Disclaimer: I don't own HP :)
A/N: Our power was turned on yesterday! It went out a couple of times today, but I waited until nighttime to post so our connection would go through. I'm sorry for missing last week's deadline, because I actually had all this written, if you can't believe it :) Unfortunately, I live in the part of Iowa that suffered from the epic flooding last week or so. My family never had to evacuate, but we did have to go without power for a while and we couldn't shower or use the toilet or wash our hands so we could conserve water.
Anyway, the flooding is over and we're starting to rebuild again. :) As for the story, this has a bit of Hermione-Ron fluff, which I have been dying to write. I've got the final plot all ironed out, too! This is a big accomplishment for such a procrastinator like myself. I know that some of you have called me out on my lack of plot and I'm trying to get it back on track. Thank you everyone for putting up with me!
The air was cold and dry as it rushed past his exposed ears. It bit the tips of his fingers and sides of his face and wormed its way under his coat and down his trousers and into his shoes. He could not escape the bitterness of the November wind, just as he could not outrun his pursuers. Though his path was lit well with unfiltered moonlight, Seamus could not pick his way fast enough through the winding roads in the outskirts of Ipatovo. His breath escaped as white fog as it barreled out of his open mouth, leaving a visible trail for them to follow.
Only an hour ago did his fingers slip casually over the cool lock on the door to The Surveyor. Seamus had slipped the keys into his pocket and they were now banging against the side of his leg as he hurled himself down the alley. He had been working at a local newspaper under an assumed name for months. It was his only assignment after his 'break' and he had taken it grudgingly. He was glad to be so close to The Shop operations, but annoyed at having to continuously pretend. Living with the fear that he would soon be found out was not easy.
It seemed that his fear had now become tangible. All week, Seamus had felt eyes on his back. He was usually left alone to work on phony 'reports' and 'filing' and it gave him unaccustomed chills. It had almost been a weird sort of relief when he had heard those voices after closing up shop. They had been ominous and low, calling to him out of the darkness on the corner. All the streetlamps were out and Seamus began to run without question. Men – at least four – followed with thick footsteps on the cement behind him. They had shouted his name – his real name – and Seamus' heart dropped into his tired feet.
Seamus knew the inner part of the city – it wasn't large – almost by heart. He had run to pick up twenty coffee orders only two blocks away from The Surveyor every week. He walked to the park around the corner on the weekends. He took his lunch break across the street at the tiny café. His apartment was only a ten minute walk away. Seamus had weaved his way through downtown very easily and put a good distance between him and the men. As the housing and businesses began to thin out and turn ugly with disuse and ill-treatment, his familiarity dissipated. He had never found the time or courage to explore through the dingy outer city and he now regretted it deeply.
"Mr. Finnigan!" a smooth voice called to him mockingly. "Won't you slow down?"
"Fuck off!" Seamus tossed over his shoulder with a scowl. He tripped over a trashcan lid and cursed, stumbling.
"Now that's not very nice of you, Mr. Finnigan," Hidalgo grinned toothily. The bastard couldn't last much longer – not at the pace he was maintaining. It was only a matter of time before his fingers closed over Seamus Finnigan's throat.
The chase lasted for what seemed an eternity. Seamus ran and dodged and hid and scrambled and staggered and careened and lurched until his lungs felt like they would burst with another footstep. Inevitably, he slowed. His Auror training served him well, but he was no match for The Shop. Seamus found the road beneath his feet turning rocky with gravel. He had reached the city limits and there was nowhere left to hide. The fields beyond were bare and white and unforgiving. Pausing, Seamus held his sides as he decided to circle back. If he could just make it far enough to the left, he would be able to sink back into the city. It was his only chance.
It failed. As Seamus wheeled to the left, a figure appeared in the corner of his eye. The man brandished a wand and Seamus cursed again for not having his at the ready. With a blink of an eye, Seamus collapsed on the ground as a brilliant blue flash struck him square in the chest.
"Got 'im!" a heavily accented voice shouted to its counterparts. He smiled in triumph as he stood above the limp body of Seamus, as if claiming it as his prize.
"Good," Hidalgo murmured with what little breath he had left. He bent forward – hands on his knees – and examined his newest captor. He tweaked Seamus' sweat stained cheek. "Ruddy little bastard, aren't you? Can't be much older than twenty-four. Can you believe that?" He turned his head to the side and spat. "Finally caught him, only to find out he's just a kid."
"Why now?" Ulysses Nash wanted to know. "Why'd you have us wait so long?" His face was flushed – he was not a strong runner – and he was upset. "Jesus. I thought we were supposed to pick him up last summer."
Hidalgo quickly turned to face his teammate. "He went on a fucking vacation, Nash, somewhere remote. No one would've given two shits if he were by himself. This is supposed to be a statement, this is supposed to be noticeable – give some warning to The Order and The Ministry of Magic. I want to let them know they're not winning this war. I want Viktor Krum to know that his agents aren't safe – they never were. I want everyone in the whole goddamned country to know that it was me who abducted to great Mr. Finnigan."
Ulysses did not reply.
Hidalgo soothed his temper and turned back to Seamus' body. He nudged it with his toe before murmuring, "Get him to Headquarters immediately. Put him in the same cell that precious Eleanor Crumley had. We've got some talking to do."
Nash and Shale began preparing a portkey as Hidalgo continued to leer at the body. Hopefully Seamus would awake in a few hours. He wanted to see the look on the boy's face as he realized where he was, as he realized there was no escape, no hope. The quintet vanished only a few minutes later – set on The Shop Headquarters. Hidalgo took a cup of coffee in his private dining room as Nash and Shale took Finnigan to his new chambers. He watched out the window as the men dragged the boy by the arms down the stone path to The Facility. Stirring the black liquid with a serving spoon, a glittering, evil smile played on Hidalgo's lips.
--
"Why, hello," his voice was soft, friendly, and charming. He stood a few feet away from the damp wall Seamus' wrists were chained to. His wand was aimed directly at the boy's forehead. The sweet, moldy smell of the cell was intoxicating, powerful.
Seamus groaned as a wave of consciousness passed over him. The tide brought a stinging, burning pain in his chest and a morbid sense of curiosity with it. Wherever he was, it was not a good place. Feeling the coldness against his limbs, Seamus knew that it was not right. He blinked and found that his new surroundings were lit by a solitary candle lingering somewhere out of sight. The fog clouding his mind thinned as he realized there was a man standing above him and a wand pointed at him.
"Fuck," he muttered, his senses sharpening. Seamus recognized the man – it was the ringleader of The Shop – Skillen. He was in captivity, now.
Hidalgo stared at him disapprovingly. "I believe we have yet to meet on even grounds, Mr. Finnigan. I think you may want to start out on a good foot with me. I suggest a better tone." He pressed the tip of his wand into Seamus' clammy forehead.
"I can't believe you fucking got me," Seamus shook his head disbelievingly. He scoffed and then fixed his gaze on Skillen's. "What're you going to use me for? Names? Places? Inf-"
"Enough!" Hidalgo roared, his wand digging into the skin.
"Or just collateral?" Seamus wanted to know. "Let Krum and the rest of them know you have me, then kill me. Make an example, right? I know how these things work."
"Defodio," Hidalgo replied. He watched with satisfaction as the skin on Finnigan's cheek stretched to a ghastly white before tearing wide open. The crimson blood sparkled as it ran thick down his chin.
"Fuck!" Seamus shouted, struggling to cover the wound. He found his arms stuck above his head.
"For your insolence!" the other man yelled loudly. "The next time I want you to speak, I will let you know. While I find your quick intellect refreshing and quite surprising, I also find it annoying. Do not forget who holds the power here, Mr. Finnigan."
Seamus did not doubt the severity of Skillen's words and remained silent. His cheek ached sharply and he could smell the metallic blood trickling onto his robes. His mind was whirring – identify the captor, identify the room, identify exits, identify weak spots. It was hard to squint with the injury so fresh.
"Now," Hidalgo's voice drawled out to normalcy. "How shall we start this… conversation?" He paced the tiny cell, feigning deep thought. He felt the dominance and adrenaline surge through his veins and it made him seem invincible. "Oh, yes," Hidalgo turned back to Seamus. "Tell me how you liked Ipatovo! A quiet place, yes, but also very scenic, very pretty indeed. Did you enjoy yourself playing reporter-turned-spy?"
"Loved it," Seamus spat through gritted teeth.
"Lovely," Hidalgo returned. "Well, I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. Those are the good memories you can turn to when things get… difficult here. That's what your friend Granger did. Even dreamed about it – we could hear her talk from down the corridor – very depressing stuff. Hopefully you'll be dead before that happens to you."
Seamus did not speak.
Hidalgo cocked his head to the side, wand pressed underneath his own cheek in thought. "Flagrante," he whispered and flicked his wrist in a flash.
Seamus groaned as his arms began to burn. It was white hot heat that engulfed his elbows and wormed its way up to his wrists. The skin blistered painfully as tears sprang to his eyes. It was so sudden; the pain did not appear for several seconds.
"Tell me about her – Hermione Granger, I mean – how is she doing?"
"I have no idea," Seamus struggled to force the words out. He gagged on his own spit. He had not felt this sort of pain for several years and knew it would not end. "We don't speak at all."
"Now," Hidalgo frowned, "I find that hard to believe. My sources say that you two are the best of friends. You did, after all, oversee her case when she returned home. Don't even begin to lie to me, Mr. Finnigan." He turned his back on Seamus and shouted, "Flagrante!" again.
Seamus' arms were on fire, literally. A dull, blue haze engulfed the tiny hairs that scoured his forearms. He screamed, forcing his chest out, flapping his arms wildly, and he cursed. "Shit! Holy shit!" He felt like vomiting.
Hidalgo watched with amusement until the blaze died. He commended the boy for not simply passing out – obviously he was strong enough to withhold much more than Granger could. He looked forward to it.
"Enough of the small talk," he decided, stepping forward. "You're absolutely right. I'm using you to get names and places and faces. Why not begin now, when you're still fresh?" He dusted off his black robes and set himself into a very businesslike manner. "I'm truly interested in the whereabouts of Ms. Granger. Where did she sneak off to this time?"
--
The ground was warm beneath his body, heated by the temperature of the early afternoon. He wouldn't open his eyes for fear of the sharp sunlight, but he could hear raucous, unbound laughter from far-off and footsteps slipping and sliding through the sand. He could tell that Gus was wound up, probably foaming at the mouth by now. He grinned and rolled onto his side. Daring to open a lid, Ron saw hazily that Hermione was kicking up great sprays of sand as she ran alongside the dog. She held something above her head and Gus was working himself into a frenzy – as much as an old dog could – to get it.
Ron watched for a while, stretching and lazing into a sitting position. He brushed the grains of his legs as he kept his toes buried deep in the earth. It was an unusually warm day for December first, especially to an English boy. It didn't bother him much, seeing how nothing besides Hermione was on his mind. He couldn't keep his gaze from her – the way her hips sidled from side to side, how her hair bounced in plump curls over her shoulders, the quick, alluring movements of her wrists held high above her head, the slight tan of her skin, the way her shirt rode up slightly and revealed the small of her back. Luckily she was preoccupied and therefore wouldn't mind if he stared too long at bird tattooed on her back. It had come alive – the slim lines darkening and shining – given time in the sun and fresh air, finally able to breathe. It brought him back to times of Before – the actual good memories – and he almost smiled, remembering the way she would kiss him on the cheek before leaving or snuggle up to him on the couch during radio shows.
The sharpness of Gus' bark brought Ron back to his senses. His smile turned sad, reflective.
Hermione continued to throw a tiny disc about the dunes and laugh as Gus would go after it time and time again. Her legs were getting better – no longer pale and scrawny – but Ron still noticed the way her ankles would falter and her feet would drag. She didn't seem to mind it and that kept Ron from opening his mouth. Just as today, he would lay outside until she tired herself out.
"What are you staring at?" her voice was clear through the breezy air.
Ron blinked and watched Hermione walk slowly towards him, wiping her forehead with the side of her shirt.
"Gus," he lied easily.
Hermione grinned softly and stood by him, her hands on her hips. Gus followed her with the disc hanging from his jaws. He pawed at Ron, his eyes pleading for another. He was rejected, but Ron rubbed his ears and sighed. Gus sat next to him and leaned into the embrace. Hermione watched them both carefully and tried to commit the scene to memory.
"I wish this was the way life was all the time," she said, her eyes unfocused.
"Locked up?" Ron grunted.
"Beautiful," Hermione replied. She felt the sun on her shoulders and the sand under her feet and truly believed what she said, even if it was only for a moment. It was comforting to let the circumstances of her life melt away in the heat.
"London's beautiful," Ron bit. "Even Lawrence is, in a homely sort of way. There's a history there this place can't match. Our friends, our family, the rest of our lives – that's what's beautiful."
"Can't you just enjoy what we have?" she asked, unaffected by the bitterness in Ron's voice. She sat on his other side and watched Gus hum with happiness.
"Not especially." He shrugged. "I want to go home."
"What're you going to do?" Hermione asked, squinting through the sunlight. An uncomfortable fear began swirling inside her. She didn't really want to hear the answer, because she was convinced it wouldn't include her. "When you go home, I mean."
Again, Ron shrugged and gave her a gentle look. "I'll have to get another place. Probably stay with Charlie or Bill until I can find a good town to settle in."
"I was thinking of London," Hermione smiled shyly.
Ron cracked his own grin. "Me too."
Relief coursed through her and she seemed to settle back a bit. The rigidity in her locked arms subsided and her shoulders relaxed and her toes unclenched.
"We'll both have to start working again; even though you get worker's comp. Everyone knows you can only live off that for a couple years before it runs out." Ron saw Hermione's head bob in agreement. "I was thinking of trying my hand at potions again – it worked well before."
"Why not try going back to St. Mungos?" Hermione asked.
Ron's head snapped to Gus and suddenly, he was scowling. "How'd you know I tried Mungos?"
Hermione blushed, her fingers freezing in tight fists. "Um," she whispered, "Charlie told me a little while ago."
"So he told you everything, then," Ron's tone was more assuming than questioning. Charlie was quite the gossip. Hermione could do nothing but nod her head, horribly embarrassed. Anger simmered in the back of his mind, but Ron realized there was absolutely nothing he could do about it now. Charlie was thousands of miles away and tossing a few curses about now would do nothing but send Hermione into a fit. Instead, he sighed heavily and let it be.
Hermione was silent for a few moments, waiting for the rage to build. She was surprised when it never came, but thankful nonetheless. "Sorry," she whispered, "I really didn't mean to dig into your past. I know it's none of my business."
"I'm not going back to St. Mungos," Ron told her firmly, not able to say it straight to her face. "You should already know the reason, if Charlie was being Charlie."
"But," Hermione's voice was timid, but pervasive, "I'm right here." She let her hand slip onto his shoulder and was glad when he didn't flinch it away. "Charlie said you wouldn't do it, because of me. Now you can go back – I'm right here."
Ron's face was hard. "That's not always going to be the case, Hermione, and we both know it. Once we leave, we'll probably go our separate ways. I want to follow you, I want to know that you're safe, but I won't. Our situations have changed – you're not my girlfriend anymore. I won't have this kind of responsibility. If I leave, if I go to St. Mungos, there's always a chance that you'll appear. It would be like failing all over again."
Hermione swallowed painfully, choking down hurt and regret and realization that everything he said was true.
Ron ducked his head and breathed evenly.
Hermione shifted so she was on her knees and then turned towards him. One hand was on the back of his neck while the other was on his shoulder. She was sure she was shaking, but her nerve was still strong. Her fingers touched his hair softly.
"I don't want it to be like this anymore," she whispered and watched with wide eyes as Ron brought his head back up to look at her. Her mouth trembled as his hair glowed a hazy red in the sun. "I can't take it. I just, I just want you to be with me. I can't explain it, but I know I'm going to be miserable if I can't see you like I do now. I won't be able to sleep unless you're in the next room and I won't be able to eat if you're not sitting across the breakfast table. I can't hold this back anymore, even though I've really tried for your sake. It doesn't matter if we can't be together like we were before – I just want my best friend back. The one who worries, but doesn't worry so much that he can't have a career made for him. The one who will tell me to stop nagging, but make me laugh afterwards. The one who will make me cry, but wipe off my face later. I want to have that with you again."
Hot wind whipped through their hair as the couple sat motionless in silence. Hermione's heart was beating so hard that Ron could faintly hear it. She blinked hard, her nerve almost completely gone. Her knees were buckled beneath her and she couldn't move her grasp from him.
The urge to lean forward and kiss her was painfully subdued and Ron winced with the effort it took to accomplish the task. He wanted to rake his hands through her hair and hold her body close and kiss her neck. She was proposing friendship, when, in that exact instant, he would consent to romance without a thought. That fact alone intimidated him. How she had won her way back into his affection, Ron would never be able to figure out. He shook his head, trying to clean away the clutter that had drudged up.
"I don't think I can handle going separate ways." she told him.
There was more silence as Ron tried all the possible scenarios out quickly in his mind. Of course he wouldn't refuse, but how exactly could he tell Hermione the resounding 'yes' that flowed in his blood? How to say yes, he would go with her and continue this life as well as he could? Maybe they would live apart and not see each other every waking moment, but he would still try maintaining the connection they had so painfully tried to establish in the past year? How exactly would he say he would try to practice medicine again without thinking of every corpse as hers? To set aside his long-ago fears and truly live his life with her in it? How could he let himself accept the fact the past was going to stay with him, but it couldn't hound him as it once did? To let her know that she had been forgiven, allowed again?
"Alright," he murmured.
A/N: Did you like it?? Ahhhhhhhhh I can't wait to post the next chapters, to let everyone know how this is going to turn out :):)
Please, leave me any questions or comments or suggestions! I read all of my reviews and appreciate them dearly. Have a great rest of the week!
Katie