Sitting impatiently outside the Auror Office at 12 pm on Friday, Hermione can't help but feel out of place. She should be in her office, writing that memo on House Elf Payment Policy that needs to be ready for the department meeting on Monday, not crossing and uncrossing her legs as she waits for Harry and Ron to come out of Harry's office. It almost makes her regret intervening—no, she stops herself; it was good that she'd been there. If she hadn't finally given in to Ron's demands that she "take a bloody day off", she wouldn't have been in Diagon Alley book shopping and stocking up on potions ingredients. She wouldn't have stopped by the Leaky Cauldron to visit Hannah and have a drink. She wouldn't have been there to stop those rouge Voldemort supporters…
She wouldn't have saved all those people from harm, including that eleven-year-old muggleborn boy who had clearly just finished shopping for his first year at Hogwarts. She can't help but smile, remembering his face as it glowed with incredulous happiness when he walked into the pub, his flushed cheeks almost as red as his hair. Yes, she thought to herself, she definitely did the right thing. If only Ron would see it that way.
She takes her right hand and brings it to her face, fingers clutching at both sides of her temple in anxiety. Ron is currently being told the story by Harry, who himself is barely succeeding in containing his anger. It's good, in a way, because she has no desire to again relive the incident that just occurred—especially after having to stand next to Harry as he witnessed the event first-hand, using her memory and his pensieve to verify her story and collect details necessary for the trial. But knowing Ron, he would not let this rest. He would be furious at himself, as his actions indirectly allowed her to be at the scene. He'd be just as angry at her for not thinking of her own safety and recklessly facing the problem instead of calling for help. Hah, she snorted to herself. The filthy hypocrite. As if he didn't face the same sort of danger, or worse, as part of his job description.
Just as she begins to be impassioned by this imaginary argument, Ron comes barreling out the door, letting it slam against the wall in his haste. His eyes are blazing, and she feels her breath catch from intimidation. His gaze meets hers and he immediately walks towards her and gathers her up in his arms. She is surprised when, instead of serenity from Ron's embrace, she feels the unwelcome tug of apparition.
When the world stops spinning, she recognizes over Ron's shoulder that he has taken them back to their bedroom. She vaguely wonders when they decided it was rude to have their screaming matches in public before he holds her, his hands at her waist, a few feet away from him so that he can see her properly before asking brusquely, "So you're all right, then?"
"Yes," she exhales, "I'm fine. Honestly," she adds.
"Don't give me that bullshit, Hermione. You haven't even been to see a healer."
At his words, she takes a brief inventory of her appearance. There are bruises starting to form on her forearms. There's a nasty scrape on her left knee, visible through her now torn jeans. There's a distinct hole in her shirt at the side—the result of being held against a flame. And, although she can't see it, the residual pain in the left side of her face leads her to believe that there is a faint hand-impression there. These are the visible scars. She mentally swears, wishing she had had the foresight to clean herself up a bit before facing Ron's scrutiny. Feeling defensive, she can't help but point out, "The reason I haven't been to see a healer is that you literally pulled me out of the Ministry before I had the chance!"
His eyes narrow, sensing her evasiveness, but he grudgingly concedes his anger for a moment to prioritize her well-being. "Well come on then, sit down," he commands.
Thrown off by his change in attitude, she asks in confusion,"…What?"
"Sit down," he enunciates slowly. Normally she would roll her eyes at his condescension, but she thinks now might not be the best time, so she reluctantly obeys and cautiously lowers herself onto the foot of their bed.
"Good," he says as he takes out his wand and starts examining her wounds. He turns around to grab something from a drawer. She takes a moment, while waiting through the awkward silence, to observe her boyfriend. Her eyes scan his frame, starting with his unruly red hair—almost as bad as Harry's. He'd need to get it cut soon. Then down his back, his well-defined Auror muscles outlined by his dress shirt—the one she bought him last Christmas. When her gaze shifts down, she notices that he is wearing brown socks that clash horribly with his black shoes. At this, something so endearingly Ron, her love for him forces her into capitulation.
"I'm sorry, Ron," she apologizes plaintively.
He turns around holding a tube of healing cream and comes back before her. He kneels down, so that they are at eye-level, and he responds, "Tell me what happened."
"Ron, I'm sorry I got messed up in this. It's over. I'm fine. Let's just forget about it," she pleads.
"Don't lie to me, Hermione. You're not sorry. You would do the same exact thing again if given the chance. Just tell me what happened."
"But, you already heard from Harry," she protests.
His eyes bore into hers. "I want to here it from you." He then proceeds to open the bottle of cream and apply it to her knee, giving her no further opportunity to object.
Sighing in defeat, she decides to provide enough details to placate him.
"Well, after shopping this morning I decided to stop by the Leaky Cauldron."
She opens the door to the Leaky Cauldron with a sigh of relief, immediately dumping her shopping bags onto the floor beside the bar. At the massive thud they make when they hit the ground, Hannah Abbot appears from behind the counter, holding an empty glass. Hannah's expression, initially irate, turns to amusement when her gaze falls upon her.
"Geez, Hermione. Just buy all of Flourish and Blotts, why don't you!"
"Very funny, Hannah, "she responds sarcastically. Taking in her surroundings—namely the pub which is empty save her, Hannah, and two men sitting at a table in the corner—she quips, "At least with me running it, Flourish and Blotts would still be in business."
"Oh, shut it. If my pub was full of people drinking at 10am, I'd have more reason to be concerned that I have now," she responds, while resuming her position underneath the bar's counter.
Grinning, Hermione changes the subject," So how's Neville doing?"
"Oh he's great! He's really loving his job…"
Hermione's doesn't hear the rest, distracted by the jingle of the bell at the entrance to the pub. A small, freckled red-haired boy walks in with his bemused parents. He's holding his wand out in front of him with a level of reverence unexpected for a child so young. His parents go to sit down and he follows suit without thinking, his eyes still glued to the magical object lying in his palms. He's so preoccupied with his wand that he hasn't even noticed a small bit of dirt that has situated itself upon his cheek…
"Hermione!" Hannah reprimands. "Are you even listening to me?"
"Sorry!" she responds apologetically, "Just got distracted."
Hannah's eyes scan behind her, clearly attempting to identify Hermione's supposed distraction, and when she notices the boy she replies with nostalgia in her voice, "Ok, yeah, I've got to admit, I've got a soft-spot for first-years as well."
"Yeah, that's it," replies Hermione, though unconsciously her fingers begin to move over the expanse of her abdomen, as if exploring a possibility.
"And I talked to Hannah for a little while. I asked her about Neville. We saw a family shopping for Hogwarts supplies," she continues, speaking to Ron's head since he is still knelt in front of her, doing the finishing touches on her knee.
The bell at the door jingles again, signaling the entry of three new people into the pub. She can see that they're all men, but they're wearing hooded black cloaks that hide their faces. She tenses up immediately at the visual, her right hand darting for her wand, which had previously been lying peacefully but within arms length on the countertop—even this long after the war she can never stand to have it out of her sight. Her mind quickly tries to rationalize what she is seeing. Maybe they're just shielding themselves from the weather? It's not raining.
Acting on her gut-instinct—something she couldn't help but learn to trust with Harry Potter as her best friend—she casts a disillusionment charm on herself. Just as she can see her hands disappear in front of her, she hears each man cast a spell.
"Stupefy!"
"Colloportus!"
"Petrificus Totalus!"
As if synchronized, the two men at the corner table both fall from their chairs and hit the floor. The only door is sealed shut.
All three men then turn, one slightly in the front with the other two flanking him, and point their wands at Hannah, who is in the midst of lunging for her own.
"Accio wand," the cloaked figure in the front mutters lazily. Hannah's wand, which is inches from her hand, flies into his. He quickly pockets it and it disappears into his cloak.
Hermione meanwhile tries to evaluate the situation. It's one against three. She'll need to get Hannah a wand and the family out of the pub as soon as possible. She currently has the element of surprise, but it'll be gone the minute she uses magic. But what if she doesn't use magic? With a plan in mind, she makes her way towards the three men.
"What do you want?" Hannah asks, clearly both angry and frightened.
"Don't worry, love," drawls the leader of the three, "We're not here for you. We've heard that a certain Hermione Granger is here. Just tell us where she's run off to, and we'll be on our merry way."
At the mention of her name, Hermione freezes, suddenly unsure. "What could they possibly want with me?" she wonders. "And how did they know I was here?" Shaking her head and dispelling these thoughts she continues forward.
"Three men in black cloaks game in. I was suspicious so I disillusioned myself. They disarmed Hannah. They were…they were looking for me."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Hannah answers calmly, "I haven't seen Hermione in weeks."
"Now, love," the leader says with threats implied in his voice, "Lying won't help you none. Now why don't you just…"
Before he can continue, he falls to the ground, yelling out in agony. A wand flies across the room into the Hannah's surprised hands. Knowing she doesn't have much time Hermione shouts, "Hannah, apparate and get help! Take the family with you!"
She then turns her attention to the danger at hand. "Stupefy!" she cries, and one cloaked figure falls to the ground
"I snuck up on the leader from behind while he was talking and kicked him. That created enough distraction to get Hannah a wand so she could apparate the family out."
At this admission of physical violence, she can see Ron's eyebrows rise, but he still does not face her; instead, he simply moves his attention to her arms.
"Incarcerous!" yells the man left standing.
"Diffindo!" cries Hermione, severing the ropes before they fall to the ground in front of her. Not wasting a moment, she retaliates, "Petrificus Totalus!"
Not expecting her evasive maneuver, the man falls prey to her body-bind curse, his surprised face frozen along with the rest of his body.
"I managed to knock out the other two. Except the leader had gotten a wand and managed to hit me with a curse."
Behind her, Hannah is holding the father—the mother and boy already safe. They exchange curt nods before Hannah disappears with a pop. Hermione turns her attention back to the leader, who has surely almost recovered from her kicks to his groin and ribs by this point, but is surprised to find him no longer in the spot where she had left him. By the time she relocates him, it is already too late. When her eyes meet his, he has already cast the spell with his companion's wand.
"Crucio!"
The pain consumes her instantaneously, causing her to collapse to the ground, her right knee catching her fall. The torn skin and blood at her kneecap are the least of her worries as she writhes under the Cruciatus curse. To others, it is pain like nothing they've ever felt before. But she has felt it before, and her previous experience does nothing to stop her from feeling like she is bursting out of her skin. Even worse, he's laughing. Through the haze of her pain, she can't distinguish pitch. To her, his deep-throated chuckles are the same as the high-pitched maniacal cackles that haunt her dreams. Suddenly she can feel her curly black hair pressed up against her face. That cold, silver dagger being dragged teasingly against her skin. Images of a chandelier breaking, glass projected in every direction press upon her from behind her eyelids. She doesn't even notice when the curse is lifted, and when the man lifts her off the ground and forces her against a nearby wall, she is still shaking.
Confident she can't escape him, the man takes a moment to toss off his hood, revealing his identity. She looks up at him through tear-stained eyes and sees someone she does not recognize. He's about her age, probably a few years older, with short brown hair. He would be extremely handsome, she notes, but his face is marred by the mocking quality of his expression. She pegs him as a Dolores Umbridge-type. He causes pain and smiles while he does so.
He roughly grabs the side of her face to focus her attention.
"So," he remarks while looking her up and down, "you are the famous Hermione Granger."
The look in his eyes makes her uncomfortable. It makes her think that maybe she's in a different kind of danger than she had originally thought. She hopes help will arrive soon, but knowing the bureaucracy of the Ministry, it'll be another 15 minutes before the Aurors arrive.
"Oh, well spotted," she replies scathingly. "It's not as if I've been in hundreds of Daily Prophets because I helped my friends save the Wizarding World."
He chuckles before responding, "I'd be more respectful if I were you. I have you in a rather precarious position."
As he says this, he begins to move his wand up and down her side. At the end of his sentence, he pauses his wand, and holds the tip at one point. She feels the wand start to heat up. It progressively burns hotter and hotter until she feels a small burst of air hit her side, rushing into the small hole where that part of her shirt used to be. He deftly moves his wand away before it can burn her skin. She swallows down her rising fear, leaving her with a sour taste in her mouth—the admission that his intimidation tactics might be working.
"Now, Hermione," he says, continuing, "Do you know why we were sent here?" She feels herself shudder at the unwanted intimacy of him using her first name.
"No," she retorts, "But I assume you are going to tell me."
"I'm here because what better to show the Wizarding World that the Death Eaters are back than the kidnapping of Hermione Granger—Mudblood extraordinaire."
That vile word—Mudblood—is a dagger that has not dulled with time. Even now she continues to feel outraged and her hurt at being rejected—no, reviled—by her own society.
The man notices her face fall at his words and he has the audacity to grin. "What?" he jeers, "Don't you realize that no matter how many photo-ops and Orders of Merlin you've got, it doesn't change what you are? No matter how much you lie to yourself, no matter how much you try to offer up your accomplishments as proof of your worth, it doesn't fix the fact that don't belong here."
Somehow, with these words, this man manages to do what Malfoy's bullying did not. What torture did not. What an entire war based on the illegitimacy of her existence did not. They unleash the truth: that in spite of everything she's done—everything she fought a war at the precarious age of eighteen for—there will always be people who hate her. That within her own community is a heritage in which when children learn table manners they also learn blood-purity. That she will, for the rest of her life, have to face people possessing the worst kind of prejudice—the unexplained. The kind that is just an accepted fact of nature, incontrovertible. Even by her, the instrument of change of her generation. Some beliefs are simply embedded too deep.
Struck by hopelessness, she feels new tears trickle down her cheeks.
"He grabbed me from the ground and pushed me against the wall. He told me the Death Eaters were returning and wanted my kidnapping to be their big unveiling. You know, using the world's most famous Mudblood as their example."
Even though she is conveying his sentiments in their most mild form, she speaks the words harshly, coating them in bitterness. Finally, Ron's eyes meet hers. The depth of anger, of love, and of understanding is so great within them that she wonders whether Ron's new Auror skills include Legilimency.
"It's ok, sweetheart," the man responds, brushing the tears off her cheeks with his thumb and ill-intentioned comfort, "You still have use in this world—"
Her anger flares at his continued degradation and she bites back viciously before he can elaborate, "Yeah, to rid the Wizarding World of its true scum. Parasites like you!"
She doesn't register his palm moving towards her cheek until her entire face goes swinging to the right from the force of his slap. More tears spring from her eyes due to the brute force of the impact. She raises her head back up to face him, her eyes expressing utter loathing. She replies to his assault by coolly commenting, "Hitting me isn't going to make it any less true."
He reacts by grabbing both her arms and pulling them over her head while pressing his body within inches of hers. "Seems to me," he grunts, "That you need a lesson in discipline."
His proximity makes her breathing uneven, her eyes cautious and fearful as her body tenses against his. And then suddenly he's kissing her, trying to force her to open up to him. When she refuses to yield, he turns his attention to her neck, nipping at her skin none too gently. His free arm moves up and down her side while she twists and turns, attempting to break his hold. The futility of her current plan quickly dawns upon her, so she mentally prepares herself to enact the only possible escape plan she can formulate. When he brings his mouth towards hers again, she presses herself against him and reciprocates the kiss.
Surprised but eager, he releases her arms from above her head in order to explore the expanse of her stomach with both hands. She is nearly paralyzed from revulsion at his touch, but his fingers on her stomach remind her of her own exploration just an hour ago—curious rather than lecherous—and this jolts her into action. She trails her hands down his body under the guise of intimacy while secretly searching until she finds what she is looking for—peeking from his back jean pocket is his wand. Silently praying that he remains clueless for a few more seconds, she wraps her fingers around the wand and thinks clearly to herself, "Incendio!"
A second later, with no one there to hold her up any longer, she falls to the ground, slumped against the wall with his wand wrapped firmly in her fingers. The man is frantically trying to set out the fire that has just begun to consume his body. With her little remaining energy Hermione casts two spells.
"Aguamenti!"
"Petrificus Totalus!"
Right as the shadows begin to carry her to unconsciousness, she hears the familiar "pop" of apparaition all around her.
Unsure whether it is wise to gloss over the last bit or not, she begins hesitantly while staring at the ground, "I was so angry. I guess I provoked him a bit. He tried to teach my a lesson by…" At this point she relocks eyes with Ron and silently pleads with him not to overreact. She says the next few words carefully, "By forcing himself on me." Then she hurriedly finishes, "But he didn't get very far. While he was kissing me he got distracted and I stole his wand. I had just got him off of me when the Aurors arrived."
Relieved she has come to the end of her story, she exhales. She then notices, puzzled, as Ron seems to fight a battle between being passionate or calm, but as is typical, passion wins out. "Interesting story, Hermione," he starts out in a quiet voice that gets progressively louder as he goes on, "You seem to have conveniently omitted that the "curse" he used on you was the Cruciatus! You also seem to have left out all the horrible things he said to you about being muggleborn! Oh, but you told me he didn't succeed in raping you, so I guess it's all right, then."
He notices her visibly flinch in the face of his anger, and he immediately regrets lashing out at her. He reaches out to hold her face in his hands. Then he continues, gently, "Don't you think I deserve to know exactly how he hurt you? How am I supposed to help you, otherwise? And how else would I know exactly how much to beat the shit out of whoever is responsible?" he finishes, joking weakly with a hesitant smile.
"I just didn't want you to worry," she begins in a small, apologetic voice, "I thought that…hang on"—her eyes suddenly narrow suspiciously and her tone turns accusatory—"How is it that you know everything that happened when I didn't tell you? Damn it, Harry! I told him not to tell you the worst bits!"
He replies angrily "Oh don't go blaming Harry! He didn't break his word. He, unlike you, thought I should know the truth, so he let me use the pensieve."
Now she is furious. "Why the hell did you make me tell you what happened when you already knew?"
"Because, Hermione," he replies, his voice thick with condescension, "I wanted to know whether you would be honest with me. Guess that was too much to expect from you!"
"Oh that's rich. You actually expected me to exhibit honesty while you were practicing deceit? How unbelievably hypocritical, Ronald!"
They are in the same position as they have been—her on the bed's edge and him kneeling in front of her—but now both are catching their breath, trying to reign in their anger instead of letting it run rampant.
Ron is the first to speak, his voice deliberately calm, "I just never want you to withhold things you know are important from me. I want you to tell me everything because I can help you and because I deserve to know."
Hermione replies hesitantly, knowing he won't like her response. "Look, Ron. I'm sorry you found out the way you did and not from me. But I would have preferred you not know at all." She brings her right palm up to cup the side of his face. "I would have preferred you not know because I knew how much it would upset you."
He gently removes her hand from his face before boring his eyes into her own. "How would you feel, Hermione, if I didn't tell you about my Auror missions? If I was hurt or tortured or nearly died and never told you about it?"
Her mouth goes dry and her whole body goes cold at the mere thought. Nothing she has experienced today compares to the terror evoked by such possibilities. And yet she would never forgive him for not telling her about every, single one.
Her admission of fault is reluctant but sincere. "I…I'm sorry Ron. I didn't realize." She closes the gap between them, pouring her apology into a tender kiss. She brings her hands up to Ron's chest, only to break the kiss in surprise. Beneath her fingers she can feel him shaking.
Concerned, her eyes flash to his. "Ron?"
Suddenly she finds herself wrapped up tightly in his arms—so tight it's almost as if he's afraid to let go. He speaks in ragged breaths, physically exhausted from fighting alternating waves of anger and relief.
"These people, Hermione. They fucking hate you."—she shifts uncomfortably in his arms at the blunt truth of his words—"That means their cruelty has no limits. I should know. Because I hate them. And if I got my hands on one of them, there's no saying what I would do."
In the face of Ron's words, which make her feel overwhelmingly hated and loved all at once, she finally starts to cry. The moment the tears arrive, she feels herself being swooped up, held against Ron's chest. He settles himself down under the covers, bringing her with him. He traces reassuring circles on her back while she continues to helplessly sob, curled in fetal position. Through the sound of her own pain she manages to hear him voice his own as he bitterly remarks, "Now this is the second time I wasn't there to protect you."
She automatically is sobered by his self-deprecation and turns around so she can see his face. "Ronald Weasley!" she reproaches, "Don't you dare blame yourself for this!"
"Why shouldn't I? Big help I am, always failing when you need me most." He is firm in his self-hatred.
"No." she objects fiercely. "Your job isn't to prevent the pain. It's to make it go away." She adjusts herself in his arms so that her head is buried in the crook of his neck. "That is when I need you most. For that you've always been there. In the hospital wing. At Dumbledore's funeral. With my parents. At shell cottage."
"You're always there for me, Ron."
She feels his muscles lose some of their tension as he is mollified by her words. When he speaks, it is in the fervent manner of someone who believes in an incontrovertible truth of his own.
"Always."