Dislcaimer: Don't own HP :)
A/N: Hey guys! Sorry about the delay. This week was finals week and if you live in Iowa - or anywhere else in the Midwestern United States - like I do, then you know the weather has been absolutely batty. Rain, ice, snow, hail, etc, etc. Studying has been the worst. Half the time school isn't even open.
Anyway, to make it up to everyone, I stayed up all last night and wrote almost triple my normal amount. I really hope you like reading, because to me, the story is getting very interesting. Enjoy!
"Are you asleep?"
Ron had walked into the bedroom carrying a tray of food only to find Hermione resting calmly underneath her covers. Lately, she had taken to reading before supper – a book propped open on her lap while her eyes ravaged it without another thought to anything else. He would have to bang the door and shuffle his feet to get her attention. Not tonight, however.
Hermione's eyes were closed serenely, her hands nowhere near the tomes stacked on the side table. Her chest was moving softly, slowly.
"No," her voice was a whisper, but Ron heard it.
He drew closer, setting the tray down, and looked at her. "Then do you want to eat?" There was a slight hint of agitation in his voice.
"Not really," her voice hardened to match his. She had learned very quickly that Ron held absolutely no sympathy for her plight. She would no longer expect any.
Ron shrugged and grabbed a handful of carrots off of her plate. He shoved some rudely into his mouth before asking, "Why not?"
"My stomach hurts."
Ron chewed.
There was a silence, only filled by Ron's crunching and greasy fingers scrambling across the dinner plate for more. The anxious ache in Hermione's belly continued to grow under Ron's unflinching stare. She wished him gone, but dared not voice her thoughts.
"You sick?" he asked, his question more curious than terse.
Hermione rolled over to face the wall. "Maybe."
Ron began to get angry, as was any case when he was forced to act civilly towards Hermione. She didn't have to act like this to him. He eyed the half-eaten plate before asking, "Well, what's wrong?"
"I'm worried," was the mumbled, plain answer. Hermione cringed as her stomach cramped. She wasn't sick in a physical sense at all, but she had made herself ill on wondering what tomorrow would bring. Presently, it was Sunday night. The next morning was her appointment with Healer McDowell.
"About what?" Ron asked, shifting his lean weight to one leg. It gave him the appearance of being totally disinterested. That was his cover.
Hermione shrugged, closing her eyes. "Tomorrow," she answered through a yawn.
Ron stood and thought for a while. "Why?"
Again, Hermione shrugged. Her frustration with Ron was increasing to the point where she had to smother the urge to yell. Her one word answers were for a reason – to get across the point she did not want to talk. "I just don't like being touched."
Ron nodded, not needing to answer. He knew that already, coming from the way she shook when he carried her to the bathroom, the way she never took things directly from his hands, the way she cowered when he raised his fists in the heat of an argument. She was completely different from the woman who used to love having arms wrapped around her waist and kisses planted on the side of her neck.
"Will you be there?" she asked hesitantly, her voice almost non-existent. Underneath the covers, her fingers curled tightly into her palms.
The question broke Ron out of his bittersweet remembrances of the past. Her inquiry brought sweat to the back of his neck. He rubbed it self-consciously. The immediate response to it was No, but he found he couldn't say it.
"Please?" The burning sensation of tears threatened at the corners of her eyes. Hermione did not want to beg, but it was not beyond her. The thought of being alone with a complete stranger horrified her – especially someone specialized to bring up and drag over and pick at memories that she only wanted to forget.
Ron began to walk quickly towards the door, forgetting all about the dinner plate. He mumbled a quick, body-crushing, "Maybe."
The intense pressure of the situation soon left him after Ron had fled down the stairs and into the easy companionship of Gus.
---
Heather McDowell arrived promptly at eleven o'clock. Seamus Finnigan did not. In fact, it would be nearly an hour before Seamus would knock on Ron's door. During that time, Heather was welcomed in curtly and shown to Hermione's room. She smiled and addressed them both by, "Mr. Weasley," and "Ms. Granger," respectively. She was the epitome of professionalism.
Ron, needless to say, was annoyed.
"Mr. Weasley," Heather smiled, clapping her hands together. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave again." The apology was written blatantly across her face.
Ron cast a quick, furtive glance over to Hermione. She was sitting rigid in bed, her hands laid smoothly across her lap. Her eyes fluttered shut as she swallowed. He could tell she was shaking.
"I don't think I-" he began.
"Go," Hermione told him. She did not look up.
"Really? Because you – " he sputtered.
"Go."
Ron nodded and slammed the door shut behind him. He had been preparing himself for the ordeal since Hermione had asked him to. He had gone over numerous situations – how Hermione would cry into his shoulder, how he would have to ask Heather to leave, how he could handle the situation from there. Now all of it was dashed. He felt like a fool for having considered her request to be plausible.
Not twenty minutes later, as Ron sat dejectedly at the bottom of the steps next to Gus, he heard sobs. They were not the quiet ones he had forced himself to ignore most nights, but chest-heaving, heartbreaking bawling. He could hear Hermione scream and pound against the wall. He also listened to Heather's stern, authoritative voice over Hermione's pleas. His hands bundled into fists that sat hard on his knees.
Ron sat through half an hour of Heather's examination. Though scorned, he would not move. He had no idea what Heather was doing, except she was acting under the pretenses of helping. Nothing that came from Hermione's bedroom sounded like healing. It made his insides burn.
Soon enough, Seamus appeared as a child in a school uniform on his doorstep. After he crossed the threshold of the home, Seamus grew and stretched until he looked like his normal self – stocky, neat, and clean-shaven. He clasped Ron's hand heartily with a grim look. "Sounds like an awful ruckus you've got here, mate," he said, jerking his head in the direction of the staircase.
Ron shrugged. He did not have enough energy to make a joke out of it. The sooner everything had been dealt with, the sooner he would have his flat back.
The men stood awkwardly in the hall for several minutes, pretending not to hear the loud antics taking place above them. Ron finally offered his guest a coffee and thankfully, Seamus accepted gratefully. They then stood silently in the kitchen, shuffling their feet and staring at the dark cracks in the floor.
"Seems to have calmed a bit," Seamus noted, his head lolling back to watch the ceiling. His insides restricted as he spoke – he didn't know if Ron would criticize him for such an unneeded observation or simply shrug in agreement again. Seamus was not a man who feared many things – he dealt with a wide range of things like victims and villains and grieving widows – but how to deal with an estranged friend was not his strong suit.
"How come you sent her, mate?" Ron asked, his brow furrowing. He felt the need to be civil towards Seamus, seeing as how he was the only mate he had at the moment. A full throttle interrogation would put a mighty rift in their tender bond.
"Y'mean McDowell up there?" Seamus sipped his coffee, relaxing visibly. When he saw Ron nod curtly, he answered, "Wasn't my decision. Bosses thought Hermione fit to be interrogated, but it didn't sit right with St. Mungos – they wanted a preliminary before we could do anything. McDowell only consented to my being here on the strict condition she would be able see Hermione before me." He swallowed with a grimace. "Every time from here on out, in fact."
"But why McDowell? Why not someone else?" Ron pressed, agitation rising in his throat. He wanted to know everything in those few, demanding seconds.
"Why not?" Seamus asked. "She was the best one – got her degree in that rubbish, I guess – no one else wanted to take Hermione. It was labeled as an Exclusive case. It wasn't exactly open to the public, if you get my drift."
Ron sagged under the weight of the knowledge. He didn't trust – or like – Heather McDowell very much. Something about her being alone with Hermione worried him. Perhaps it was the fear that Hermione could once again become self-sufficient, that she could walk right out the front door on her own accord and never look back again, that he would never see her again. Heather was slowly drawing Hermione away from him.
Not that he wanted her, but it still made him angry.
"So there's no hope of getting another shrink in here?" he asked in a deadpan voice.
Seamus almost laughed, puzzled by Ron's questions. "I really doubt it. Why?"
"No reason," Ron grumbled as the very bane of his existence appeared in the kitchen doorframe. Like always, she was smiling.
"Seamus!" Heather exclaimed, sounding absolutely delighted to see him. She shook his hand and patted his shoulder. "How nice to see you again."
Seamus reciprocated the feelings justly and then turned the conversation to Hermione – the one element that connected the trio. "How's the patient?"
"Great," Heather bobbed her head, her gleaming black hair flying past her ears. "She's resting at the moment. Would you possibly mind waiting a bit before going upstairs? I gave her a calming draught about ten minutes ago."
Seamus wheeled to look at her, his coffee cup forgotten on the counter. "You drugged her up?"
"No, I didn't drug her up. I gave her the correct dosage for someone who's been through a great deal of trauma. Yes, she's a little groggy, but it should wear off soon," Heather retorted, obviously not expecting such a comment from him.
Seamus diverted his attention fully to her, a stern look crossing his strong face. Did she know what administering drugs to an interviewee could do to their credibility? Obviously not, or she would've consulted him or not done it at all. "How much did you give her?" he snapped.
Ron leaned against the sink and watched with a tiny amount of amusement, his cup warm in his grasp.
"One-fourth of a standard issue bottle!" Heather snapped back, a hand on her hip. "Why are you so upset?"
"The validity of my report is at stake! This is the one chance I get in two months to be here and I don't want to blow it. Can you understand that?" Seamus asked, feeling the heat crawling up his neck. He knew anger would come quickly and took a few deep breaths.
"It is a calming draught," Heather impressed on him, "and nothing more. I promise that I will notarize the interview before I leave. That will give you all the credit you need."
Seamus scoffed at Heather's assumption that she held the authority in the situation - that her lousy signature at the bottom of his official report would automatically make it reliable to the Heads of the department. "That is if I let you in on the interview," he corrected her scathingly.
"Of course you will," Heather acted taken aback by the mere question of her involvement. "I am Head Healer."
"Doesn't do a damn thing for me," Seamus snapped. "Just another thing I have to verify and log."
"Fine," Heather replied in a scathing voice, her arms now crossed tightly across her chest. "Do whatever you please, Seamus, but just be warned that I will be going to your superiors with this information."
"What information?" Seamus exclaimed, throwing out his arms.
"That you knowingly and deliberately dismissed your own patient's doctor on terms of personal bias," Heather bit, smiling faintly.
"Fine! You can stay!" Seamus yelled, "Bleeding Jesus, Heather, worm your way in with threats of tattletale-ing!"
"Tattletale!" Heather balked, taking a step forward.
"Hey!" Ron shouted, finally stepping in between the two. Each looked ready to strangle the other. Seamus' face was red, Heather's blushing. "Calm down," he ordered.
"Fine," Seamus growled, turning away from the confrontation. No wonder Ron had asked for a new shrink – Heather McDowell was a real bother when she wanted to be. Luckily they didn't work together. She would probably worm her way into his paper anyhow. He just needed to let the heat recede.
Heather simply looked over Ron's shoulder at nothing in particular, visibly miffed.
"Now," Ron began again in a rough, authoritative tone, "I'm going to go check on her and I'll let you know when she's ready. There's more coffee in the pot. Stop bickering, for Merlin's sake."
With that, Ron left the room. He overhead Heather retort, "I'm a doctor. My opinion would only lend credit to you. I'm only trying to help."
"You're only trying to be a pain in the ass," Seamus' words echoed through the hallway faintly, leaving Ron with a smile.
He knocked on the door hesitantly, conjuring up the images of Hermione shrieking as she had done before, knocked into a corner and covered with blood. He braced himself to see the scene played out again as a voice called wearily, "Come in."
Much to his comfort – the extent of it, anyway – Hermione was laying down. She was unnaturally pale and shaking, but her eyes were open and her mouth was breathing. She watched him beneath heavy lids.
Ron moved to sit down in the chair that had been pulled close to her bed. He crossed his leg over his knee and leaned forward, entirely engrossed by her. It was a subconscious thing – the way he studied the curve of her cheekbones and the shadow caused by the plumpness of her chewed lower lip – something he could not help in the least. It only lasted a few seconds, but enough to unsettle the both of them.
"How are you?" his voice sounded strange in his ears. He felt awkward all over again. It was just something Hermione did to him.
She didn't move or speak for a while. Instead she sighed, blinked, and mumbled a, "Fine."
"Okay," his head bobbed uncontrollably. "Are you still tired?" He felt his pulse quicken beneath the skin in his neck.
"A little," her voice was filled with hints of sleep, assuring him of the truth in her statement. "I'll be fine soon."
Truth be told, Hermione felt drained to her very core. Her mind was clogged with memories that she had tried so hard in the past month to repress. They sprung up like wildfire behind her eyes. She spent her time desperately wishing them away and when she found she could not – Healer McDowell had pointed this fact out very bluntly – Hermione began the process of a complete breakdown. Every ounce of strength had been stolen away with her dissipating refusal to come to terms with what had happened. McDowell had grilled her for facts and feelings and faces, writing whatever she could grasp down on that fucking clipboard with that simpering smile plastered on her mouth. She didn't care – not really. Hermione could tell.
Hermione let her eyes slide close, facing the most haunting remembrance of them all. It was like a movie in her own personal hell. She watched as a spectator of her own torture. She observed herself hanging from that damned cell wall – the sickening way her head lolled back and forth against her chest – and Agent Nash yelling and spitting and swearing and bearing down upon her with his wand like a knife at her throat.
She gasped and jerked and then Ron's hand was on her hand, stroking it slowly. Her hot skin appreciated the coolness of his own. He avoided the fresh bruises that were just forming, as she had beat her fists against anything she could find only an hour before.
"Are you ready to do this?" Ron asked quietly, sternly. He stopped his caress, but his grip was still as firm as ever. "Because I swear to God, if you break down again, you are going to punch a hole in my wall and I am not going to be the one to fix it. So you'd better tell me this moment if you want a break from all this." His hands were shaking.
Tears sprang to her eyes and she squeezed them shut, her mouth contorting into a sad frown. A few gasps escaped before Hermione could grasp any words at all. "I have to," it came out in a whisper. "No one will ever leave me alone if I don't."
Ron did not want to discuss the topic any further. He wanted to leave, to drink, to sleep. It had already destroyed him enough to touch her. It was a little trick he had remembered from Before – that Hermione needed to be grabbed when she worked herself up in her mental spats, as it was a reminder that she was still grounded. It brought back how it had been when he had been allowed to touch her whenever and wherever he wanted to, not just to comfort her.
"I'll let you rest for a moment and then I'll bring Seamus and Heather up," Ron leaned back, letting his hand fall back to his lap. It was tingling.
"Heather?" Hermione nearly choked on her name. "No – please, don't let her stay."
"Not my choice," Ron grumbled, offering a slight sympathy.
The tears began to flow. Hermione turned her head and was silent. Ron exited to the hallway where he buried his hands in his hair and tried to forget about the way her voice sounded in his ears, the way her skin felt against his, the way his lower belly was hot and agitated. This was exactly why he wanted to avoid her.
Merlin, he was such a hypocrite. He didn't want her to walk away, but he didn't want to face her. He didn't want to love her, but he still wanted her to love him. He was a selfish, stubborn coward. Just admitting that made him feel like an ass. He quickly dispelled the notion – she would just have to wait until he was ready and able. That would be that.
It took him a while to muster up his former attitude before he fetched his guests – who were in a terse silence only interrupted by lashing comments – and brought them into Hermione's bedroom. While Seamus drew his chair farther away from her bed and began setting up his Exact-Speak Recording quill, Ron conjured two others for himself and Heather. They sat against the wall, away from the intimate scene that Seamus was trying to create. He wanted Hermione to trust him – they had been childhood friends and schoolmates – and could not do that with other strangers invading the conversation.
"How're you?" was the first question that popped out of his mouth. The quill and parchment sitting on the table scribbled madly and then lay quiet.
Hermione managed a smile. Seamus had changed so much since the last time she had seen him. He had hair three years ago, but a slightly receding hairline. She guessed it had receded a little too much for his taste and he had shaved it off to save himself the embarrassment. His face was sturdy, his neck thick, and his shoulders broad, but his eyes still sparkled the way they used to. She felt more at ease. She could see only him.
"I'm fine," she croaked, clearing her throat. "How about you? How has The Order been?"
"Good," he laughed, "I've been through a few promotions, as you can see."
Hermione gestured to the emblem stitched onto his robes. "High rank you've got there – you could almost be a Head."
"That requires a couple more years of ass-kissing," Seamus growled with a grin. The smile seemed to break his face in half; it was so large and genuine. When Hermione cast a quick glance as the scrawling quill, Seamus assured her, "Don't worry, I'm going to revise the transcript before it goes anywhere."
This seemed to placate Hermione and the worried expression slipped from her features. She took a few calming breaths and that revived her some.
"Alright," Seamus became more professional, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders. "Let's begin."
"Okay," Hermione answered in an equally strong voice, surprising everyone in the room including herself.
"This is Seamus Patrick Finnigan, second in command of the Department of Internal Intelligence under the lead of Head Benjamin Greenscomb of the organization The Order of the Phoenix. I am conducting an interview with one Ms. Hermione Jane Granger on the premise of intelligence collection on passing events relating to the organization only known to us at the present moment as The Shop. Ms. Granger was serving as an undercover against for The Order beginning July the fifteenth of three years ago until last known date November the thirtieth of last year. Last transmission to Official Headquarters was dated November the second of last year. The purpose of this interview is to follow up any extraneous facts that may be crucial to the knowledge about The Shop. The date is Monday, May 24th."
Hermione listened to the preliminaries and found her stomach was tying itself in knots.
"Ms. Granger," as he would refer to her throughout the course of the dialogue, "for the purposes of this meeting, would you please inform me of why it is there is such a large gap of time between the termination of your mission and this interview?"
Hermione swallowed and found that her voice was weak. "Um," she began, unsteady and unnerved, "my position was compromised – I was scheduled to leave the satellite colony on November eighteenth and return to The Order through a portkey. Agent Shale found my transmissions and detained me for several weeks, as I am informed. I have little recollection of time frame, but after my initial imprisonment I am told that I was kept for three weeks. During that time I experienced a great amount of torture and was expected to die."
Heather leaned forward in her seat, her eyes gleaming and unblinking. Ron, who sat next to her, swallowed very uncomfortably. Neither of them spoke.
Tears threatened to fall, but Hermione knew that if she just kept her rigid manner that everything would be kept in check. She could act professional – it was just like old times – and it soothed her a little. Seamus allowed her a moment to collect herself.
Hermione cleared her throat again and wiped her nose. "Excuse me," she blushed, but continued, "I am told that I was found deserted and unconscious. The lack of communication on my part is due to the fact I remained in a coma like state for several months, because of the severity of the injuries I sustained."
Seamus nodded and mouthed the word, 'good.' It did not help her that much.
"Now, I know this may be hard for you, Ms. Granger, but I need you to answer the following questions to best of your ability. I need to ask about the missing three weeks that you were in the main camp."
Hermione's insides curdled – hadn't she endured enough with McDowell?
Ron was thinking the exact same thing. His face was turning red.
"Do remember how you moved from the satellite colony to the chief faction? Let me note that The Shop has one central location somewhere in Northern Europe and several satellite colonies across Europe and remote parts of Asia. Ms. Granger habited one in the outskirts Ipatovo, Russia."
Hermione was shaking. "I was put under the Imperius Curse and blindfolded, then made to board a train that took me to the central camp. It took hours to reach and I think we headed north."
Seamus nodded, watching the quill dance instead of Hermione's face shutter among so many emotions.
"What happened when you reached the base?"
She felt cold all over, even her legs were twitching. She remembered the small, dank walls she lived in. She remembered the awful stench of rotting bodies and vomit. "I was put in detainment."
Seamus hesitated, but asked, "Can you be more specific?"
"I have no idea where the Detainment Center was. I was put in small cell in a basement. I never saw anything else." Her voice was faint and everyone had to strain to hear.
"Who did you come in contact with?"
"Only two people – both agents of The Shop."
"Do you recall their names?"
Her heart burned and her tongue was sluggish in her mouth. One of them had been her friend – the closest thing she had to a lover since Ron – and it seared into her mind. "Yes," was all she could manage.
Ron and Heather watched her struggle. Heather found it absolutely fascinating, knowing nothing more about the case than what she had been informed of in the past two weeks. A first-hand experience was intriguing. Ron, on the other hand, burned right alongside Hermione. All he could do was watch her squirm and that made him tight and uneasy.
"For the record," Seamus coaxed her, "could you please name the two agents?"
"Agent John Rivers and Agent Theodore Ryker," as Hermione thrust the names off her tongue, she began to cry.
"Do you remember any experiences within the Detainment Center – anything that could have compromised your position or The Order's integrity? Or perhaps something that would give any clues as to where the base operations of The Shop are? What they were planning at the time?"
Hermione remembered the first time Ted had entered the cell. He was a tall man, handsome, with a deep voice that interested her when they met. He had walked in wearing red robes and a hood covering most of his face. His mouth was drawn into a thin, pressed line. She had been sitting in the cell for a day and a half with nothing and felt relieved to see him. Maybe he would understand – they were friends, after all.
Ted had not understood. All he knew was that Eleanor Crumley was a traitor and a spy. He had never even known her real name – just another false front. Eleanor – Hermione, whatever her name was – had conned him from the beginning. He would show no mercy.
"I can't," Hermione whimpered, turning her face away. "I can't."
"I'm sorry, Ms. Granger, but if you know something, you must share it with me. Everything you say will be kept extremely confidential." Seamus hurt for her, but was not allowed to express it the way a friend should.
Ron curled his fingers underneath the seat of his chair painfully.
"But I can't," Hermione moaned, finally looking him fully in the eyes. She tried to convey how extreme her situation had been – that is was nearly impossible for her to force the memories into words. "Please, I can't say."
"You have to try," Seamus pressed lightly, sincerely. "Please, Ms. Granger, any little thing will help. Do you remember your first days?"
Everyone was silent as Seamus let Hermione sob for a while. Her face twisted and contorted until she covered it with her tiny, swollen hands.
"I didn't eat for three days," she choked, still crying, "There were no windows and no doors. Whenever they wanted to come, they would separate the bricks. There were shackles hanging against the wall – for arms and for legs." Her stomach rolled like the tide and she gagged. Wouldn't someone help her? Even now, wouldn't someone stop this torture?
Ron?
"Tell me about the first time you and the agents were together. Did they tell you anything? Do anything specific that was abnormal?"
"He ripped off my clothes the first time," she shuddered, all of a sudden remembering the smoothness of the stones beneath her thighs. Many nights she had spent thinknig she would freeze to death. She surely would have thrown up if her stomach hadn't been empty already.
Seamus cleared his throat when Hermione didn't continue. "Who did? Can you specify which agent?"
"Ted did!" she screamed. God, it was so hard to get the words out. "He beat me! That was abnormal, right? A man I thought I knew, a man I thought I could trust beat me until I couldn't even open my eyes!"
Hermione dissolved into wracking sobs.
"Maybe you should stop," Ron growled from his seat. He was trembling. He no longer wanted to hear what happened to her during her absence. He had wished this kind of punishment on her before and now he was getting his sick wish.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Weasley," Seamus said in a commanding voice, "but I have to ask you to please remain quiet during the interview. I know this is hard and your full cooperation is well appreciated."
It took all of him just to sit back in his seat. Hermione wouldn't look at him.
"Ms. Granger, are you ready to continue?" Seamus asked with trepidation.
Could she really answer that question?
Minutes passed, though Hermione's crying did not cease. Seamus cleared his throat again. "Please, Ms. Granger, I understand this is hard, but we have to finish. Please, continue."
"Ted beat me the next day. He beat me every day. He broke my bones just to heal them and break them again," she was shaking so badly she couldn't see straight. She could feel the phantom pains in her legs and arms and fingers, just as fresh as it had been in the cell. "I never even got to sleep – some kind of spell. They used a lot of spells."
"Spells?" Seamus inquired, "Any new or reformed spells?"
"John," she gagged, having to stop. John had been the worst. He enjoyed her screams, fed off the blood that flowed from her broken body. John Rivers had no soul. "John is a master sorcerer. He combined Confringo and Flagrante and Defodio." She spit to rid her mouth of the terrible taste. She felt dizzy, almost unable to finish. "It would explode on impact with flesh, dig in to the bone, and burn everything in its path."
Hermione had to stop. She swore she felt it in her belly. That sickening moment of collision, it felt like someone had held up a lighter and slowly watched her skin burn away until there was nothing left. She couldn't breathe, watching the light slowly fade from her in front of her eyes. She doubled over, clutching at her arms. She was back in the cell. She was waiting to die again.
"This ends now," Ron barked, standing up so suddenly his chair fell over. Seamus whipped around.
"Mr. Weasley, take your seat," he snapped.
"No," Ron snarled. He crossed the room and hauled Seamus up by his arms. "It is time for you to go. She needs to rest."
Seamus fought him off. "This is extremely improper, Weasley!" he shouted, fending off Ron's grabbing hands. "Leave immediately!"
"Guys!" Heather shouted, shocked. She was standing behind her chair, using it as protection. She was ignored.
"You don't tell me what to do in my own fucking house," Ron roared, slamming a fist into the side of Seamus' taught face. The man reeled back and stumbled over his chair, sending them both to the ground. "It's pretty apparent that she can't do this interview."
"Don't tell me how to do my job!" Seamus yelled, launching himself to his feet. Before he could think of fighting back, Ron had grabbed him by the robes and was dragging him out the door.
"Now listen to me," Ron snarled into Seamus' face. "You are either going to leave this house now, or I will trash you until you beg to go. Don't think I won't do any different."
Seamus shoved off Ron's hold on him roughly, sending them both stumbling. "Weasley, you really messed this up. I barely got anything out of this – nothing I can put in the report. I tried to be as gentle as I could, but this is the way interrogations go. People cry. Next time I show up, you will not be anywhere near this house." He shoved Ron again and started for the stairs. "And don't think I'm not going to report you."
"Toss off," he retorted. Ron turned and heard the loud slam of the door. It shook the glass in the windows even on the second floor.
Heather was standing timidly just inside the bedroom. There was a look of terror on her face.
"Get out of here," he growled. Without a word, Heather brushed past him and out of sight. She was then forgotten.
Hermione was limp. Her breathing was shallow, but she was still crying pathetically.
Ron crossed the room in a few purposeful strides. He sat on the edge of the bed and had no idea what to do. He wanted to comfort her, but knew it would probably wouldn't be a good idea. He felt awkward and frantic, unsure of what to say. His hands were shaking.
"Hold me," she whispered, unable to open her eyes and face him. "Please," she begged quietly, "Please just forget that you hate me for a few minutes. Hold me." She was so exhausted that she couldn't move.
It was all Ron could do not to shake with the sheer intensity of the moment. He reached out and smoothed her matted hair. He brushed it away from her burning scalp with long, deliberate fingers. His mind was foggy, but he nudged further onto the mattress, legs spread out in front of him, and pulled her wilted frame into the v between his legs. She was just an overgrown doll – just bones beneath papery skin. It was heartbreaking and maddening at the same time. He was stiff and unsure, but he held her as best he could.
Hermione shivered beneath his touch, the skin on her arms crawling when he wrapped his own around her shoulders protectively. It felt like heaven, if only he really wanted to hold her and not just oblige her. If only it were affection and not pity. But Hermione was content with what she had in that moment. Her forehead was pressed into his craggy skin. He smelled like that darn dog.
A/N: I really hope you liked it! I took me forever to get through, but it's one of my favorite chapters :) Let me know if you have any suggestions or comments or questions!
Have a great weekend and leave a review!!!
Katie