Chapter Five
Saturday, August 25th, 2012
Hermione had always been a thinker.
Hermione had always been an overthinker.
She knew it. Her friends knew it. Her family knew it. Everyone knew it.
Her morning runs helped. During her runs, her mind would reach out and touch things. Thoughts, feelings, ideas. She didn't have to dial in on them and examine them from every angle, instead, she could just entertain them, browse them.
While she ran, she let her mind flow free. It could pick ideas up for a quick look. A scan even. It could give them a quick check, then put them back.
It didn't have to solve them, then and there. And that was okay. She would save her frustrating attempts to solve any and all issues she faced, for after her morning coffee.
Trying to solve issues couldn't be helped. It was just her nature.
For the morning run though, her mind wandered.
Constantly.
Free. Open. Wild.
To James Black.
No matter how she let it wander, it always found its way back to him. It was not a problem, of course, it was new, it was exciting, and it gave her hope that she hadn't known for some time.
Her feet touched lightly upon the pavement as she ran through the town.
She enjoyed exploring the area. She enjoyed the cobblestone streets of the town centre, partnered with the modern nature of the suburbs.
It was a curiosity.
She liked the look of the rolling, green hills in the distance. She was eager to experience them. Eager to hike them, breath their air, see their sights.
For now, though, she contented herself in exploring the urban jungle that was Hereford.
She passed olde pubs and new bars. She passed old cafes and new restaurants. She passed old stores and new shops, department stores, and designer boutiques.
She took it all in. It was a beautiful place.
Maybe, James would show her around?
The one thing she found curious was that her mind had started to default to James. Not Harry, James.
It was like she had met someone new, but old. He still seemed to be Harry. As a person, he hadn't seemed to change all that much. Sure, he, like Ron, had grown a little older, a little wiser, but the fundamentals of who he was and what he had stood for, were still there.
Headstrong. Brave. Loyal. Kind.
Not to mention that judging from his heated conversation with Peyton, he was still doing the same stupid things he always did.
And he was Handsome!
Despite her breathing coming out quicker from the pace she was setting, she somehow sighed.
Those thoughts were not helpful. She was here to get his memory back. That's why she had come. To help her best friend, not to pine after him like Ginny had, all the way back when they were eleven or twelve.
That was not Hermione's style.
She rounded a corner and found herself on a busy street. Hermione came to a stop and looked up and down as she caught her breath. It was a narrow, cobblestone street busy with shops, cafes, and pubs. It wasn't even ten, so the pubs were either closed or only just setting up.
The café's seemed to be doing a roaring Saturday morning trade.
A nearby signpost identified the street as 'The Artists' Way."
She wandered down the street, passing boutique shops selling all manner of goods. They sold everything from clothes and jewellery, to alcohol, sweets, and books. She passed cafes filled with people, sitting down to their morning coffee and cake. Lovers on dates, parents with children, old friends, siblings.
You name it, they were enjoying their morning.
Hermione browsed a few shops, looking at the clothing on the outside racks.
She took her time, being in no rush. She had nowhere to be.
She stopped in a bookstore and naturally purchased some reading material. She couldn't help herself. One or two were books on the SAS, as hers had not arrived through the mail yet. They seemed like they were more personal experiences, of individuals who had served within the Regiment. Hermione was keen to try and understand the experience of the individual, so she could better understand what James had been through.
Understanding his mind and his experiences would be instrumental in her healing of it. Understanding his mind would be instrumental in its retrieval.
The storekeeper that rang her up took a glance at the SAS books and had given her a knowing look, despite not knowing.
She walked out of the bookstore and continued down the road, taking in the sights. It reminded her of Hereford's version of Diagon Alley.
A café sat at the end of the street, on the intersection with an adjoining road. It was a homely café and it appealed to Hermione immediately.
The Winged Excaliber.
Hermione had asked Peyton for a recommendation for cafes where she could get a strong black coffee and a nice breakfast during her morning explorations.
Peyton had recommended The Winged Excaliber. She had been very insistent. Almost too much.
But Hermione liked the look of it, so maybe Peyton had been right to be so encouraging.
It had big windows, allowing the light inside, giving the place an open and warm feel. Inside was packed. The tables and booths were all taken.
Hermione's stomach grumbled. She could use a coffee at the least, and some food at the most.
Figuring she could just get some takeaway, she made her way in through the heavy door. She took a menu from the rack and joined the queue for the till.
The menu only served to make her stomach grumble even further. It had all her favourite breakfast foods on there and the smoothies looked like they were to die for. There was a display window that was nearly overflowing with all manner of delicious sweets that looked too good to be real.
Maybe the selection was just that, too good. How on earth was she going to decide what to eat?
She bit her lip thoughtfully and looked out the window as it faced onto the road. Across the road was a large park where she could see people enjoying their pleasant Saturday morning. People running. People with prams. People with dogs. Couples holding hands or playing with their children.
She even saw that one couple had a very unhappy-looking cat on a leash as they walked the paths.
It had all the looks of everyday ordinary people enjoying their weekend.
The heatwave hadn't been all bad. At least people seemed to be making the most of it.
She realised she was staring and blinked. She still hadn't decided what she wanted.
She was about to step forward as part of the queue, but her eyes cast over a window booth situated at the end of the café. It joined the wall but had a large open window that looked out to the park.
A man was sitting in the booth reading a newspaper. She couldn't see much of him, the enormous weekend edition of the paper took care of that, but she could see a dark blue trucker's cap with a distinct red 'K'. The man was engrossed in his paper and didn't look up, even as her stare bore holes into his hat.
Was it?
Had to be.
Surely.
She felt her stomach rumble. He was here. In this café.
She was immediately self-conscious. Standing there in her old 'Oxford Running Club' shirt and her black tights, she was hardly dressed to impress. She was still covered in sweat from her run, as hidden as it was by her dark shirt. She had no make-up on, and her cheeks still showed the flush of her exertion.
She immediately thought of fleeing. She could get out the door and turn left and he would be none the wiser. He wouldn't see her like this.
He wouldn't see her in her simple running attire.
You're being ridiculous.
Yes, yes she was. But she still wanted to leg it.
Since when did Hermione care if people saw her without makeup on and with her hair done up? She seldom wore make-up in the first place, and the messy bun had pretty much become her go-to, for day-to-day wear.
And she rocked it. She liked it.
The thought of fleeing had come on unbidden, fluid.
Besides. how many times has Harry Potter seen her dressed simply, comfortably? It was beyond count.
How many times had James Black…?
"Are you going to order, Girlie?"
An abrupt voice interrupted her moment and caused Hermione to start. She looked back and saw an old lady staring pointedly at her.
Hermione realised she was now at the front of the queue. The rest of the participants behind her were starting to tutt at her, murmuring and mumbling under their breaths. She had committed the most grievous of British social sins. She had held up the queue.
Hermione looked at the lady on the till, who was looking back expectantly.
"Oh, terribly sorry. Excuse me."
She quickly ordered a black coffee and stepped out of the way of an old lady-on-a-mission.
She took a deep breath.
Just go talk to him. Isn't that why you are here?
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
"Should I see the other guy?"
James lowered the newspaper and looked up at her.
He blinked several times. His green eyes were looking vacantly at her. They were looking through her.
"What?" he finally managed to get out, dumbly.
Hermione smiled and pointed at her left eye, tapping it meaningfully.
James reached up and touched his face. He winced slightly as his hand came into contact with the yellowing bruise that had formed under his left eye.
"Oh!" He shook his head several times. Before he seemed to catch himself.
"Shit, Granger. You should have just left. He clearly doesn't want to be interrupted," Said one voice in her head.
"This was your idea!" said another.
"Sorry," he said, suddenly brightening and standing up, offering her a warm smile that made her stomach imitate a gymnast – again! "Haven't had my coffee yet! Hello! You, alright?"
He stepped out from the booth and went to give her a hug but stopped himself.
"Ah shit, Sorry. I'm all sweaty and I stink."
Hermione laughed at his hands doing an awkward half movement. He seemed to be stuck in a limbo of indecision, trying to decide whether he should hug her or not. He looked like he was doing a terrible rendition of the 'Robot' dance.
"Same." She said as she pulled him in for a hug, wrapping her hands around his body. She felt how firm he was. He shouldn't be training, but at that moment, she definitely appreciated that he was.
He felt her arms come around her and pull her close for a moment.
For a split second, it took her back to her last few years at Hogwarts. He had never been comfortable with physical affection, stemming from his less than loving youth. It had taken years for him to be comfortable enough to actually initiate a hug, even with her.
And Hermione felt a flash of gratitude when she realised that he must have felt some degree of comfort, with her, if he was offering a hug.
It was almost a full Harry Hug. Almost.
They broke apart and James motioned to the empty seat across from him.
"Having a coffee? You're more than welcome to join."
"Are you sure? I wouldn't want to interrupt…"
James waved at her. "Please, I've only just arrived, anyway. Did you need to order?"
"Coffee's on the way." She said as she took her seat across from him.
James took his own seat.
"Small world, eh?" he said to her as he put a menu in front of her. "I was going to order some food after coffee. The menu here is amazing!"
"It looks amazing!" said Hermione looking down at the menu, her stomach giving a flip that had nothing to do with hunger. "This place came highly recommended."
"Did it?" Hermione caught a glimpse of something in his eye, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. Something that almost amounted to suspicion. "By who?"
His voice hinted that he might already know the answer to that question.
"Peyton. She said that I absolutely had to try this place."
James shifted awkwardly in his seat. "Did she?"
"She did."
He just nodded absently then looked out the window.
"Of course, she bloody did." He mumbled under his breath before shaking his head.
"What do you mean?"
James looked at her pointedly. "Hmm?"
"James?"
James sighed. He really had to start thinking before he spoke. He also really had to start thinking before he acted, for that matter. Maybe, he should just include thinking on his 'to-do' list as a general rule from here on out.
Not likely.
"This is my local. I don't live far from here and I come here for coffee and breakfast every Saturday after my morning run. That is when I'm around."
Hermione tried to force a smile she didn't feel and she started to raise herself from her seat as the disappointment started to settle into her stomach. "As I said, I can leave. I'm sure there's enough cafes for both of us in this town."
"What? No! No. Stay, please. You missed my point." James said insistently.
He didn't explain.
"James?"
"Yes, Hermione?"
"You're being vague."
James sighed and then gave her a pointed look.
"This is my local Hermione. I come here every Saturday. Every. Single. Saturday."
He paused and looked at her pointedly, willing her to get the point.
She shrugged.
"Peyton knows that..."
Hermione couldn't believe she hadn't picked up on it. At that moment she felt like an absolute moron.
"Oh." She felt that now all too familiar feeling, of her cheeks turning bright pink.
"Oh, indeed." Said James thoughtfully.
They slipped into a thoughtful silence. Hermione could see James playing with the corner of the paper with his left hand. It wasn't an altogether awkward silence, but she'd be lying if she said she didn't notice it.
The silence was broken a short time later by a pretty, young waitress bringing over two mugs of steaming hot coffee.
Hermione watched as the waitress carefully placed a steaming black coffee in front of James, giving him a big, pretty smile. The waitress then turned to Hermione and placed hers down. The expression on her face was not a big, pretty smile. It was more a transfixed, too big smile that did not reach anywhere near her eyes.
Someone is sweet on James…
Can you blame her?
Shut it, you!
"Thanks!" Hermione said sweetly, with a pleasant smile to the girl that was far from returned.
"Cheers Jen, we might order food soon, if that's okay?" James said, completely oblivious to the interest that the waitress was showing him.
"Of course, James." the Waitress said, the smile back to its genuine self as she looked back at James. "Just sing out and I'll come and take your orders."
With another hostile look at Hermione, the waitress walked back into the kitchen.
"Well, you certainly are a regular."
James smiled at her. The lopsided grin was back on his face.
"It's good coffee." He said with a shrug as he lifted his mug to his mouth, blowing on it gently to try and cool it. Hermione was transfixed, watching as he blew gently on the hot, black, liquid. Hermione felt her stomach do another flip.
What is wrong with me?
He was just about to raise the mug and take a sip.
"Wait."
James froze. His eyes came up to meet hers. One of his eyebrows rose.
She shook her head with feigned disappointment.
"I swear James, you are simply incorrigible. Must I teach you this, again?"
He lowered the mug slightly, confusion in his eyes.
"You still haven't found your manners, I see." She smiled as she reached out and removed his trucker's hat from his head and placed it on the table. "And Ew. That hat is soaked!"
She laughed as she wiped her hand on a napkin.
James simply chuckled good-naturedly. "Guess you'll just have to keep reminding me until I get it right."
She shook her head at him.
"I guess I will. I don't know how you've made it this far."
"Good looks and charm, mostly."
"Who's?"
James managed to make himself look shocked and offended before he burst out laughing, his easy laughter like music to her ears.
Were they flirting?
In between laughs, James raised his mug and finally got his long-awaited sip, his chuckles still threatening to have him spit the coffee back out.
"How's my hair today? Does it pass muster?"
"Hmm. It's not nearly as bad as it was the other day. But it's dripping with sweat. Just how far did you run?"
James had the presence of mind to look slightly guilty.
"Oh. Only-uh." He exhaled a long breath and scratched the back of his right hand. "Only as far as I was prescribed by the physio." He looked like a small boy whose hand had been caught in the bickie jar.
It was her turn to raise an eyebrow at him.
"It was a walk, mainly. You know? It's really hot out. This damned heatwave. Makes me sweat. I'm a sweater. I sweat a lot."
"Mmhmm?" Hermione said, still fixing him with the same look.
"It was maybe, five miles. That's it. No more."
Hermione continued the look. "Haven't we discussed lying to your doctor?"
James absently scratched the back of his right hand.
"10 miles. I went for a 10-mile run. It's my Saturday routine. But I felt good! It went well. Almost, no pain in my leg. Even my lower back felt great." He grumbled, deflating in front of her.
"Lucky, I'm not your physio then." She said, smiling at him "But you will honestly heal better if you follow the routine. I looked him up, Jon is highly respected in his field. I would recommend following his plan."
"Not you, too." James grumbled. "Maybe I'm just not the best at following orders, even doctors' orders."
Hermione gave him an incredulous look. "Well, I'm glad you're in the Army then." She said sarcastically.
James gave her an appreciative nod. "I'm not in the Army, Hermione." He winked at her, sending her stomach for another flip. "I'm in the Regiment."
She shook her head.
The easy conversation continued to flow as they placed their orders.
While it was not at all like old times; it was exactly like old times.
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
"So are you going to tell me about the other guy, or am I just supposed to ignore the fact that you have a blatant black eye?"
James was saved from answering by the arrival of their food. James's eggs benedict with bacon were again served with the most welcoming beem known to man; whilst Hermione's smashed avocado was served with a hostile, fixed smile.
Well, he is very dashing.
Enough.
But it wasn't going to be enough.
James barely glanced at the waitress as she offered his thanks, turning his attention back towards Hermione. The waitress was clearly unimpressed by this and shot Hermione a filthy look as she stalked away.
"Training accident?" He said, again absently scratching the back of his right hand. This hand scratching was becoming more and more noticeable. Like a tic.
"You aren't operational unless I missed something. So somehow, I doubt that the Regiment would have you indulging in full-contact sparring. Try again."
James shrugged. "It's nothing." He clearly didn't want to talk about it, so Hermione wanted to talk about it.
He picked up his cutlery and began to cut into his meal. Which is when she saw the state of his hand. It was swollen, battered, and bruised. The knuckles were black, and James looked like he was having difficulty gripping his knife.
"James." She reached out and grabbed his right hand. He went to pull it away, but she was insistent.
"It's nothing. Honestly."
"It's not nothing!" She began running her fingers over the back of his hand with a physician's practiced ease.
She lied to herself. She told herself that she was worried about his hand and that she just wanted to make sure it was okay. She lied and said that it was purely to check on him and make sure his hand wasn't broken. She lied and said that she did not enjoy feeling his strong hand between hers. That she did not feel that hint of electricity as her fingers checked every inch of his hand.
She lied to herself about a lot of things.
Her thumb ran over his knuckles, and she felt him wince. He hissed softly, doing his best to hide it.
Her hand ran over his knuckles, one at a time, before starting on the bones of the back and palm of his hand.
It was faint. But it was there. The wretched woman. Wretched, wretched woman.
The scar on his face may have been something that James was most sensitive about, but the scar on his hand continued to be a source of her own fury.
It didn't have to happen. It could have been avoided. It was nothing short of an act of torture on a 15-year-old boy who had too much pride to defend himself.
That wretched, foul, evil, bitch of a woman.
I must not tell lies
"Well. It's not broken, so you're lucky. You just need to try and reduce the swelling. Some ice would do you good." She said, her thumb running over the scar tissue that spelled out those five words.
"But." She said, pushing gently into the back of his hand. "It has been. That was a nasty break. How did you manage that?"
"Training accident." James wouldn't meet her eyes.
"A training accident," she said skeptically. He was horrible at lying, even without his tic. "Well. I guess at your level, the training must get pretty rough to have such a complex break in your hand like that." Her voice was even, empty. It showed a complete disregard for the lies he was telling. He had to know that she knew.
Hermione found herself talking for the sake of holding his hand. She didn't like his evasiveness. He was hiding something.
Well, he was hiding a lot of things, James Black did not know Hermione Granger like Harry Potter had. So, she couldn't hold it against him.
But she didn't like his evasiveness.
"It feels as though something crushed your hand." She continued to dig gently around the break site. "Something hard."
He winced as she pushed too hard.
"Well." He said, starting to pull his hand back. "Hazards of the job I guess."
She gave him a sad smile and let his hand go.
He picked up his knife and fork and Hermione watched as he struggled to grip the knife and cut his food. He was determined, she would give him that, but his hand was so sore and swollen that he couldn't seem to get a good grip.
Hermione watched him struggle, her own food forgotten.
"Here." She said softly as she reached out and took his plate. "Let me."
"I can do it." James said, an edge of frustration in his voice. It was clear he had been careful not to aim it at her.
"I know you can." She said kindly. "But your food will be cold by the time you do."
She started cutting up his food into appropriately sized portions for him. Assembling it neatly on his plate where he could just stab his fork in and eat.
For his part, James just watched her. His right hand slowly flexing and unflexing, as much as it could.
She looked up and met his eyes. The colour ran to her face. His look seemed to bore into her soul. She felt like she had when she first saw him at the Hospital, rooted to the spot. Like every secret was laid bare.
Which it wasn't. The look made her stomach flutter in all kinds of different ways. It made her breath hitch in her throat. It made her heart pump harder and faster than it ever had on her morning run.
It also made her feel guilty. She was lying. Lying to him. Lying about him.
A large part of her just wanted to spit it all out. She just wanted to start talking and tell him who she was, who he was. What he was, what he had done and could do.
She wanted to tell him as badly as she had wanted anything in her life.
But she didn't. She couldn't. She still had to learn more before she took that step.
Instead, she finally broke the eye contact and finished cutting his breakfast for him.
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
Saturday, August 25th, 2012
Ron still clutched his summons coin in his hand as he apparated into the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic.
Priority 1. Priority 1. Priority 1. All leave cancelled. All rest days cancelled. All Aurors report to respective duty stations. All Team Leaders assemble teams and wait for briefing.
He wasn't alone. Aurors and Hitwizards, as well as higher-ranking Ministry officials from other departments, were all arriving about the same time and moving towards the lifts that would take them to the Department of Law Enforcement offices.
He spotted another Auror who had arrived about the same time as he had, who was also hurrying to the lifts.
Standing at 5'8" tall, with long brown hair and handsome features, Bev Jones was Ron's 'Silver'. That is to say that he was Ron's right-hand man in the team.
Younger than Ron by a few years, but demonstrably capable, Jones had risen quickly to his position through his natural talent. It helped that he possessed a rare trait, in that his raw talent never made him rely on it or be lazy. His talent only drove him to work harder and harder to be the best he could be. Ron knew that Jones would go far.
He called out to the man, who came jogging over.
"Priority 1? Any word yet from Robards?"
"None, mate." Ron replied shaking his head. "I've no clue what's going on. They don't throw out Pri 1's for nothing though. Let's just get the team together, make sure everyone's gear is prepped."
Jones nodded. "Should be all set. We were due for on-call, next week."
Ron climbed into a busy lift with Jones and about 8 other Aurors and Hitwizards. The lift arrested their conversation.
"Anyone have any idea what's going on?" asked a voice from the back of the lift.
"I heard Dementors were sighted near London," came a reply.
"Dementors wouldn't call for a Pri 1 of all staff," came a third voice.
"Heaps of Dementors?" the voice tried again.
"We destroyed the Dementors almost a decade ago, mate. You're dreaming."
Ron just shook his head. In the absence of information, people were just making stuff up, as per usual.
"Pipe down Anderson. You'll be told soon enough." Ron said to the crowded lift.
"Right you are, Sir," came the reply.
The lift opened to an office in crisis. Aurors and Hitwizards were rushing about, sorting equipment and packing bags. People were yelling across the muster room at each other.
He quickly moved over to his right, to the corner of the Muster room that was set aside for his team. As he sat down, he saw that Drisco had his boots up on his desk and was absentmindedly picking at something in his fingernails.
Ron threw his stuff down on his own desk and turned around in time to see Jones do the same.
Drisco glanced up at him. An Auror of three years, Drisco was an offensive asset. He had a near Hermione level knowledge of spells, hexes, and curses. He could cast spell after spell after spell at a ferocious pace. His accuracy wasn't always incredible, but when he sent so many spells flying, he was bound to hit something.
He stopped picking at his fingertips and looked up at his team leader.
"What's the word, bossman?"
He was too relaxed. His own bag sat on the floor next to him. His long, dark hair was scooped back into a ponytail that hung down to his back. His pale features belayed no emotion, no excitement.
Good.
That's one of the reasons he liked Drisco. Nothing ever excited him. Nothing ever threw him off his game. He was a handy man to have around, in times like this, while much of the office was running around, trying to organise equipment or catch important memos.
"No idea. Any word from Van Guereck?"
Drisco shook his head.
Van Guereck was the junior on team. She was pretty, with jet black hair and dark features. She was in good shape and kept herself fighting fit. She had been with them for only a few months but had already been an asset on several small jobs they had been on together.
"Jones?" Ron asked when he didn't get an immediate answer.
"Yeah, she isn't far. Apparently, she's coming from a Muggle dense area and had to search for a place to apparate."
Ron nodded.
"Good. Double check your kit."
He didn't have to say it. They had already done it. But he felt that someone had to say something amongst the chaos that was unfolding around the office.
"Weasley!" came a yell across the muster room. 'Briefings about to start!"
Ron raised his hand to acknowledge the yell. "When she gets in, make sure she's good to go."
Jones and Drisco nodded.
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
"Ladies and Gentlemen, your attention please."
Gawain Robards was standing in the middle of the briefing room. Gathered around were all the Auror - Gold Classes, also known as 'Golds.' Most had been chatting to each other. Speculating, or comparing equipment lists. Some were just telling Auror stories about their recent operations.
Some others were just telling the same old stories they told every time the Aurors got together. It was very rare to get so many together like this. Normally, they were off on a variety of different tasks.
Ron,had been telling Gyrek, a fellow Gold who was a few years older than himself, about Luna's morning sickness. Gyrek had asked, but he smiled knowingly. He had a few kids of his own and had been through it all before.
His eyes snapped to the Chief of Aurors who was commanding their attention.
He was a man of average height and average build. He had short brown hair that was starting to recede, and grey pushing through what remained. He wore square glasses on his round face.
He wore his robes of office, which were a deep scarlet and as was usual for him, immaculate. Nothing was out of place. No folds, no wrinkles, and no stains.
"There's been a prison break."
Robards was not a man to mess around with idle, small talk. He had no time for it, in accordance with his position. He also expected it in return. He hated when people wasted time waffling in briefings. He just wanted the basics. What is it? And what are you intending to do about it?
It also meant that if you got nervous or flustered, you would be in for it.
A few murmurs broke out among the crowd at that.
"We have a team on the ground conducting an initial investigation, but from what we have established so far, the High Security Wing of Azkaban was breached. 25 of societies worst have made their escape. We have suffered 6 Guard Corps casualties."
The room had gone silent.
25?
Twenty Five?
Free?
The worst of the worst were imprisoned there. Most of them were former Death Eaters who had been kept separated with individual regulation.
Dolohov was there. Ron felt his jaw clench at the thought of the mad man free.
"We need to move quickly on this. The longer we wait, the more time they have to go to ground and hide. I want them all rounded up as soon as possible. But." He looked around the room, looking them all in the eye as he did so. "I want this done safely. I don't want to lose people who go off half-cocked. Be prepared, be vigilant and be safe."
They were all silent as they contemplated what he said.
"I'm allocating all your team's targets to be your primary focus but work together. I won't reward anyone who tries to silo intelligence or information for the purposes of individual glory. If you can't be trusted to work together, I'll take the gold right off your chest. This is not the time for peacocking. Am I clear?"
They all murmured their assent.
"Further, each team will have an on-call team of Hitwizards to help out. They will be available via summons coin or Patronus. There will be no leave or rest days until further notice. In the event that this initial rush extends beyond a week, we will allocate teams, days off to rest. Any questions?
"Who escaped, sir?" came a voice from the back of the room.
Robards took a moment.
"All of the escapees are Death Eaters. I'm not talking about accused, I'm talking inner circle, mark wearing Death Eaters. The primary concerns are Dolohov, the Lestranges, and Greyback." Ron felt his famous Weasley temper building up in his guts.
So Dolohov was free.
"I don't need to stress to you all how dangerous these fugitives are. Work together. Look after each other. And for the love of Merlin bring them all back in."
The briefing broke up.
"Weasley. A moment of your time, if you please."
Gyrek gave him a shrug as he filed out of the briefing room with the others.
Ron hung back and allowed the rest to leave, taking their notes and coffees with them. Finally, it was just Robards and Ron.
"I've given you Dolohov, but I want you to know that I was against it. I understand his case is particularly close to you because of the incident with Miss Granger when you were at Hogwarts, but I need you to approach this calmly and with a cool head. That incident was 13 years ago. I need you on your game."
Ron nodded. The Battle of the Department of Mysteries was not something he had managed completely get over.
"He's your fugitive for the simple fact that you have caught him before and I, therefore, feel that you are best placed to affect his recapture."
"You can count on me, sir," said Ron, with some determination.
"I know I can Weasley. I shan't insult you by telling you just how dangerous these fugitives are. I've also assigned an Auror Protection Team to guard your house, and I'm doubling the Guard on your father."
Mr. Weasley, as Assistant Minister of Magic, already had a two-man Auror team to provide for his security.
"What about Hermione?" Ron asked.
Robards clearly prepared for this conversation. He gave Ron a sympathetic look.
"I understand your concern, I know how close you two are and were. I'm sorry Weasley, but between the increased security on the key Ministry personnel, your own family, and the actual hunting teams, I don't have the resources for a full-time APT on Miss Granger. As it is, we've had to suspend most of our other investigations to staff this."
Ron opened his mouth furiously, but Robards put up a hand to stop him.
"I wish I could. I really do. The best way to ensure her safety and the safety of everyone is to capture these bastards as soon as possible."
"Surely sir, there is something we can do. Dolohov has already attacked her once. She's Muggle-born, so she'd be on their list even if she hadn't been such a massive part of Voldemort's defeat. We also can't forget that Hermione duelled Lestrange at Hogwarts and was instrumental in her capture. This mob aren't well-known for forgetting little things like that."
"There is something we can do." Robards reached into his desk and pulled out a small necklace, which he placed on the desk. "Do you know what a panic button is Weasley?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Well, that's what this is. If she pushes down on the necklace, it will immediately send a message to the on-call Response Team. If She feels the slightest bit of concern, a long push down on it will have a team of Hitwizards at her location before she can even scream for help."
"Sir – I"
"Before you even ask, yes, I will include you in the notification charm. Best I can do. Happy?"
"Happy isn't the word I would use, sir."
Robards smiled despite himself. It was a small grin that pulled up half of his face.
"Get to it, Weasley. I need every wand out there."
Ron saluted and turned on his heels, walking out the door to find his team.
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Saturday, August 25th 2012
To say that Hermione was unimpressed, that James had managed to buy her lunch, was to completely underestimate her capacity to be unimpressed.
He had snuck off to pay under the proviso of heading to the bathroom. It was the oldest trick in the book and Hermione was annoyed that she had fallen for it.
What she was definitely not unimpressed or annoyed by, was the fact that he was still next to her, as they walked down the street. He had offered her a walk to mollify her for his grievous insult of buying her lunch, and she had readily accepted. She was going to get him back, she just had to bide her time.
The thing that struck her was just how easy it was to fall back into their old routine. The old familiarity they had had, back in school, was still there.
But it was changed. She had quickly fallen back into being comfortable around him, and he seemed to be comfortable around her. It made the walk down the street very enjoyable.
It meant they laughed.
It meant they had a good time.
It meant that they sometimes found conveniently inconvenient excuses to touch each other.
A brush of the shoulder here, or a hand against a hand.
Sometimes they would blush, like when James had reached out and grabbed her shoulders to stop an out-of-control child on a scooter from bowling her over. She had marvelled at how his firm touch had still managed to be gentle and if she was honest, tender.
Sometimes they would make jokes, like when his hand had brushed her as they walked down the street and he had turned to her and offered his hand and said with a smile, "If you want to hold it so badly, all you have to do is ask."
She had laughed at him, and swotted him across the arm, just like she used to in school.
She had also tried to avoid a certain and irrefutable fact.
Deep down in the pit of her stomach, she had wanted to ask. She had wanted to feel that closeness. She had wanted to feel his touch. As much as seeing him in the flesh had been amazing, she had found herself with an almost burning need to touch him.
It was as if she was scared that he was going to disappear at any moment, and she would lose him again. Such a thought caused her stomach to knot in ways that caused her considerable grief.
So, maybe she was walking closer to him than she might have otherwise.
But he hadn't seemed in a massive hurry to push away either. He hadn't dodged or avoided her. Instead, he had settled into a companionable closeness. He had allowed her to get closer, he had seemed to encourage it, as if he too, wanted to feel that closeness.
They wandered down the street and back up again. They stopped in stores. They looked at books and clothes and novelty items. He didn't complain, nor did she. They just made jokes about the items they saw.
She had turned around once to find Harry wearing a bowler's hat and a stupid face. It did not suit him
He had turned around to find her in a hat that looked like it belonged on a femme fatale from a 1930's Film Noir. She was also wearing her best, most exaggerated, smouldering look. It did not suit her.
They laughed at, and with each other.
They just enjoyed each other's company. Hermione drank it all in. His easy laugh, and his jokes. He was a Harry Potter, free of Voldemort. A Harry Potter she never got to experience.
He was a Harry Potter that could have been.
A Harry Potter that had been lost.
A Harry Potter that had been found.
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They had walked the entire length of the street. Twice
They had walked the entire length of the park. Once.
Still, neither of them seemed to be making any effort to leave. Neither of them suggested they had somewhere to be, or that they had to run off. They both seemed content just to spend the day walking and talking.
It was strange for Hermione to get to know someone she already knew so well.
"How about I buy you a drink? Start to repay you for lunch?"
It was about 2:00 pm when they found themselves outside a pub located further down the street.
She was indicating towards The Knight Errant. It was an olde pub. It had character. Hermione was reminded of the Leaky Cauldron.
A few people were milling about inside, enjoying lunch or a beverage or both. A few were watching the football, but it was not the kind of premises that had hooligans in it, screaming at the screen.
It was the quiet, content, post-lunch crowd.
"Sounds good," said James, with a smile, as he opened the door for her, letting her go first.
She took his order and approached the bar while he went to find them a seat.
A glass of pinot noir for her and a pint of lager for him.
She found him sitting at a small table near the window. His arms were folded across his chest as he leaned forward onto the table, looking thoughtfully out the window at the crowd.
Hermione marvelled at just how peaceful he looked. How relaxed. It was a side that she had seen all too rarely in Hogwarts. Hermione supposed that the lack of Voldemort had done him wonders.
"Cheers." James said brightly as she placed his drink in front of him.
He raised the pint glass and pointed it towards her. "Your health?"
"No, to yours." She said as she lightly touched her glass to his.
James snorted. "Fair."
He took a long sip. Hermione took a small one. It was good.
"Oh, wait! I almost forgot." Hermione said, quickly standing and moving back towards the bar.
She returned moments later with a small bucket of ice. James raised his eyebrow as she sat it on the table.
"Give me your hand."
"What?"
"Just give me your hand, James. The bruised one."
He slowly offered her his hand, which she took with one hand, while she removed his cap with the other, placing it on the table with an exaggerated eye roll.
She slowly and gingerly lowered the hand into the bucket of ice.
Hermione watched as his face winced at the cold before it relaxed slightly as the relief swept through him.
He closed his eyes for a moment and let out a long sigh.
"Good?" she asked.
"Amazing," he said softly.
"Good."
She watched as he relaxed. He let out another long breath.
It was nice. It was really nice.
She chewed on her lip as she examined him. Hand in the ice. She no longer felt the fear she had felt, earlier in the day, when she first saw him. That concern about her appearance had seemingly come from nowhere.
She had snuck a refreshing charm on herself (and for that matter, on him), which made her feel entirely more comfortable.
She noticed that she was incredibly settled. She was eternally grateful that she hadn't run away. That she hadn't let her insecurities get the better of her. Because in the end, she had had a wonderful day. A truly wonderful day.
Hermione struggled to recall the last time she had felt so at peace. She couldn't. Maybe, as far back as the snowball incident with Ron. Maybe then. She was sure there had been incidents since then. But they didn't come readily to mind.
Maybe, it was just him. Maybe, he just had the effect on her.
"Do I have something in my beard?" James asked, a small, lopsided grin spreading across his face.
"Hmmm?" she asked, absentmindedly.
"You're staring. I don't have anything on my face or in my beard, do I?"
He started running his hand through his short beard, trying to wipe away the food that wasn't there.
Hermione caught herself and felt a blush on her cheeks.
"Oh, sorry. No, no you look wonderful. You have nothing in your beard, or on your face."
James looked at her thoughtfully, then his smile got even larger.
You just told him he looks wonderful!
He does.
Hermione opened her mouth to catch herself. But then she realised she didn't care. Her moment of absentmindedness had given him a reason to smile that wonderful, enchanting, handsome smile. His - well, there weren't enough adjectives to describe that smile, but there didn't need to be.
She was okay with that.
She was more than okay with that.
But a part of her mind tugged at her. That infernal, curious, workaholic, bookworm part that couldn't be silenced, in a moment like this, reared its head.
It was time to get to work.
"But you do have a scar," she said, softly, and without judgement. She worked hard to make her voice kind and caring. She worked hard to make her voice accepting.
He offered a sad, small smile and began to pull his hand out of the ice. She took his hand and placed it back in the ice with a gentle shake of her head.
She then, more daring than she felt, reached out and took a hold of his remaining hand, where it rested comfortably on the table.
He looked into her eyes, searchingly, inquisitive
"I do," he said, finally. Guardedly. Maybe slightly defensively.
"You also have a distinct scar on your master hand," she adopted the same tone. Softly, without judgement. Kind and caring. Accepting.
He could no longer meet her eyes and lowered them to his mostly full pint of lager.
"I do."
"If you'd like to talk, I'd like to listen," she said, encouragingly, carefully, hopefully.
He glanced back up at her eye. Briefly. He couldn't handle it and he glanced back down. He pulled his hand free of hers and took a sip of his lager, placing it back down.
She was reluctant to admit that she was disappointed about the loss of the warmth and comfort of his hand in hers and began to retract it back towards herself. She was just about to reach for her wine when his hand reached out and took a hold of hers. His grip was firm, giving her hand a comforting squeeze.
He began to speak. It was slow, measured. Controlled.
He was vulnerable in a way that she had seen only a few times before, and she suspected that she had seen him vulnerable, more than nearly anyone on this earth.
"Ten years ago," It seemed to be hard for him to even start. "I woke up in St Thomas's Hospital in London. I was the ultimate John Doe. Completely blank. No memory. No name. Nothing. The doctors said I had suffered injuries that should have killed me several times over. I've heard that a few times since." He offered her a small smile. It was clear he was trying to break the tension. "But they had no idea what had caused it. None. A few hypotheses were put forward, but none were proven."
He gave another sad sigh.
"I was a medical curiosity. An exciting museum piece. A fucking circus elephant. Doctors from all over the city came over and inspected me. 'The mysterious case of the complete Amnesiac'." He said bitterly. "Some said I was faking the memory loss. Some said that I was just barmy. They performed all manner of tests on me. I got medications and injections. I got physical stress testing and what was borderline torture. I was treated like a lab experiment. Nothing helped. Nothing got through."
He was refusing to meet her eye as he looked down at their hands, held across the table.
Hermione felt her heart breaking.
"I was poked and prodded, checked and rechecked. You're a doctor, so you know what I mean. It felt like everyone wanted to be the doctor who could pull the sword from the stone. But they couldn't. Eventually, they seemed to get bored. I had physically healed, but my memories stayed gone. They've never come back.
On the 10th of August, 2002, I came into existence, as far as I was concerned. Even now, it's the closest thing that I have to a birthday."
He fell silent as he continued to look at their hands, held on the table.
Hermione was doing everything, and she meant everything to hold back the tears that had filled her eyes. The tears that obscured her vision of their hands; a vision she did not want obscured.
Fuck.
She refrained from speaking, though she desperately wanted to offer him words of comfort. Words to take away the pain. But what could she truly say?
Tell him.
"Time passed and no one came to collect me. No one. So, I figured you know, that I must have been some kind of top-level arsehole. A real prick of a person. Not to mention that I was a liar, likely," he said, nodding his head towards his hand in the bucket. "I must have been one hell of a poor excuse for a human being, that no one came looking for me. No family. No friends. No one."
His voice was steady. There was no self-pity in it. It was just matter of fact. It was entirely calm and peaceful. It was a voice that had accepted his fate and had no qualms with it.
But it broke her fucking heart.
"So, I just figured that it was on me to push on, you know? It was on me to go and be the best version of myself I could be. And sure, I don't always succeed. I'm rash, headstrong, and stubborn. I've got a temper. I know that. If you don't believe me, Peyton will fill you in." He looked at her with a small smile.
Hermione felt a tug within her soul.
Tell him.
She pushed it down. The clinical part of her brain knew that she had to conduct some tests before she could reveal that information. She didn't know everything she had to know. The potions and spells she had in mind to help potentially restore his mind would have a significantly increased chance of success if she didn't muddy the waters of his memory.
But it hurt. It hurt so much not to just tell him. Not to tell him about the whole extended family of people who had searched; who had found no trace. About the whole extended family of people who loved him and cherished the memory of a kind and loving boy, who knew no love of his own as a child. Of a boy who could still give his own love so freely.
Tell him.
It hurt so much not to tell him about how she had searched. How she had called every Emergency Department she could in an attempt to find him.
She had called St Thomas's. She knew she had! They had said nothing.
It hurt so much not to tell him how loved he was. How many people there were who would be eternally grateful to know that he was alive and well.
It hurt so much not to tell him how loved he was by her.
Interesting wording Granger.
You know what I mean.
Better than you do, I think.
It took everything she had to keep her mouth shut. It gutted her. It took every single logical part of her brain to not blurt it out. It was for his own good. It was to help him.
Help him?
Look at him.
Yes. Hermione thought, Look at him.
She did, and she was mesmerised by the look on his face. It wasn't sad. It wasn't distraught. It was…
Well, it was kind. It was loving. It was affectionate.
He had a small smile on his face as he looked her in the eye, and his eyes seemed to blaze with a green light.
That look. It emptied her mind. The pity washed away, along with the sadness and the despair at the thought of a lost boy alone in the world. The thought of a lost boy making the first friends he would ever make, on a train leaving London. It all washed away when she saw that before her was a man to be proud of.
"James. I..."
Her voice faltered. She didn't know what to say. Hermione always knew what to say. But she didn't now.
"Hey, hey, hey," his voice had a small laugh to it. Not a full-on burst of mirth, but a gentle laugh. The kind that said that it was okay. The laugh that was for her more than it was for him.
He reached out and he wiped away a tear that she hadn't noticed had managed to lurch its way down her face.
"It's alright! It is. Why are you crying?"
Hermione caught herself as the tears flowed.
"James. I can't even imagine how you've gone through that. I can't even begin to fathom all that. I don't even know what to do."
James just shrugged. He looked a bit embarrassed. "Didn't have much of a choice."
"You always have a choice."
James let out a small laugh. "You always think you have a choice."
Hermione smiled despite herself. She felt ridiculous. He had been through one of the worst things she could possibly imagine, after likely having been through another one, of the worst things she could possibly imagine and now he was comforting her.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Don't be," he said with a shrug. "It's not your fault. Nothing you could have done."
She didn't know if she believed that.
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A/N:
Hello Everyone!
Just wanted to say a huge thank you to all of you who have taken the time to read RWIF, I truly hope you are enjoying reading it as much as I am enjoying writing it. I'm getting a lot of enjoyment out of writing this, as scared as I was that my use of repetition and certain plays on grammar may put people off.
So a massive thank you to you if you are still here and still reading. It's nice to get a chance to practice writing.
But I also wanted to take the time to say a MASSIVE thank you for those who have taken the time to review, it is very greatly appreciated. I'd also like to thank those of you who favourited and followed the story. It inspires me to keep writing knowing that people out there are interested.
I'd also like to give a shout-out to whiskey, for helping me write.
And coffee, for helping me try and fix what whiskey helped me write.
Cheers,
ATG.
PS. I am doing my best to edit it, but I'm far from perfect.