A/N: I AM SO EXCITED ABOUT THIS CHAPTER!
We're really getting into the magic here, folks, and it's the kind of stuff I adore writing about. Please, leave a comment if you like it! I love hearing from y'all.
Fair warning, I think I've set a precedent on speed between chapters that I can almost guarantee will not hold up under pressure. I CAN guarantee more of this type of content though. :D
Last but not least, shout out to cheesyficwriter and accio_broom, my beta superheroes!
Hermione had always risen with the sun. Even when she was a child, she woke with the first rays of dawn. Today was no different, so by 6:30 AM, according to a quick check of her watch, Hermione knew there would be no going back to sleep. She lay on her back in the quiet, nestled into an overstuffed couch and covered in blankets, contemplating her life.
Hello rock, meet hard place.
She tapped the screen of her phone without purpose, making it fluctuate between a generic background image and blackness, each time imagining texting or calling someone for help.
Who was she going to contact? Her Muggle family couldn't do anything for her. If anything, asking them to become involved in her arrest by an elite Auror would endanger them. She wouldn't risk it.
Her colleagues? She snorted at the thought. Seeing as it was the Department of Mysteries that'd put out a warrant for her arrest to begin with, she obviously couldn't depend on any of them. Not that she trusted her colleagues, even before this unfortunate misunderstanding. Her Department was…well, it had been thus far an interesting career, to say the least.
To add insult to injury, because of the unorthodox and stringent rules of her job, Hermione had no personal life or other friends to speak of.
No, it seemed that for now, at least, she was on her own.
She rolled on her side, impatient and annoyed, eyes landing on the redheaded bane of her existence. His breathing was light, a stark contrast to what she remembered from their time at HU, where his snores could keep her entire hall awake. She'd learned very quickly to cast a silencing spell at her door when he stayed the night. The memory almost drew a smile from her lips. Almost.
Instead, she studied his prone form, marvelling again at how much he'd seemed to change.
The previous evening, Ron had parked in front of a block of flats in the heart of Holyhead, leading her to a fourth-floor walkup. It was Ginny's, he'd explained, though she was away for a match. He'd tapped the doorknob with his wand in a series of complicated patterns before it shimmered and creaked open to let them in.
They'd reheated takeaway leftovers in Ginny's fridge and taken turns showering. Since it was a one-bedroom, and they were still magically connected by the handcuffs, Ron had tossed blankets and pillows on the couch before conjuring a sleeping bag and laying on the floor, turning away from her. She'd been left gaping at him like a fish out of water.
She'd settled into the sofa, emotions so scattered she wasn't sure how to collect them, falling asleep in a whir of confusion. He hadn't even bothered to take her phone away, and it irked her to no end that he'd been right in doing so.
She had no one. She was alone.
She suppressed a sigh, swinging her legs to sit up and contemplating making some tea.
In the blink of an eye, Ron was on top of her, wand drawn. His hair was mussed with sleep and his eyes were unfocused, but he'd managed to wrap an arm around her torso, pinning her arms to her sides and digging his wand painfully into her ribs.
"What the hell, Ron?" she wheezed, struggling to breathe. The shock of his quick and deadly movement made her adrenaline pump.
They were sandwiched into the couch cushions, the weight of his body pressed against hers. She wished she could ignore the freckles on his cheeks or the perfect way the grey of the centre of his iris faded to brilliant blue. His well-trimmed, wiry beard tickled her chin.
He blinked twice, then released her, springing away with such dexterity that she half-fell off the sofa.
"Sorry," he grunted. "You surprised me."
"I surprised you?" She pushed herself from the floor, rubbing her elbow. "Do you attack everyone who makes a noise around you first thing in the morning, or is that special treatment reserved for me?"
He shrugged. "Never anyone with me in the morning."
She ingested this news as he walked to the kitchen, choosing not to analyse the feeling of satisfaction it elicited.
"Since when are you such a light sleeper, anyway?"
"I learned on missions. Constant fear of attack and death sort of breaks you of the heavy snoring habit. Tea?"
"Is that a joke?" she asked weakly, getting to her feet to follow him to the kitchen. "It's a pretty poor one-"
"Don't act like you fucking care about me now, Granger."
She wanted to argue, but she was arrested, wasn't she? It didn't matter anyway.
He tapped his wand against a kettle and the water hissed and popped, boiling so it steamed from the spout. He gestured to the options laid out on the counter, but she rolled her eyes and he nodded, preparing two mugs of English Black. He added a splash of milk, pushing hers towards her.
They drank in begrudging silence, not saying a word until both cups sat empty.
Hermione clenched her jaw, bracing for the questions she knew she needed to ask. "Where are you taking me?"
He cleared the mugs to the sink, avoiding her.
"I deserve to know, Ron. This is not standard procedure."
She'd worked that part out on the long, silent drive. By apparating to Amersham he'd alerted everyone in the Ministry that he had her, and they were going to the detention centre, effectively buying himself seventy-two hours. (Closer to sixty hours now, but who was counting?)
But they also continued to travel the Muggle way, which, Hermione could only surmise, ensured that they did not accidentally alert anyone magical that they were not, in fact, in Amersham.
What was he playing at?
She slapped her hand on the counter, forcing him to look at her. "Where are you taking me?"
He ran a hand through his hair, sighing.
"Ireland."
Ireland? Her mind whirred into action as she tried to imagine all the reasons he might take her there. She had a feeling it wasn't for a holiday.
"What's in Ireland?"
"You can borrow Ginny's clothes if you want to change, but hurry. Our ferry leaves in an hour."
It was the same tone from their time at Uni, when he would insist that she take a break from studying to eat. She knew him well enough to know it was useless to argue.
One ferry, a three-hour car ride, and a twenty-minute hike later, Hermione found herself standing on a path of white, chalky, earth, gaping at the view.
An endless field of limestone surrounded her, extending in all directions until meeting the blue line of the cloudy sky on the horizon. Tough grasses grew low and thick in every crevice of the sprawling rocks, making the view look as though it'd been sprinkled with greenery.
The stone hill before them commanded her attention, though it wasn't tall by any stretch of the imagination. The grey and white ridges of the crest formed an enormous, natural, swirling shape, like an eddy of the water immortalised in stone. Each ledge was punctuated with the dull olive tones of the resilient vegetation that grew against the height of the next step, making the hill look like a large coil of limestone and green.
"This is beautiful."
They hadn't spoken a word to each other since tea that morning, but Hermione wasn't altogether surprised to hear his response.
"It really is."
She glanced at him, pleased by the serenity of his features as he surveyed the view. It was refreshing to know that he was human and not the emotionless robot he tried to make himself out to be.
She studied the bluff again, noticing that at the top, in the very centre, was an open space of pristine, white stone.
Hermione didn't know Ron's goal, but she knew enough about magic to know that had to be where they were going.
"Shall we?" she asked, taking a few steps towards the hill.
"Wait." Ron grabbed her arm. She looked back at him and he dropped his hand as though burned.
"It's about the approach as much as the destination."
"Cryptic."
He walked past her and she took it as a sign to follow, mimicking his gentle, slow pace. Instead of climbing up the hill like a staircase, he walked along each edge until it ran into the next one, following a path of switchbacks that meandered up the shallow hill.
Given that the slope wasn't very steep, this choice in path seemed unnecessary, but Hermione said nothing as she followed behind him, intrigued, if nothing else, by the process. When they reached the top, he gestured for her to stay behind and took two steps forward, kneeling as he placed a palm flat on the stone and closed his eyes.
Nothing happened for several long minutes. Hermione resisted the urge to tap her foot, settling instead for crossing her arms as she waited, shivering in the cold wind which cut across the open field, unencumbered. It was lucky there weren't any Muggles around to witness this because explaining exactly why Ron was kneeling silently in the centre of a large white rock would be difficult to manage on the best of days.
Even as she thought it, she took stock of her surroundings, realising that something felt off. What was it? The view was the same as before, and they hadn't changed locations.
It was quiet. Unnaturally quiet. Where was the breeze, whispering in her ears? The absence of it unsettled her.
She whipped her attention around to Ron, who'd raised his head and opened his eyes, staring straight ahead.
He stood, shaking off his jacket and pushing up the left sleeve of his shirt. She wasn't imagining it this time: the tattoos on his forearm jumped, dancing around as they rearranged themselves. Three green teardrop shapes came together just below his elbow, merging into a Celtic knot before glowing metallic gold. He held his arm at a ninety-degree ahead of him, clenching his fist. The golden light grew in intensity until it was so bright, Hermione had to close her eyes.
When she opened them again, Ron was pulling his jacket back on and a condensed cloud of misty fog floated in front of them.
A tall figure emerged from the cloud, face hidden beneath a green cloak.
"Ronald Weasley, Ally of the Druids."
Hermione's mouth fell open. Druids? It couldn't be. They were notoriously secluded, refusing to cooperate with any wizarding government and preferring to keep their own peace.
"Isolde," Ron greeted. "Thank you for allowing me entrance."
The figure turned towards Hermione, lowering its hood. She- Isolde, it seemed- had skin that was tinted pale green and shocking gold eyes. Flowers were woven through her hair, which fell in tiny, tight braids extending past her waist. White robes peeked out from under her cloak, loose-fitted on her narrow, lithe frame.
"But who is this?" Isolde asked, her voice melodic. "She is no Ally."
Ron shot Hermione a look that said very plainly to let him handle it, and she begrudgingly bit her tongue.
"This is Hermione Granger. I vouch for her and will take responsibility for her."
Isolde studied Hermione for a moment longer, then nodded, craning her neck in a graceful arch. "Do you swear it?"
Hermione couldn't see how Ron had gotten a blade in his hands with so little movement, but before she so much as blinked, he'd pricked his finger and let three drops of blood fall onto the white stone. It hissed and steamed upon contact.
"Yes, I swear it."
"Very well, Ronald Weasley."
Isolde stepped through the cloud of mist, disappearing.
"Oh no," Hermione said, realising what came next. "Ron, I'm not daft enough to step into a portal, or whatever this is, without knowing where it's going." She shook her head, backing up several steps. "You can count me out. I'll stay here, frozen, until you return."
He raised an eyebrow.
She crossed her arms, glaring at him and breathing hard. "Don't try to tell me I don't have a choice! There's always another option. I still don't understand why we're here to begin with. You've dragged me to a different country, for Merlin's sake, the least you can do is explain."
A corner of his mouth curled into that lopsided smirk she hated so much and without even offering her the decency of answering, he jerked his head towards the mist.
She tried to walk towards it, but upon staring at the portal again, her anger dissipated faster than it'd come on. The fog coiled and writhed around itself like a smoky serpent, terrifying her to her core.
She'd seen some complicated and incredible magic in her time with the Department of Mysteries, enough to know that it could be unpredictable and dangerous. What if something awful happened? Who would be able to reverse it? Would there even be a chance?
Ron's warm palm wrapped around her trembling hand, drawing her eyes away from the portal. His long fingers intertwined with hers and she stared at him, unsure of when he moved to stand next to her. He kept his gaze firmly on the mist.
She mirrored his stance, looking forward, feeling calmer as her heartbeat slowed to a manageable pace.
"I know you have no reason to trust me." His words, so eerily similar to her thoughts, were quiet. "I promise you, Hermione, that this is important. I wouldn't have brought you here if it wasn't." He squeezed her hand. "I'll be with you the whole time."
She nodded, taking a deep breath, and, thinking that she must be mental, she stepped into the mist. It felt like puffs of gentle air against her skin, tugging here and there on her clothes, then in a moment, it was over.
The sprawling expanse of the rocky terrain was gone, replaced by thin trees carpeted in moss. Patches of weak sunlight filtered through the branches, landing like scattered specks of gold on the soft, leaf-covered ground. The air was more humid, earthy, and Hermione drew in a greedy, rattling breath.
Isolde looked different here too. She appeared taller, her green cloak was more like moss, and her every movement creaked like the moving boughs of the trees swaying above them.
"Hermione, you're crushing my hand."
She squeaked, dropping the offending appendage and stepping away from Ron. To distract herself more than anything, she asked, "where are we?"
"The home of the Druids." Isolde's voice lilted like a babbling brook. "What is it you seek, Auror of the human world?"
"The Fields of Verity."
"If truth is what you want, then you shall find it here."
She began to glide from them, and, exchanging a glance, Ron and Hermione followed. She led them to an intricate archway, formed by the intertwining branches of two trees that grew together. The air shimmered between the boughs, like dust particles reflecting in the sunlight.
Isolde turned to them, and Hermione was shocked to find that the Druid had grown antlers from the depths of her many braids and her face was painted in tribal lines of silver.
"You wonder about the change in my appearance, Hermione Granger. You have a perceptive and curious mind. Traits to be admired."
Hermione nodded once, not trusting herself to speak.
Isolde smiled. "This is my natural form. Any time spent in the human world, however short, changes me. Here, in my home, I am able to be myself."
She shifted her attention to Ron.
"The Fields of Verity are through this door, Ronald Weasley. You may stay in there as long as you'd like, but be warned: time, knowledge, and truth- these do not pass the same way in the Fields that they do in your world. Your human bodies will find the experience quite draining. Because you are a true Ally, you and Hermione Granger are welcome to enjoy one sleep as guests of our hospitality, but that is all the courtesy I can extend."
"I understand, Isolde. Thank you for all you have done."
"When you are ready, walk through the archway."
She glided away, stopping long enough to speak over one shoulder.
"I hope you both can find the peace you are looking for."
When they were alone, Hermione rounded on him. "What is going on, Ron? Fields of Truth? For Merlin's sake, you brought me all the way here just to make sure I wasn't lying?"
His nostrils flared as he surveyed her. "It's more important than you know, Hermione. I need to be absolutely fucking sure."
"Sure? Sure?" Hermione was hysterical, her tolerance of not understanding the situation at its end. "You need to tell me precisely what the hell is going on, Ron, or I will refuse to enter any fields of anything with you."
They glared at each other, and Ron's eyes raked her over top to bottom four times before he answered. "You know what I do, yeah?"
She nodded.
"You've worked out that I'm not just a- what did you call it?- a 'general population' Auror?"
Frowning, she nodded again.
"Well…" He turned towards the archway, clenching his fists. "I got orders to bring you in. Dead or alive."
This piece of news elicited an instant, physical effect on Hermione. Her eyes began to burn and all the breath left her body. She stared at him in uncomprehending shock, wheezing, feeling her knees grow weaker with every word he spoke.
"I was told you were highly dangerous, and that you'd defected to another government, taking all our most confidential Department of Mysteries secrets with you."
"That's…I'm not…" Her feeble whispers died in her throat as she sank to the ground, sitting in a broken slump. If that was what the Aurors had been told, Hermione was in deep trouble. There would be no way to clear her name. They'd kill her before she even had a chance.
It wasn't true, of course. She hadn't defected. She had never no much as taken home a confidential file, though she knew plenty of people who did bend that little rule so they could work in the evenings from their houses.
The lie was too big to be a mistake. She was being set up to take the fall for something. She knew how the word of one woman against an entire government would end.
She had no idea how long she sat, body convulsing with fear and shock as she analysed her doomed fate.
"Why are we here, Ron?" She felt his gaze burning into her, meeting his eye with tear tracks staining her cheeks. "Why haven't you already turned me in? What do you care if I'm innocent or not?"
"I need to know if the accusations are true."
She got shakily to her feet, her chest feeling as though it'd been ripped in two. "And when they are not true? When you learn what I think you already know—that all the accusations are a lie—what will you do then?"
His jaw clenched as he looked away, a vein jumping in his temple.
She knew what he was thinking. He risked his entire career to bring her here instead of arresting her like he was told, but for what? What would he do after? Take her to the holding cell, and pinky-promise that he'd try to tell his bosses of her innocence?
"I'll go in there with you, Ron," she said, pointing a trembling finger at the shimmering archway. "On one condition."
"You don't have any leverage."
"I get to ask you a question for every one you ask me."
He again surprised her with his speed, grasping her upper arms as he half stepped, half pulled her closer to him. His words came out in something more akin to a growl than a speaking voice.
"And tell me, why would I agree to that?"
"You want to know if I'm innocent," she whispered, licking her lips. "But I need to know if I'm safe with you."
He stooped so he was inches from her, his eyes searching her face with frantic urgency. They flicked to her mouth, mesmerising her. "Fine." He released her. "You have a deal. Let's go."
He stood next to the doorway, gesturing for her to walk through.
They were about to learn the truth, one way or another.