DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter.
Chapter Two: Descending and Ascending
Rob Weasley sat rigidly atop a barstool in the dilapidated building which housed the Hog's Head Pub. Anger filled his veins, and he tossed back the final dregs of his pint glass before motioning to the barkeep for another firewhiskey. Images danced in his brain - his brother, lying cold and motionless on the unforgiving stone tiles of the Great Hall, his mother's anguished howl as she held Fred's lifeless body, Hermione's face as she turned and walked away from him. He clenched his fist around the mug that had just been placed in front of him, raised it to his lips, tipped his head back, and drained the glass.
"Another." He rumbled, his voice a furious growl. The barkeep raised his eyebrows at the distraught young man in front of him, but placed another glass down on the dingy counter regardless, filling it to the brim with golden firewhiskey.
Fred's funeral had been that morning, two weeks exactly from the Battle of Hogwarts. The rain had steadily drizzled over all the gathered mourners, adding an acute sense of depression to the whole affair. Molly Weasley's wails could be heard throughout the otherwise silent graveyard, and Arthur Weasley's eyes were vacant as he shook hands with the wizards and witches approaching him to offer their condolences. Hermione hadn't been in attendance, and this fact simultaneously broke Ron's heart whilst making his blood boil. At the end of the ceremony, a rainbow had broken through the oppressive clouds, and George had looked to the sky and whispered quietly "Hey Freddie."
Even though Harry had since told him the story of finding himself in King's Cross Station after being hit with the Killing Curse, Ron found the idea slightly ludicrous. After all that had happened... he just couldn't believe. People who died were gone, erased from this life as quickly as footprints in sand. After all he'd seen, every horrific thing, he found it hard to believe that there was anything at all after one passed.
Tipping his drink to his mouth once again, Ron drained his glass once more before rising unsteadily to his feet, dropping a few Galleons on the counter, and stumbled out into the night. The darkness of the street outside enveloped him like a glove, cold air permeating his bones and causing him to pull his cloak closer around himself. He shivered involuntarily, but continued to wobble down the darkened street, not entirely sure where his destination was.
"Ron?" A girlish voice queried from the shadows. Romilda Vane stepped into the light, her teeth shining white in the moonlight.
"'Ello." Ron replied, his speech slow due to how much firewhiskey he'd consumed earlier. Romilda's eyes danced.
"You're in no fit state to be wandering around town at this hour." She tsked like a mother hen, smirking and wrapping her arm around his sagging shoulders. "Let's get you cleaned up."
Later that night, Ron lay in an unfamiliar bed, the sleeping figure of Romilda Vane covered by a thin quilt lying next to him. His mind wandered to Hermione, and he wondered if she'd be hurt to know what had just transpired. He smiled vindictively at the thought, before drifting away into a dreamless sleep, lulled by the firewhiskey still running through his bloodstream.
Hermione held a small piece of parchment clutched tightly in her left fist, the words 919 Elizabeth Street nearly illegible from being folded and then unfolded multiple times. The August heat beat against Hermione's freckled skin and sweat beaded at the nape of her neck; even though she had spent nearly three months in Australia, she was still woefully unaccustomed to the blistering heat. Taking a deep steadying breath, she looked down one final time at the tattered piece of parchment before carefully studying the small bungalow in front of her. The numbers 919 glistened bronze in the glittering sunlight and the single tree planted on the lush green front lawn cast dappled shadows. Sheer curtains were pulled across the front window, and as Hermione watched, movement from inside the house ruffled them slightly.
She took one more breath, and then began to walk towards the door. Her hands began to sweat slightly, and she clenched them into fists. She'd been looking for her parents for months, following every possible lead. Everything so far had lead her to a dead end; this was her last shot. Coming to a halt at the top of the concrete steps, she lifted the bronze door knocker and tapped on the door sharply three times. Holding her breath tightly in her chest, she froze as the door slowly swung open.
Standing on the doorstep, a bewildered look on her petite face, was Hermione's mother.
"Wendell and Monica Wilkins?" Hermione breathed, not daring to believe it. The look on her mother's face turned questioning.
"Why yes dear, that would be me and my husband. Can we help you?" A hot tear streaked down Hermione's cheek, and Mrs. Grangers face turned concerned.
"Why I say dear, are you all right?" Hermione nodded wordlessly, pulling her wand out of her pocket and shakily pointing it at her mother.
"Memorari." She whispered under her breath, watching her mother's eyes go blank before filling with an awareness they had previously lacked.
"Hermione?" She breathed gently.
"Mom?" Hermione launched herself into her mother's arms, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair, so similar to Hermione's own. It smelled like finally coming home.
AN: Hello again my lovelies! I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it! I'm kind of on a roll with this story right now so I'm hoping to have another chapter done for you soon. I know there wasn't any signs of Harry in this chapter but I'm hoping to dedicate the entirety of the next chapter to Harry, so don't worry! If you liked this chapter, please leave me a review!
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