Chapter 138: May 1999
"It's in our blind trust that love will find us, just as it has before."
-Emily Saliers
Hermione's breath came out in sharp pants as she sprinted across Diagon Alley. The ground glittered from broken glass, the shop fronts having all been decimated only moments before. Debris and rubble were piled up down the high street, forcing Hermione to leap over the splintered wood and shattered stone that had made up the buildings.
Her ears were still ringing from the blasts, her head pounding in time with her heart. She veered left, narrowly missing the pillar that fell, smashing everything in its way to smithereens.
"Ron?" She shouted, picking up her pace despite the protest from the stitch in her side. "Ron? Harry?"
"Over there!"
Hermione whirled around to see the same woman she'd seen at the Ministry months ago. Long black hair tangled and knotted, matted with blood and dirt. Her golden-yellow eyes shone in the dusky light, something so very alive swimming in them.
"I remember you," Hermione panted. "You were at the Ministry."
"Yeah, I was. Not a great night then either, if I'm bein' honest. Your friends are just over there," she pointed again, down the alley toward Gringotts. "Looks fuckin' nasty down there, if you ask me."
"I didn't," Hermione said tersely. She took a moment to catch her breath, observing the strange woman. Her arm was twisted at an odd angle and she held it close to her chest.
"Where's your wand?"
"Haven't got one," she smirked. "Don't mean I can't still fight. It's just a little more hands-on."
"Your arm looks broken," Hermione frowned, reaching out to the woman. "Let me heal it."
"It's fine. I'll have it fixed up later—you oughta get a move on."
"It'll only take a minute," Hermione insisted, wrapping her fingers around the woman's wrist.
She winced, "Yeah, alright, then. Go on."
Hermione ran a quick diagnostic—something she'd finally just got the hang of—and saw that it was a fractured ulna. She waved her wand over the woman's arm, muttering the spells under her breath.
"Ouch," she gasped, yanking her arm from Hermione's grip. "Fuck that hurt. You could've warned a girl first!"
"I was resetting a broken bone, I didn't realise you'd need the warning. I just kind of assumed you'd know it would hurt."
"I ain't magical like you, love. That shit hurts and you oughta warn someone before you just go resettin' their bones."
"You aren't magical?" Hermione stared at her for a moment. "But, you aren't exactly a muggle either, are you?"
A slow smile split her pretty face, "I think you know the answer to that, Hermione."
As quickly as Hermione had run into the woman, she was gone. Sprinting toward the thick of the fight, leaping over fallen stalls with a near-animal grace. Hermione followed after her, running as fast as her exhausted legs would carry her. Only one thought pulsed through her mind:
I never told her my name.
"This will have to do," Harry said.
Hermione looked around the small room.
They'd secured the Shrieking Shack as a safehouse—after Grimmauld Place had been seized—with a lot of hefty persuasion on Harry's part to McGonagall. Though, shack felt like a generous term. It was really just a hovel that had been warded to the nines by Bill Weasley and Tonks. Right now, it was crammed full of people, those who were still able-bodied stood shoulder to shoulder, trying to move around those that had been injured with as much care as they could manage.
Parvati Patil wailed in anguish as she held her sister's body to her chest. Padma had been killed by one of the blasts against Gringotts, buried by heavy stone and pelted with glass. They'd found her body after the Death Eaters had fled the scene, disappearing in whirls of bright blue light as they activated their portkeys.
"They called themselves the Dark Army, did you hear them?" Ron spat indignantly, pacing the room as much as he could in the small space. "Fucking prats. Can't even decide to keep their ridiculous fucking names."
"I don't care what they call themselves," Malfoy's voice drawled from the corner of the room where he was currently patching up an injured Justin Finch-Fletchley. "They're Death Eaters. They've got the same beliefs that he did, they're just far more vicious about it."
No one needed to ask to whom Malfoy was referring.
"I've heard back from Mrs Patil," Luna interrupted, approaching Hermione with careful steps. "She'd like to bring her daughter to rest at their home. She said it's warded and safe."
Hermione looked at Harry, wondering if it was a good idea.
"I don't see why not," Harry shrugged, answering her silent question. "It's not right to not let them lay her to rest as they want to."
"I'll take them," Neville volunteered, his hand rubbing circles between Pavarti's shoulders.
"I'll go too," Theo leapt down from where he was perched on a countertop.
Harry nodded sharply at both of them. "We'll remove the anti-apparition when you're ready."
Hermione wished for sleep to come. Her body was so exhausted, her limbs heavy and eyes burning, yet her mind continued to reel. The majority of those who had followed them to the small safe house were all crammed in the living space, slumped over in various spots as they tried to get fitful sleep. Hermione, on the other hand, had opted for the relative privacy of the single room up the rickety stairs. She had a blanket draped over her head so the light of her wand didn't disturb the efforts of those who had also tried to get a bit of privacy and abysmal attempts at some rest. She flipped through a muggle medical book, reading about contusions and internal bleeding.
"Knock knock," Harry whispered, tugging on the blanket.
Hermione lifted the edge of it up, inviting him into the makeshift tent.
"Muffliato," Harry whispered, settling down next to her. His head fell back to hit the wall, his fingers pressing under his glasses to his eyes.
"Are you alright?" Hermione asked.
"No. No, not really."
She turned to face him better, closing the book on her lap and setting it to the side. "Me either."
"I just don't understand why this isn't over," Harry whispered. "It was supposed to end. And, I am so tired of people dying for me."
Hermione could hear the wavering of his voice, the subtle hitch in his throat giving away his emotion. That was the thing about Harry—he was always strong and determined in the face of it, but once the dust settled and the night took over, so did his emotions.
"I'm tired of not being able to save people too, but they aren't dying for you, Harry. This is so much bigger than some stupid prophecy between you and Voldemort. This has been decades of war and loss for some stupid notion that purebloods are more powerful and therefore deserve a higher standing in society. It was never about you."
"It feels like it sometimes, though."
Hermione nodded, "I can see why it would. But, I think this is so beyond anything we could have ever foreseen. Even Malfoy didn't know they had plans to continue their heinous crimes should Voldemort fall."
"That's because Voldemort was arrogant. He didn't think he'd lose."
Hermione gave a weak smile and lifted a shoulder, "Maybe. Maybe not. He was definitely arrogant, but something in me thinks that his followers weren't as confident in him as he was in himself."
"Clearly," Harry snorted.
They sat in silence for a while. Hermione's head fell to Harry's shoulder, his hand wrapping around hers loosely.
"I don't know what to do Hermione," he admitted quietly. "Everything is so…so fucked up. How am I supposed to lead the Order?"
"You don't have to do it by yourself. You've never had to do any of this on your own. We're all here, Harry."
"I know," he smiled weakly, "I just wish you didn't have to be. I wish we still had people who knew what they were doing."
"Like Sirius?"
Harry nodded, "Yeah. And Remus. In fact, we could really use Remus right now, don't you think? He was always the cleverest in The Order. I hope he knew that."
A flash of gold eyes and a patchwork cloak flooded Hermione's mind. "I feel like he's still here sometimes," she said carefully.
"Me too."
She leaned over, pulling her beaded bag closer to where they sat. She stuck her arm in, rifling through the magically extended depth before feeling a thin book inside. Carefully, she dislodged it from its place and pulled it out, handing it to Harry.
"What's this?"
She smiled, "Open it up."
Harry looked at her apprehensively for a few more moments before sighing and looking down at the book. When the spine fell open, a surprised laugh burst from his chest.
"Are these—Hermione, are these letters from Lupin?"
Hermione chuckled and nodded, "I wrote to him when we formed the D.A. and while he said he was against the idea of a student organisation based solely on defying a professor, he sent a lot of very useful information. I kept the letters, just in case we ever needed them. I thought maybe there'd be something in them we could utilise again."
Harry cleared his throat and picked up one of the letters and began to read:
"Dear Miss Granger,
While I appreciate the compliment, I assure you there are far more suitable candidates to help you with the endeavour of overthrowing your current Defence Professor. For instance, Sirius is quite skilled with pranks that would cause a considerable amount of damage—not that I'm condoning that sort of thing.
I should think that you all are in very capable hands with Dumbledore. I highly doubt he'd allow someone to teach at Hogwarts who is so severely underqualified. But, then again, he did allow a homeless werewolf to act as professor—so, what do I know?
My best advice is to be discreet. If you are planning to start a club of some sort, be clever about it. Not that I doubt your intelligence. If I may make a suggestion…The Hog's Head Inn tends to be rather quiet. And, since it is off the beaten path and typically avoided by anyone with any sense in their head, it could offer you a discreet meeting location. Although, this may only suit you initially.
Best of luck,
R J Lupin"
Harry flipped through a few more letters, skimming them briefly with a chuckle here and there before he settled on one from last fall when they'd been hiding out in Grimmauld place. She recognised the letter immediately and nearly ripped it from Harry's grasp.
"Hermione,
I thought you'd like to know I've found a place to stay. It's safe—well, as safe as anything can be right now. Please remember what I said under the tree. I hope you heed the advice.
Tell Harry I'm sorry.
All my best,
Remus"
Harry scanned the letter again before slowly tilting his head to look at Hermione.
"What does he mean here? Under the tree? What does that mean?"
Hermione swallowed thickly, a lump forming in her throat as the memory surfaced.
"He knew we were leaving."
"Did he?"
Hermione nodded, "He overheard you and Ron. I think at your birthday party at the Burrow before we left. Anyway, he just…he asked me to look after myself and then he…" Hermione trailed off, a wet chuckle forcing its way out.
"What?"
"He quoted a Beatles song to me."
"He—what?"
"He quoted a Beatles song to me. I called him a hypocrite when he told me I don't take enough care of myself. And he said 'I get by with a little help from my friends.' It didn't seem significant at the time, but it was nice all the same."
"Did he know that you have a weird obsession with them?"
Hermione laughed, smacking Harry's arm. "I don't have an obsession with them. I just grew up on it. It's comforting, you know? Anyway, when he came to Grimmauld and you two had it out—"
Harry grimaced, wincing slightly at her word choice.
"—I was worried he wouldn't have anywhere safe to go. The thought of him living in a cave or something felt wrong. So, he wrote to me to let me know he was safe."
"And, to remind you to take care of yourself, apparently."
Hermione smiled sadly, "Yeah. Apparently."
"We didn't deserve his kindness," Harry sighed. "And, he didn't deserve to die. None of them deserved to die for this."
"No, they didn't."
Harry tucked the letter into the book, handing it back over to Hermione to stow away.
"I know you slept with George," Harry said abruptly, giving Hermione a case of emotional whiplash from the topic change.
Hermione felt her cheeks heat up, equal parts embarrassment and indignation. "It's none of your business and I don't see what this has to do with anything."
"It's not," Harry agreed. "But, Ron just found out, too. I just don't want there to be any awkwardness between the three of us."
"Did you tell him I slept with you, too, when you told him about George?"
Harry sighed, "I didn't tell him about George. George did. I think he felt bad."
"It happened twice, and it's not happening again."
"That's good."
"Is it?" Hermione asked.
"I don't care who you shag, you already know it's not…I'm not—you know—"
"Straight."
"Yeah not exactly," he cleared his throat again. "I erm, I've been sort of seeing someone, too."
Hermione leaned back to observe her best friend, "Did you come up here to bother me and tell me about your sex life? Because honestly, Harry, I really don't care. No offence, but we aren't—"
"No, I know that. I know. I just…I wanted to tell someone about it?"
"Okay."
"It's Blaise. I've er—I've been getting rather close with Blaise."
Hermione sat back, her brows pulled together. "You—mister always apprehensive of the Slytherins—have been seeing Blaise Zabini in secret?"
Harry bit the inside of his cheek, stifling a chuckle. "Yeah. It sounds mental when you say it out loud like that."
"Because it is a bit mental."
"More mental than you shagging your ex's brother?"
Hermione huffed, unable to stop a laugh from spilling out as she smacked Harry's chest.
"You're a git, you know that?"
"Yeah, but you love me anyway."
Hermione smiled, settling back against the wall again, her head resuming its resting place on his shoulder. "Yeah, I do."
"We'll make it out of this alive, won't we?" Harry asked, after the moment of humour had passed and they sat in silence for a few beats, collecting their thoughts.
"We have to," Hermione murmured, exhaustion finally washing over her, making her eyes heavy. "There's nothing else for it. We have to make it through."
Hermione felt her eyes close as Harry shifted against her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and leaning his head atop hers. Just as she felt the blissful darkness of sleep edge over her, she forced her eyes back open.
"I saw her again," she said suddenly, jostling Harry a bit from his position of nodding off against the wall.
"Who?" He asked sleepily.
"The girl—the werewolf. I can't believe I forgot about it until now. I saw her at Diagon Alley, she'd broken her arm and I healed it for her."
"You think she's on our side then?"
Hermione nodded, "She definitely is. And she's definitely a werewolf—but she doesn't have magic like us. I think she was a muggle when she was turned."
"That's pretty rare isn't it?"
Hermione returned to her bag, digging through it until she found the book on werewolves she'd packed long ago. She opened it up, flipping through the pages until she found the passage she'd been looking for.
"Right here—see? Muggles can be turned successfully, but they often die of Rejection Sickness."
"What's that?"
"It's when they don't accept the magic given to them. There's a level of magic awarded to someone when they're bitten—there has to be, you see? Otherwise, they'd completely fall apart during transformation. Werewolf magic is outside of what we have and if a muggle is bitten, it may be hard for them to accept what they think is a myth as truth. But, because of the nature of the magic—"
"Because it's Dark Magic, you mean?"
"Yes. Because it's Dark magic, it has to be accepted by the host. Otherwise, they can die from it."
Harry's face creased, a thoughtful expression pulling his features together. "Do you think Remus ever accepted the Dark Magic?"
Hermione shrugged, "Must have. Otherwise, I doubt he'd have lived very long. Apparently, it happens relatively quickly. I'm not sure there's a way to barter with it, but then again, it's not as if there's proper research done on the subject and—"
"Okay, okay," Harry held his hands out, slowing the rant he knew Hermione would be starting. "But, what does that have to do with this woman?"
"Well, if she was turned as a muggle, it's unlikely she's a seer. On top of that, she wouldn't be able to get into the Ministry on her own."
"She's working with someone?"
"She has to be."
Harry sighed heavily, "This just gives us more questions than it does answers."
"Point is," Hermione soldiered on, "I don't think you're wrong in trusting her. Obviously, the advice she gave you over the summer was earnest. And, she knew my name. Whoever she's working with—Harry, I think it's someone we can trust."
Harry slumped further down the wall, stretching out with a yawn. "I certainly hope so."
