercing blue gaze locked onto her already.
"I don't believe that."
She paused, confused. "Believe what?"
"That flying in this thing is safer than a broomstick."
He squeezed her hand tighter, then turned to face the front and closed his eyes again.
"Oh, it definitely is," she said, equal parts relieved and disappointed that he'd let the intensity of the moment pass.
She looked out the window, forcing herself to go over their strategy upon landing. They'd hop on a hotel shuttle to get out of the airport, then walk about an hour south to Rano Kau. This location was known to the Muggles as a dormant volcano with a large crater lake, but in reality, it served as a spiritual site for the wizarding world. At least, those members of the wizarding world who could be considered spiritual. These days, that number was small, though Hermione supposed Ron could be counted among their number. He always was much more…intuitive, emotional even, in his usage of magic.
She tried to stay focused on the details of their plan, on the important things that might save her life, but instead, all she could think about was Ron Weasley's large, calloused, freckled, beautiful hand wrapped around her own.
Sure, they'd done this plenty of times, today alone even, but it'd been for show, part of a ruse. For some inexplicable reason, it felt different now. No one was looking. No one cared if these two strangers sitting quietly by the window were together or not. And yet, he hadn't pulled away from her. He was taking comfort in her touch. Despite all the animosity, misunderstandings, anger, history, and frustration…he was holding her hand.
She studied his profile: the curve of his pale lashes, his long nose, his sharp cheekbones. She missed his freckles and beard, still hidden beneath charms. She was struck by the need to apologise to him, for…what exactly? She blew out a breath, unsure of where to start. The magnitude of her mistakes was too large. He'd never forgive her.
It didn't matter much, did it? She didn't deserve his forgiveness, but he still deserved an apology. Determined, she opened her mouth to say it, but the plane bounced with the briefest turbulence and he blanched, face paling, squeezing her fingers to the point of pain.
She shoved her feelings aside, blushing with her selfishness (though his eyes weren't open to see it). Now wasn't a good time for him. If she wasn't so caught up in her own worldview, she'd have seen that.
So instead of opening the floodgates on the words she longed to say, Hermione stroked her free fingers along his tattooed arm and whispered quiet, calming words of nothing. Ron didn't open his eyes, or speak, or even acknowledge her encouragement.
But he also didn't let go of her hand.
A/N: Sooooooo it's been a while. Sorry about that. As it turns out, I think this was a very global-panini centric hobby for me, and the past 10 months have been the exact opposite of that energy in my personal life. All good things!
I promise that I'm doing my very, very best to finish this story before I hang up my pen for the longer term.
I also wanted to shout out that I previously was tapping the ever-lovely cheesyficwriter and accio_broom as betas on the chaos of my writing. After such a long break, I am absolutely NOT going to impose on them. So, ladies, if you're reading this, I still adore you and you're also off the hook for this one. :)