Chapter Five
It was a morning just like any other. Hermione awoke to the heavenly scent of tea being steeped and the chorus of good-natured familial arguments echoing up the stairs. This time it sounded as if George had done something, yet again, to provoke Ginny into starting a row.
"…if I have to say it again, I'll hex you from here to Durmstrang!" she shrieked from somewhere below. Hermione was sure she heard George simply guffaw in reply.
These mornings were both beautiful and disheartening. Each one represented one day closer to Ron and Harry returning home. But simultaneously, they had become something robotic and repetitive that somehow made the time crawl even more slowly. They represented an incomplete puzzle with two crucial pieces missing. And in that vein, it was sometimes difficult to enjoy the small comforts of the Weasley house without them.
She stretched emphatically as she pulled herself from the bed mat beside Ginny's single, stopping to assess her reflection in the full-length mirror on the wall. Stray fly-a-ways and bags under her eyes most certainly did not suit her.
"Good morning, dear!" the mirror chirped. Hermione smiled weakly in reply as she began to pull on proper clothes. As she pocketed her wand and began to head downstairs, she heard Ginny call out to her.
"Hermione! Post!"
She felt her heart flutter wildly in her chest as she took the stairs two at a time all the way to the first floor. Ron had kept true to his promise that he would write her as often as possible, but the mail had a nasty habit of being delayed. Some days she had no letters, others she had several. The days that she received something from him were always substantially more enjoyable.
She was at Ginny's side in an instant, helping her sift through the extensive pile of post. She eagerly grabbed a handful to peruse.
"You sleep okay?" Ginny asked without tearing her eyes from the task at hand.
"Sure," Hermione offered plainly. "Why?"
"No reason," Ginny replied…perhaps a bit too quickly. Hermione did not ask her to elaborate: she knew that there were nights during which her dreams were unbearable. She had no doubt that she must have talked in her sleep.
And she did not particularly want to discuss it.
"Nothing for me," Ginny said softly. Hermione felt her heart break for the younger girl; Harry's letters had been slowly tapering off for no discernible reason, and she had understandably begun to worry.
"Don't let it concern you too much, Gin," Hermione started supportively. "I'm sure he just hasn't had a chance to – "
She stopped short when she uncovered the next piece of mail in her pile. It was a letter addressed to her, from Harry.
Ginny hadn't noticed, but she was looking pressingly in Hermione's direction, as though waiting for the brunette to continue consoling her.
"To – to write," Hermione finished pathetically. She hastily slipped Harry's letter into the back of the pile in her hands, so as to be sure that Ginny would not see it.
"I'm sure you're right." Ginny forced a shaky smile, one that Hermione struggled to return. She was sure it came off as more of a grimace.
"Geeny!" a familiar French voice echoed from the kitchen. "Can you 'elp me get ze tea?"
Ginny rolled her eyes and sighed heavily. "I'm coming!" she called. Hermione winced apologetically; Ginny had been burdened with the responsibility of being Fleur's primary caregiver during her pregnancy. It had not been anybody's decision, per se – if anything, it had been Fleur who had taken a particular liking to Ginny's assistance. And Ginny hadn't been sure whether to be flattered that Fleur trusted her, or hacked off that the others were never asked to do anything.
Ginny smiled kindly, brushing Hermione's arm with sisterly affection as she retreated from the room. Hermione waited for the sound of the kitchen door swinging shut before collecting her own post and hurrying upstairs. She paused at the landing, deciding it was best to find a quiet, uninterrupted place to read the letters.
Ron's room.
As she entered, she felt a familiar sting of nostalgia engulf her. It wasn't as though she did not ever visit his room – quite the contrary. However, it seemed that each time felt just as overwhelming as the one before. There was a sense of him in the room. As though some version of his presence hadn't quite left. It was always warmer here than the rest of the house, and Hermione was certain that it had nothing to do with the actual temperature.
She perched herself on the edge of his bed, sorting through the two letters in hand. One was from Ron, naturally – but the other letter, mysterious as ever, sent goose flesh down her arms.
Sure, Harry had written to her a few times, himself – but never before had it occurred in place of Ginny's post. She could not help but be prepared for the worst.
Slowly, carefully, she slid her thumb beneath the flap on the front to unearth the parchment he had enclosed. With trembling hands, she finally succeeded in opening it.
Dear Hermione,
I need your help. I haven't slept properly in days. Kingsley has been understanding about it for the moment, but I know that time is running out to pull myself together. I'm afraid to go to infirmary and draw attention to myself.
I'm having nightmares, like before. I know it's impossible, but I can't get past how real all of it feels. Just like they always have.
They're always about death. The people I care most about…dying. I wake up in cold sweats and can't feel my fingers or toes. Sometimes I think I'm having a heart attack.
Can you do some research about it for me? I know I can count on you.
Love, Harry
PS: Please don't share this with anyone. I don't want anyone to worry. Especially not Ginny. The last thing I want to do is make this harder for her.
Hermione read the contents of Harry's letter several times before its meaning actually sank in. Then, with hands she had not realized were shaking, she folded it back up and stashed it carefully beneath Ron's pillow, where it could not be found. Nobody had dared to come into Ron's room, except for her. The one time that Mrs. Weasley had brought a bit of freshly-laundered clothes in, she had ended up sobbing for hours, and had not returned since.
Prophetic dreams? How could Harry possibly still be having them? The only reason he had ever experienced them before was due to his connection with the Dark Lord, witnessing real-time events as they were unfolding in distant corners of the globe…
She stuffed Ron's letter unceremoniously in her back pocket, knowing that she would not be able to concentrate on its contents right now. Instead, she bounded off the bed, taking the stairs two at a time back to the room she shared with Ginny. Her extensive library was still stored in the enchanted beaded bag that sat at her bedside, untouched for some time.
She plopped onto the mat, seizing the bag and dumping it upside-down. Book covers clattered noisily against each other as they rained out, and she began searching for the only one that had been rather untouched in her days at Hogwarts. She knew it was a good place to start, especially considering she had not paid as close of attention to it as she probably should have in the past.
And then she found it. The cover was shiny and new, in just as good of shape as it had been the first day she purchased it. It did not have the same wear and tear of her other books – the ones she had taken to re-reading on several occasions. No, instead, this one stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the rest. Just looking at it made her hate it all over again, but she knew what had to be done.
With an all-mighty sigh, she opened the front cover of Unfogging the Future and began to read.
Malfoy did not speak to Ron for the rest of the day. Instead, both had sat in complete silence during their shift, constantly referring to pocket watches in hopes that time would miraculously speed up.
The next day was no better. Malfoy was still as cold as ice, and Harry had still not turned up. He was beginning to worry about him, and wondered why Kingsley had not acknowledged his absence. Something was starting to feel utterly broken and helpless somewhere deep within Ron's soul. He had never expected to feel as miserable and alone as he did in those two days.
He missed Harry sorely – he could not get past the fact that their last interaction had been a blow-out row, and he had not seen him since. It was enough to drive a person mad. And Malfoy…well, Malfoy had become something like a pseudo-companion during his time at Alcatraz, someone he had been forced to pass the time with when he could not be in his preferred circle of friends. And he missed his company more than he was willing to admit aloud.
Even the detoxifying healer had noticed Ron's sour mood before dinner that second day. She asked him a series of invasive questions as he sipped on his foul-tasting potion, attempting to discern whether there was something else ailing him. Questions about how he was sleeping, how he was feeling…if he felt hopeless or lost. He knew precisely what she was driving it – she wanted to ensure that he was not going to kill himself. There had been questions like this that he had had to submit to while applying to Auror Academy in the first place. And he knew that she was doing her job, but hated her for it nonetheless. He had done his best to answer with grace, despite the fact that all he wanted to do was hex her for badgering him.
Dinner came and went, and still there was no sign of Harry. So when Ron trudged back to his sleeping quarters, he was prepared to turn in for the night. The waterfront was eerily quiet this evening, and did nothing to improve his haunted mood.
He entered the tent somberly, mind racing at a million miles a minute, knowing full well he would not sleep. Malfoy was already in bed, staring intently at the ceiling of the tent as though it was playing a movie that Ron could not see. He did not acknowledge his presence.
With a heavy sigh, Ron plopped himself at the small table in the center of the tent. He considered writing, but could not bring himself to make the effort to unearth any of his materials. So instead, he sat there quietly, looking around the room as if something to do would suddenly leap out at him. Malfoy did nothing to assist in the process, only continued to lie noiselessly in his bed as though he was mid-meditation. The only exception to the hush was Pig's soft hooting noises.
And then – footsteps. He would not have been able to hear them if it hadn't been for the awkward silence in the first place. The sound of twigs snapping in the dry sand was unmistakable, and utterly out of place. Nobody was supposed to venture to this part of the island besides the two of them.
Malfoy heard it, as well. He was already on his feet, wand out, by the time Ron thought to glance in his direction. Their eyes met briefly, mutual confusion donning their features, but still said nothing.
The person was getting closer now. Ron could practically hear them breathing.
"Show yourself!" Malfoy shouted. "Show yourself or I'll hex you!"
The footsteps stopped suddenly at hearing this. Malfoy had made his way to the mouth of the tent, his wand practically shoved through the opening.
And then, Harry's face appeared, his hands out in a gesture of surrender.
"It's me, it's me!" he insisted, standing stupidly in the doorway. Malfoy had not lowered his wand.
"What the hell are you doing down here, Potter?" he sneered. "Do you have a death wish?"
"Not particularly," Harry grumbled, glancing pointedly in Ron's direction for assistance. Ron sighed heavily as he approached him.
"Stand down, Malfoy," he said with an air of mockery. "It's only Harry."
Malfoy's wand remained at-the-ready. He did not appear to care who was invading his sleeping quarters, only that they had dared to do so.
Ron rolled his eyes. "Fine. C'mon, Harry."
He pushed past Malfoy to guide Harry back out of the tent and toward the beachfront, and awkward silence befalling them as they stood there watching the ocean glitter in the moonlight. Neither of them said anything for quite some time, until finally Harry cleared his throat.
"I owe you an explanation for my behavior yesterday."
Ron shook his head shortly. "No need to explain, mate," he began. "It's over with."
Harry looked at him, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his robes sheepishly.
"It's not that simple," he added with a heavy sigh. "It's not about that. I mean, I knew we'd be okay. We always are."
"Of course we are," Ron said. "Harry, we've been through far too much to hold grudges over rubbish like this."
Harry chuckled darkly. "You always forgive me more easily than I deserve."
This statement perplexed Ron somehow. He had always felt the opposite – that Harry was saintly when it came to forgiveness. Not him.
"Not that I don't owe you a formal apology, as well…but it just seems secondary to what I have to tell you."
Ron studied his face carefully, awaiting the fallout. Something in Harry had darkened in the past couple of days, and he could not quite put his finger on it.
"I don't know what's happening to me," he started, looking back out towards the sea. "I'm getting some – er – outside help to figure it out."
Ron didn't have to ask. He knew in his heart that Harry was referring to Hermione.
"I've been having…dreams. You remember what they're like."
"You told me," Ron insisted. "And like I told you, it's impossible. The Dark Lord is gone, and – "
"They're not quite the same," Harry interjected. "It's…hard to explain."
Ron shuffled his feet quietly. "Well…try to. It's just me, mate."
Harry offered a half-hearted smile at this. "I would, if I could understand it better, myself. It's just – well – I have this terrible feeling that something bad is going to happen here. To us." He turned to face him, his eyes grave. "To you."
Something about the way he said it made Ron's blood freeze over in his veins. He did not reply.
"I've spoken briefly with Kingsley about it, but he hasn't a clue where to start. But I'm hoping Herm – I mean, my uh…source will have some answers soon."
There were thousands of burning questions that Ron wanted to ask, but somehow couldn't find the effort to do so. So he simply nodded in response.
"I just wanted to let you know," Harry concluded briefly. They both sat in silence for a moment, digesting the conversation. Ron had the feeling that both of them were well-aware that they had not established any more definitive answers than they had started with. But somehow, that they both felt better for it.
"Thanks," he muttered.
Harry inhaled sharply, then released a mighty sigh. "I'll be at breakfast tomorrow. Hopefully I'll have something better to tell you by then."
Ron offered a sidelong glance in Harry's direction, taking note of the distress on his features. "If you need anything…you know…sooner…"
"I know."
Harry turned to Ron and offered him an appreciative smile. It spoke volumes in and of itself.
"I'll see you in the morning," Harry decided, beginning to trudge somberly back in the direction of his camp. Ron watched him go, wishing he had thought of something better to offer him. Though the conversation had been short and to-the-point, he knew that it was a load off Harry's chest to have it. Just as it had been for him.
When he could no longer see Harry's figure in the dark distance, he made his way back into the tent. Malfoy was lying in bed once more, lounging cockily against his pillow.
"I think you owe me an apology, Weasley," he began cheekily. "What did I tell you?"
Ron rolled his eyes. Leave it to Malfoy to gloat about 'I told you so.'
"Eat shit," he said instead, but somehow could not hide the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. In his own twisted way, Malfoy had actually done something somewhat kind by trying to make Ron feel better the day before. He hadn't quite been able to appreciate it until now.
"Close enough," Malfoy chuckled.
Ron resumed his seat at the table, feeling as though his head was going to explode from overload. He wanted to write a letter to Hermione before bed. He had so much to say now. He sifted through his book bag, trying to locate a piece of parchment.
"Bollocks," he muttered to himself. He had forgotten that he had used his last piece yesterday, and had been too distracted by everything going on to run to the supply tent for more. It was surely shut down for the night now.
Malfoy seemed to take note of his dilemma. He had risen from his bunk and unearthed his own bag, digging through it to reveal a stack of untouched parchment. He tossed it unceremoniously onto the table without saying a word. It was bizarre, really, that Malfoy knew precisely what Ron had sat down to do without so much as a word. Then again, it was simply part of his nighttime ritual. Malfoy had surely grown accustomed to it.
Ron studied him for a moment, confused. As much as he wanted to say 'thank you,' he couldn't bring himself to do it.
"You keep it," Malfoy muttered indignantly, as though trying to surpass any heartfelt exchange, himself. "I've had no use for it."
Ron cocked an eyebrow in his direction. "What, you mean you haven't been writing anyone? This whole time?"
"And who would you propose I write to?" Malfoy demanded with bitter disdain. "Perhaps my mother, who has taken to drowning herself in wine to subdue the pain of her meaningless existence, bereft of any and all hope of purpose or importance?
"Or would you suggest my father, who awaits trial in Azkaban as a result of refusing exoneration from the Order, for fear of bringing dishonor to the Malfoy bloodline and bruising his ever-persistent pride? Not that he would be keen to hear from me anyway, as he has disinherited me for being here and shaming the Malfoy name. Because you see, he will always live in that bloody corner of his own mind where the Dark Lord reigns supreme."
His eyes were fused to something far in the distance, beyond Ron's imagination. He mindlessly massaged his knuckles as he spoke. Unable to formulate any coherent response, Ron simply sat in silence.
"Some Dark Lord, right?" Malfoy scoffed indignantly. "I always knew it wouldn't last long. Couldn't even kill a 17-year old boy."
Something deep within Ron wanted to be defensive – angry even – at this comment. But the sheer exhaustion and disapproval with which it was said alerted him that there was no use. It was coming out wrong, most assuredly – but somehow the meaning itself wasn't wrong. He was openly denouncing any former allegiance he may have held to Voldemort on the grounds that he was not as powerful as he proclaimed, after all. And any surrender on the part of a Malfoy was a rare occasion, indeed, and was not to be tampered with.
"It was miserable, anyway. My mother and father never saw it, but it was so bloody obvious. Our home had been turned into his headquarters, our liberties completely irrelevant. To worship that kind of life is utterly demeaning. We're Malfoys, for Merlin's sake – we aren't meant to bow down to anyone. There's no honor in that."
Ron studied the dirt under his fingernails absent-mindedly. He had always known that Malfoy was self-absorbed and completely pretentious in regard to his lineage. But this was perhaps the only context within which it was acceptable – noble, even.
Malfoy shook his head quickly, as if deflecting his own train of thought. "Anyway. My mother surely hasn't noticed that I'm away, and my father likely hopes that I'll stay away forever."
And then, some sort of switch flipped, and his usual sneer of distaste had returned almost as soon as it had vanished. Ron could practically hear the 'whooshing' sound of Malfoy's soul being sucked back into his body and silenced once more.
"So have it," he declared brashly, pushing the parchment in Ron's direction. "Have it all. I could care less."
Ron thumbed the corners of the paper rather guiltily, wishing suddenly that he had done more than sit around like an imbecile while Malfoy's human side showed its face for that brief blip in time. If he had sneezed he would have missed it entirely. He may never again bear witness to a moment such as this for the rest of his life.
He tried to think of some sort of profound, uplifting proverb that his dad would offer in a case such as this. Something about not losing hope or abandoning family. About taking initiative and finding great reward in its wake.
Reassurance that no one is ever quite alone.
But no such words felt right. Not for Malfoy, anyway. Perhaps Harry – or even Neville – but not Malfoy.
So he offered a pathetic "thanks" instead. Malfoy didn't even seem to hear him, for he had returned to his bunk and begun leafing through a comic magazine. His eyes were emotionless – pleasant, even, as far as Malfoy's pleasure ever went – as he sniggered quietly at the mobilized frames before him.
Ron stared at the blank piece of parchment before him, quill at-the-ready. He sat there for several minutes, lost in his own thoughts and unable to focus on the task at hand. The writing section of his brain may as well have been as clean and unused as the page at his fingertips.
"You're not having a stroke, are you?" Malfoy asked suddenly, peering over his comic book. Rather than worried, he sounded utterly frustrated. As if Ron having a stroke would have been a dreadful inconvenience to him.
"No," Ron said quietly. "I mean – I don't think so, anyway…"
"Then what are you doing?" Malfoy demanded. "I thought you were so desperate for writing materials that you couldn't stand it."
Yes. Yes, only twenty minutes ago Ron had had an entire novel's worth of commentary to relay to Hermione. A barrage of grievances and confessions and regrets. Only, he couldn't remember any of it now.
"What do you mean, you can't remember it?" Malfoy was swinging his legs over the side of the bed now, rolling his eyes at what he obviously considered sheer stupidity.
Ron grimaced. "What, did I say that last bit out loud?"
Malfoy ignored him. He was approaching the table now with his usual strut of superiority, surveying the scene before him.
"It's very simple, Weasley," he explained slowly, as though speaking to a child. He none-too-gently seized the quill from Ron's hand and began to write in a loopy cursive.
"Dear Mudbl – " – he paused, glancing carefully at Ron's expression before correcting himself – "I mean, Granger," he began sardonically. "I want to snog your bloody brains out."
Ron blanched. "No, no, no," he said quickly, reaching to retrieve the quill. Malfoy expertly pulled it away from arm's length. Though he ceased to continue writing, he proceeded with reading the rest of this imaginary letter aloud.
"My only human interaction is with Draco Malfoy. Which, naturally, makes me bloody randy."
"Oh, that's rich," Ron grumbled in his best attempt at sounding irritable. Unfortunately, he found himself chuckling against his will.
"Too bad Malfoy does not like men. Or gingers. Because he is most certainly the sexiest man alive."
Ron was clutching at a stitch in his side now, trying unsuccessfully to keep his laughter at bay. He wasn't sure what was funniest about this situation – Malfoy's sheer pretention – the fact that he had not smiled through the entire thing, which made Ron suspicious that he thought all of it to be true – or the idea that Draco Malfoy had done something funny at all.
Malfoy was looking particularly abashed now as he tossed the quill aside. "Well I got you bloody started, Weasley. Now have at it and put the light out. I'm knackered and you're keeping me awake."
There was some distant look on his face as he returned to bed, however, that suggested he was somewhat pleased with himself for his own performance.
"All right, all right, I'll be done soon," Ron promised. He rolled his eyes. "You go ahead and get your beauty rest."
"I've already stopped listening to you," Malfoy announced lazily from his bed. "So you might as well turn that bloody mouth off for the rest of the night."
Ron mimed zipping his lips melodramatically, unable to suppress the snide smirk that was sneaking up on him. The amplitude of realizations was becoming increasingly easier to mitigate as the days passed.
Malfoy was, at the very least, part human. And that part of him had come to seek companionship whenever and wherever he could get it.
And, as with anybody else, he found enjoyment in the idea of making somebody laugh until their sides were sore.
