When Hermione stumbled through her front door, bleary-eyed, fuzzy-brained and not exactly sure how the meeting had ended or how she'd ended up at home, she found an irate Ronald Weasley pacing in her kitchenette.
"Hermione!" He practically leapt over the stool by the counter and ran at her. His angry face morphed into something relieved while he scrutinized her from every angle.
"Everyone was so worried, and they sent me over to make sure you were okay. You are okay, aren't you?"
"I'm fine, just very tired," she said, fending off his arms that reached around her to see if her limbs were still intact. "I don't know what the big deal is," she continued, somewhat miffed at his intrusion into her home.
He'd had a key since forever, and he kept doing things to give her reasons to ask for it back, but she just hadn't ever gotten around to it yet. His 'everyone' sounded an awful lot like 'himself', and his 'they' who had sent him over usually meant that he'd appointed himself to once again look after her, whether she needed it or not.
"Your owl came back with the message unanswered. What was I supposed to think?"
Hermione's owl, Krustus, still worked within the bounds of the wizarding world, and though she loved the animal for who he was and what he did for her, it was a depressing thought that Krustus probably had more magic in him than she did.
"I was supposed to deliver this message to you from your boss, since you never showed up for work."
"What are you talking about? I was working!" she retorted, feeling her headache pound in the worst way.
"With that secret contact of yours," Ron said in a way that meant he clearly didn't approve. "I told you before, and I'm going to tell you again. I trust you with my life, you know that, but that weasel doesn't have a trustworthy bone his body."
"I wasn't there," she said forcefully. "As if it matters Ronald, that's on Wednesday. I was doing some charitable after hours inquiries. And my department doesn't assign me backup for these types of things. I'm not an Auror. This is a humanitarian cause."
"It's spy work. No sane Auror would go in without backup."
She couldn't say the name of her secret contact out loud, but that didn't mean that Ron didn't know exactly who it was. They'd argued over this too, also in the worst way. It always ended up the same. Hermione didn't have the magical means to protect herself from someone like him, but he was the only contact she had, and she wasn't going to turn down a chance to get what she needed for what she was working on.
Besides, she wasn't even with her questionable contact. She was somewhere else entirely… which she wasn't supposed to talk about… or maybe she should… She examined the man in front of her, frazzled and irritable, and decided against it. She should… but then she didn't want to deal with more of his attitude.
He'd been one of her closest friends for years, her boyfriend for a year, and her fiance for three months, but after the curse had finally developed enough to land her in St. Mungo's for six weeks, sapping the last of her magic away, she couldn't promise him the life he thought he wanted with her until she reconciled herself with the life she was now forced to live. She had to figure herself out first – and wanting to show that he was the one who understood and loved her through all her changes, Ron accepted her terms.
"Look," he was saying, "all I wanted was to know that you were alright. You didn't answer my owl yesterday, and today you didn't show up at the Ministry. Now, at least I can sleep at night."
Here he was, supporting her when she wasn't expecting it. She didn't know whether to be grateful or irritated about it. Being supportive and being suffocating were two different things, and in all the years she'd known him, Ron hadn't learned the difference.
"If we were married…" he started, but Hermione quickly cut him off.
"We're not married. We're not even dating." She followed with that last bit to keep Ron from falling back on the "we could be" scenario.
She didn't want to be hurtful, but trying to reestablish her independence on a daily basis – with every little thing – was exhausting. So much of what he said to her was peppered with an overextended invitation to intrude on her life that she only had the energy to listen to half of what he ever said to her. It was why, after being released from the hospital, she hadn't taken Ron's suggestion to move in with him.
"I still want to take care of you, if you'll let me."
He went over to the couch and collapsed into it, throwing a hand over his face, looking very worn down. She had grown accustomed to seeing him like this – overwhelmed, overworked, and still willing to do whatever it took to keep her in one piece. Though the endearing qualities had worn off ages ago, part of what he did for her was still admirable. The rest of it was infuriating.
Hermione gave pause to his words, mulling them over in her mind.
"I never got the owl. When did you send it?"
Ron mumbled something into his arm which sounded like he'd sent several messages over the span of the day, but that wasn't right, because she'd been at the Ministry all day before her evening appointment, which was after hours.. She should have gotten those owls straight away, and even though their personal relationship had been thrown into the rubbish bin, she would have answered his messages straight away too, if only to prevent… this.
She closed the door to her bedroom, thankful for the suite layout of the flat with the adjoining bathroom to the master suite. She was glad that she'd splurged on the extra amenities when she'd moved into her own place after her recent promotion.
What had happened, exactly? She wasn't too concerned that she didn't remember the details of the meeting. She usually took excellent notes, and it was usual of her not to have a total recall of the details – her fuzzy head didn't bother her either, she'd had a lot of fuzzy head moments since the dark magic had gotten into her system – she'd gotten a taxi back to the flat, right?
One thing troubling about working with different species was that they wanted you to participate in their rituals and customs. Hermione usually went to great lengths to research what was expected of her, but there just wasn't a lot of information on vampires. Their origins were steeped in mystery and legend, and their collective society was largely undocumented. Unfortunately, her decision to just go in first and ask questions later had backfired in a major way.
It was night when she'd gotten to the warehouse. It had still been dark outside when she'd gotten home.
Her stomach growled, it was uncomfortably empty, and some of the words Ron had spun around her head when she wasn't listening were starting to come back around.
What had Ron meant by 'yesterday'?
Had she been gone longer than she'd thought?
An insistent tapping brought her attention to the window where Krustus was perched on the ledge outside, letting her know of his presence. She opened the window to let him in, and he squawked at her, ruffling his feathers before hopping onto her writing desk.
For an owl, he looked exhausted. Hermione quickly untied a collection of tiny rolled up pieces of parchment from his legs. Three were from Ron, and one was from her boss.
There weren't any times listed, but all of the letters were dated for May the twenty-seventh, which, according to her schedule book, was the day of her pro-bono meeting. She set Ron's notes aside and unrolled the one from her boss, Gringus Alabastor, Head Liaison for D.I.C.R.A.C.M.C., an untidy acronym that he insisted on using in all of his correspondence. He was still sore over the Liaison title that facilitated transferring different races from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures to the Department of International Cooperation. Creating an entirely new department for this task would take twice as long as it had taken Hermione to reverse the regulation of House Elves from the Beast, Being, and Spirit Divisions and put them into mainstream Wizarding rule.
At this point in her career, progress was more important than pompous titles. Unfortunately, her boss, who still only managed to call her 'assistant', and sometimes 'the rebel within the system', tended to disagree.
Alabastor's message had warned her not to go to her pro-bono meeting that night. The note explained that 'there had been a security breach, Hermione Granger's name had come up, and would she please report in as soon as possible.'
"That explains the frazzled ex on my couch," she muttered.
Ron had just graduated from the two year Auror Training Program, and he'd been a full-fledged Auror for only a handful of days. If his ex was reported missing right after circulating a note like this, she could see why all his the alarms had gone off.
But really, it was only… Hermione glanced at the clock and squinted. Eight-forty in the evening, which couldn't be correct. Her meeting had been set for eight-thirty. It was a half hour taxi ride to the docks, and she knew she had been there for…
Still, that wouldn't have given her any time to get home.
Then there was a flash of blinding sun, and falling onto the ground… and a
long, long dreamless sleep – and finally waking again and stumbling around in the dark and finding the door… and… running…
Hermione blinked and her bedroom re-appeared before her.
Suddenly, her body felt heavy and ached all over. As she got undressed for her shower, she caught her reflection and gasped. There were scrapes and bruises all over her arms and legs, and strange markings along her neck and shoulders. Everything felt stiff, like she'd been beaten by a broom.
Under the hot water spray, she stopped trying to reason it out and just went through the motions with the soap and shampoo, and tried to rinse her concerns down the drain. Something bad had happened to her, but all she wanted to do was close her eyes and sleep. She was so very tired. It took every effort to turn off the water and get herself sorted.
It was midnight when she finally got into bed, and instead of falling asleep straight away, her mind kept drifting back to Ron.
He'd helped her every step of the way since losing her magic. But every time she looked at him, she saw someone who remembered who she used to be. There was no relief from it. She had thought that after the hospital, maybe being alone, she could find a way to reconcile herself with her lost magic.
She was so… whatever she was… empty that she couldn't even cry about it.
Hermione stared at the blank ceiling. Her therapist had told her that once you put a name to your feelings, they could be analyzed, dissected, and dealt with. They became less of a scary thing hiding in the dark, and more of a tangible thing to be conquered.
She tried that, because now, of all times, she wasn't in the mood to be overcome by some nameless Boggart that plucked away at the last of her sanity. This thing that was crawling around inside of her, causing her to be restless and squirmy… needled at her, made her stomach churn and her head pound... had to stop. There was no relief from it.
She sat up in bed, finding the word for it at last.
Hunger.