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Author: Lady Whizbee Story: The Skullduggery of Muckle Delight Rating: Teens Status: WIP Reviews: 3 Words: 40,817
A/N: Whew! It took me a while to decide whether to post this or not. I know that I said that I *would* continue this story no matter what, but after learning all that we did in the last book…well, it became quite hard. After much thought and consideration I decided to go ahead and post as I have much of the story written already. It bothers me tremendously that it is no longer canon—but I do like where this is going sooo… :-) …here it is. This story is now Alternate Universe. I’m sorry that this chapter is a bit depressing. I promise we will be straight uphill from here and stay tuned for H/G in the next chapter... Special thanks to Igenlode Wordsmith who helped me capture Mrs. Weasley’s unique cadence and Kelleypen who agreed to take this chapter before the release of DH so that I wouldn’t be tempted to change ‘The Kiss’!
“It’ll be fine,” she kept reassuring herself, despite the fact that her traitorous heart was hammering in her chest. And just as her legs began to be influenced by her miscreant trepidation, suddenly, magnificently, there it stood—that blessed, crooked, and topsy-turvy configuration. The Burrow. The edge of its battered and patched roofline peered out from behind a line of trees that had thus far shielded it from view. Hermione drew a deep breath, and allowed her feet to stop. Despite the forced confidence she had felt as she walked down the lane from her Apparition point, it had been barely enough to quell the nervous anticipation that had been coursing through her in nauseating waves all morning. With this odd mixture of confidence and nausea, she looked upon The Burrow for the first time in a long while. And yet the sight of the Weasleys’ home actually had a calming effect. It felt weird and wonderful all at the same time. Bolstered, she began moving again, walking until she came in contact with the roughhewn edge of the garden gate. She fumbled for the latch that kept the gate firmly closed. As her fingers clasped the metal, she stopped, transfixed by the disjointed and haphazard twists of the home with which she had once felt so connected. At first glance nothing looked any different. The rickety wooden garage and dilapidated stone shed still stood precariously on the outer edges of the garden. Fat brown chickens squawked and pecked at the patchy ground, attempting to find sustenance, and those who were not stabbing the soil with their beaks were being chased by cackling gnomes, who looked for all the world like knobby potatoes with short legs. Craning her neck to see past the house, she could just make out the edge of the orchard where the boys used to play countless hours of Quidditch while she sat reading under the shade of a tree. And just beyond that, although completely out of view, was the pond where she and Ginny would occasionally go swimming on very humid summer days. The recesses of her memory played tricks on her. Hermione could distinctly remember the creak of the back door as it opened—and half expected to look up and see Ron emerge onto the step, mouth crammed with food, encouraging her to come inside and join everyone for lunch. Voices filtered in and out, materializing out of the edges of her subconscious, reminding her of moments spent in the garden...and laughter...lots and lots of rolling, muscle cramping, laughter. A clatter from the kitchen startled Hermione, and she blinked, studying the open windows for any sign of movement. A breeze stirred, carrying on it the scents of honeysuckle and baked bread; and with another clatter and a subsequent clank from the kitchen Hermione swallowed, realizing that she really couldn’t stand at the gate all day. Lifting the heavy latch, she stepped through and closed the gate firmly behind her. Chickens scattered in front of her as she walked toward the house, and when she was greeted by the stacks of rusty cauldrons and multiple pairs of Wellington boots discarded by the back door, she knew that she could not turn back. She lifted her hand to knock on the door, and paused one last time. She could do this. Mustering her courage, she tapped her knuckles on the door two times. The door flew open instantaneously. “Hermione, dear!” Mrs. Weasley beamed, quickly pulling her into a bone-crushing hug. All of Hermione’s apprehension quickly melted away. She pulled back and smiled, without hesitation. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Weasley.” Mrs. Weasley swiftly piloted her into the kitchen by the arm, taking her to where she could study her in close detail. Narrowing her eyes she inspected her from head to toe, and ended with a motherly sigh. “Hermione, dear, you look worn out—do sit down. I was just getting some tea and biscuits together to take up to Ginny; she’s up in the attic sorting out the rest of her things. Why don’t you wait a moment while I get the tray ready, and then we can both go up together?” Mrs. Weasley smiled. She bustled around the kitchen and tapped a large teapot with her wand. It bounced onto the stove with a familiar clatter and began bubbling immediately. “Did you come straight from the Ministry?” “No, I took the Floo home to gather my things first before coming here,” Hermione replied. Feeling idle as she watched Mrs. Weasley dash about the kitchen, she offered, “Is there anything I can do to help?” “No, no, dear, I’ll do it myself. You must be dying to rest your feet,” Mrs. Weasley said kindly. Hermione laid her bag against the table leg and pulled out one of the sturdy kitchen chairs. Sitting with a comfortable sigh, she ran the tips of her fingers over the well-scrubbed table. “Bill and Fleur are coming over for supper, and the twins said they’d pop in after they closed shop, so it’ll be quite like old times tonight,” Mrs. Weasley said, flicking her wand over her shoulder at a tin of biscuits. It shot into the air and then dropped onto the tray with a clunk. “It’s been such a beautiful day; I thought we’d eat out in the garden—goodness, whatever is this?” A barn owl swooped in through the open window skidding to a halt on the draining board. He stuck his leg straight out so that Mrs. Weasley could untie the scrolled message. Her eyes narrowed as she read. “Oh, dear, it’s from Arthur. Somebody down in Diagon Alley has been selling jinxed Shield Hats, and he wants me to owl him his own hat for comparison. I’ll just go and get it—you don’t mind, do you, dear? It’ll just take a minute—I know exactly where it is…” “Of course not.” Mrs. Weasley handed the owl a biscuit before scurrying off toward the back of the house, the note clutched tightly in her hand. While she waited, Hermione glanced around the room, taking it all in. The patched and overstuffed armchair by the fireplace was currently home to a crocheted quilt and a basket of wool with knitting needles hovering over it, but she remembered how frequently she had chosen the lumpy chair for reading. Next to the chair were a number of magical cooking and gardening books which had grown into a sizable stack, teetering dangerously high on a small footstool, and the walls were strewn with new photos of the Weasley family. But these were only minor changes. The Burrow was just as cozy and as mismatched as ever. Hermione sighed. It felt just like home. Mrs. Weasley scuttled back into the kitchen, swatting the dust from the requested hat. “Just as I thought. I found it tucked away on the top shelf of the wardrobe.” She flicked her wand and the hat was quickly bundled into a small brown paper parcel and tied to the owl’s scrawny leg. “Off you go, then.” She watched the owl take flight before turning back to Hermione. “Now—tea.” She quickly assembled a tea tray that was fit to burst with so many shortbread, gingerbread and Shrewsbury biscuits that Hermione was certain she must be thinking that all her sons were going to feast upon this tray, not her only daughter and one close friend. “I do hope that Arthur remembers about tonight; he’s been so busy lately.” Mrs. Weasley fussed with the arrangement of the items on the tray, eyeing the clock over the fireplace. “If he’s only just now heading off to Diagon Alley, he’s bound to be late back—perhaps I should send along an owl to remind him—and one to let the boys know…” Mrs. Weasley flicked her wand and the heavily-laden tray lifted into the air with ease. “Here—” Hermione calmly stood, taking out her own wand. “Why don’t you let me take this up to Ginny’s room; then, you can send your owls?” “You don’t mind?” “No, of course not.” She thrust the overflowing tray in Hermione’s direction. “All right, then. You’re such a dear. Watch you don’t slip—and be careful of the second stair from the top, the tread’s loose.” Hermione balanced the cumbersome tray with her wand, careful not to upset the tea or the teetering biscuits. She started up the rickety narrow staircase a bit more slowly than she might normally have done—inhaling the familiar scent of musty wood and honeysuckle that seemed to permeate the house. The tray hovered a few feet in front of her midair, the tea-things still in their precarious positions. Once she reached the first-floor landing, she stopped. The door to Ginny’s room was thrown open, but Ginny was nowhere to be seen. Although Ginny’s room had never been particularly cluttered or ornate, she found it strange to see it stripped of all the magical posters and photos that had once been plastered on the wall by her bed. Arnold, the Pygmy Puff, sat on his small scatter cushion bed looking quite deserted on top of the dresser that normally had baskets of hair ties, stacks of old magazines, and a collection of unique perfume bottles with long glass stoppers that had once belonged to Ginny’s Great-Auntie Muriel. Other than the school trunk that was plunked askew in the center of her room, (and piled so high with clothes that Hermione was certain it could not be closed without the aid of a serious shrinking charm) the room looked completely barren. A startling clatter from above preceded a loud bellow. “Ow! You foul slimy little git!” Hermione recognized the wheezy laughter of the attic ghoul. She brought the tea tray to rest on the dresser next to Arnold and turned back toward the hallway, intending to go up and give Ginny a hand. However, she couldn’t quite make herself walk through the door and into the hallway. Going to the attic meant walking past Ron’s room, and she wasn’t certain she could stomach it. She hovered indecisively by the door of Ginny’s room for what must have been several minutes before another round of curses from Ginny propelled her feet decidedly towards the stairs. Remembering, rather ruefully, the numerous times she had stubbed her toe or fallen on the uneven stairs to Ron’s room, Hermione kept a careful eye on her feet as she climbed the well-scrubbed treads. She went up two more flights before seeing the ladder that led to the open attic hatch; and just to the side of the steps, another door with peeling paint and a small crooked sign that still read: RONALD’S ROOM. Hermione stood frozen on the landing, her eyes fixed on the placard. Before she had any idea what had happened, she had crossed the landing and had the cool metal of the doorknob clutched in her hand. She swallowed, studying the faded nameplate, the unpracticed writing looked as if written by a small child. A vision of an eleven-year-old Ron hunkered over this battered piece of driftwood instantly fleeted across her mind, his forehead scrunched in concentration and his jaw set as he scrawled out his name in orange paint, fiercely determined that his brothers should stay out of his room. She could see it as clearly as if she had actually witnessed it. Hermione closed her eyes. Ron. With a slight twist of her wrist the door creaked open. The violent orange walls of his room immediately assaulted her eyes, and she squinted against the glare of the late afternoon sun which only magnified the attack. Once her eyes adjusted, she realized that something was wrong. It took her only a moment to figure it out. The room was too still…and entirely too quiet. No tiny owl pinged about the room like a loose firework. The constant flashes of movement on the walls had ceased because the Quidditch players had vacated the Chudley Cannons posters, leaving the walls eerily abandoned. The only activity was the cannonball that continuously shot through the two black C’s branded on Ron’s bedspread, but even it seemed to be moving at half-speed. As if it knew its owner was no longer around to appreciate its rousing volley. Ron’s old, battered rucksack sat on the floor at the foot of his bed. “Bloody hell—doesn’t anyone knock anymore?” Hermione drew a sharp breath. Ron’s voice had been as clear in her ear as if he had been standing next to her. She reeled, looking for its source, but then quickly realized that her mind was playing tricks. She tottered forward and sank onto the corner of his bed. Rubbing her temple, she unconsciously studied the worn buckle on Ron’s bag. His rucksack…her mind flickered… *** “I closed my door for a reason, Hermione.” Ron wheeled around from packing his rucksack to face her standing in the doorway, two pairs of maroon socks balled tightly in his fists. “Yes, well, I did knock!” Hermione shot back, her own fists planted firmly on her hips. “Look, Ron, it isn’t my fault that the twins won’t loan you any money, so stop taking it out on me.” “Who said—that’s got nothing—” “Yes it does and you know it!” Ron looked at her incredulously before angrily chucking his socks into his suitcase and turning to grab a motley collection of t-shirts. “Mental…completely mental…” He crammed the t-shirts into his bag. Yanking the flap shut, he fumbled with the zipper that held the weatherworn bag closed. Once done he spun around, swinging it off the bed so that it collided heavily with the side of his leg. He stared at her, jaw tightly clenched, but only for a moment before making a move for the door. Hermione sidestepped to block his escape. He was not going to avoid her any more. “Move.” “No.” “Hermione—” “No.” And as if to further emphasize her point she Colloportused the door. His shoulders tensed, and she immediately found herself trying to match his height. Brushing her hair behind her ears, she fought to keep her temper in check. “Harry needs us, Ron. We can’t continue to argue like this—particularly since we’re leaving together tomorrow. Now, if it isn’t the money that’s bothering you, then what is it?” Ron stood there a moment, matching glares, and then shook his head with a snort. “Harry needs us, eh?” “Obviously!” He hurled his rucksack back onto his bed and threw himself down beside it, causing the mattress to creak in protest. Avoiding her eyes, he stared at the sloped ceiling as if there was suddenly something quite fascinating stuck to it, and after several minutes of silence it became evident that he was not going to elaborate. Hermione was at a loss. She felt the heat rise on her cheeks. He was the most impossible, insensitive, wart of a boy. Her chest swelled as she clenched her fists. “Ron—” “It’s never simple, is it?” Hermione staggered, completely thrown off her stride. “Wh-What?” He shook his head, barely casting her a glance before returning to stare at the invisible spot on the ceiling. “Nothing.” She paused, eyeing him closely. After a moment of watching him methodically work his jaw, she deflated with a sigh. “No, Ron, it isn’t nothing.” Hermione padded over to the narrow bed where he sat. She desperately wanted to touch his arm but couldn’t quite pluck up the nerve to do it. Instead she sank onto the bed beside him and clutched her hands together tightly in her lap. “Please, talk to me…Ron, please.” She bit her lip as she continued to watch him stare anywhere but at her. Ron finally shifted on the bed, running a hand through his hair. “This is it, you know…the real deal…” Ron said, still not looking at her. “You heard Harry tell us about that bloody cave and the Inferi and that cursed water that Dumbledore drank—this is serious stuff, Hermione.” A frown formed between Hermione’s eyebrows as she struggled to understand where he was going with this. “Yes, of course it is. This is Voldemort we’re talking about—of course it’s serious.” “Half the stuff Harry said Dumbledore did I wouldn’t have a clue as to how to do—and you know, when it comes down to it, that’d be okay if it were just Harry and me—I mean, we’d weather it out an’ all—but it’s more than that—it’s much bigger than that…” “Well, I certainly don’t think defeating Voldemort is going to be easy, but we have such a good start already—” Ron quickly cut her off with a shake of his head. “No, that’s not it. I mean, it’s part of it, but…” His voice trailed off as he still continued to study the ceiling and leaving Hermione baffled by where this was going. She had known him so long now that when he started a sentence she could finish it, but this, this was different. He seemed concerned…not scared…and yet there was something else there…something much deeper…something beyond the senseless rambling. “Ron, I don’t—” He suddenly burst out of his silence, sparing her a glance. “And it isn’t as if I don’t know that we need you to come with us, I mean…” he flapped his hand at the four walls around them, “you know facts and figures, spells and curses, people and places—hell, you even created the agenda for where we’re supposed to go first, second and third—but it doesn’t mean I don’t wish I could change that.” Hermione stiffened. What had started off sounding like a compliment had clearly become something entirely different. “What are you—? You don’t…you don’t want me to come with you?” Ron shifted on the bed, glancing down at the threadbare carpet between his feet, before shrugging in such a nonchalant manner it stung in its indifference. Hermione pulled back, puzzled. Since when had Ron not wanted her around? Well, excluding their first year at Hogwarts, and that whole Crookshanks-Scabbers debacle during third-year, and perhaps immediately following that canary incident last term, but other than that—when? “I don’t understand—” “I just think it might be better if—if Harry and I went it alone, that’s all.” “That’s why you’ve been acting so foul towards me—because you don’t want me to go with you?” Hermione stood. Frustrated anger bubbled up inside her unchecked. “Of all the insensitive, chauvinistic, horrid things to say! I’m Harry’s friend too, Ron, and he wants me to go—despite your thoughts on the matter. And to think—to think—I thought that you actually cared about me!” Hermione spun on her heel and stormed for the door. “But, I…I do…” Wand still outstretched to unlock the door, Hermione froze, attempting to give her mind time to catch up. “Wh-what did you say?” “Listen, Hermione—” Ron stood from the bed, his voice had a pleading edge to it. “Harry broke it off with Ginny, because he didn’t want to put her in danger. He did the right thing, the brave thing—even though it’s killing him. Because that’s what brave people do to protect the people that they need to protect…even if…even if it hurts.” She slowly turned back around, dropping her wand to her side. “But…but that’s not necessarily brave, Ron. Being brave doesn’t mean the absence of fear…being brave means facing your fear. Not letting it conquer you or giving into it.” She paused for emphasis. “It’s doing the right thing, despite the fear.” “Exactly, like choosing to walk away from a girl—” “No, no…you don’t understand…” Hermione swallowed, and came up to the end of the bed, putting the sturdy metal of the bedstead between them, as if it could somehow mask her nervousness. She avoided looking at him by winding her fingers tightly around the rail and, drawing a deep breath, plunged ahead. “For instance, suppose…well, suppose this boy fancies a girl, and he fears that something bad will happen to her. Maybe, maybe he even fears that she’ll be killed—” “More than anything…” he whispered. Hermione started, looking up sharply. She wasn’t certain if she heard him correctly, but everything in his expression told her that she had. Flustered, Hermione snapped her mouth shut. Glancing back down at her hands, she endeavored to recover her train of thought which was now careening wildly out of control. She cleared her throat, uncertain that her voice was still capable of regular speech. Testing it, she continued, “Well, then if it’s true that that’s his fear—then leaving her behind would be giving into that fear, and therefore, well, it would be the opposite of brave.” She dared to look up at him again and saw the slack jaw and puzzled brow of a confused Ron. This look was infinitely more familiar, and one that, oddly, put her at ease. She could handle this look. “And bravery can only get you so far—I mean, it is good—but you also need someone who knows those facts and figures, spells and curses, and people and places,” Hermione reminded him. Straightening her back she decided that if Ron was going to be bold, then so could she. “And if the person who knows these things, happens to be this girl that this boy fancies…well then, the brave thing to do would be to take her along despite his fear. In fact, it would be rather selfish of him to leave her behind—I mean—particularly when so much is at stake.” Ron looked at her for a moment, completely silent, and then unexpectedly a broad smile spread across his face compounded by a look of disbelief. “How do you do that? Turn things around until there’s no reasonable way to argue?” His eyes shone brightly as he shook his head. “Well, I suppose now we’ll have to take you along now. I mean, since it’s for the good of mankind and everything.” “Yes, exactly.” She laughed, feeling absolutely giddy. They stood there for a moment, each watching the other, until Hermione’s face and neck began to feel unbearably warm. Flustered by this obvious betrayal of her emotions, she quickly looked away and cleared her throat, struggling to find something else intelligent to say. But before Hermione knew what had happened, Ron was standing directly in front of her, the security of the bedstead completely breached, and her hand feeling exceedingly small in his. His was confident and strong, hers shaky and slightly clammy. She barely managed to look up at him, and when she did, she found that he stood entirely too close for reasoned thought. Her stomach flipped and swooped in a dizzying fashion, and even worse, she felt the slow creep of another full-on flush, whereas Ron’s ears were not even red. What had happened to him over the last few months? “Hermione, I—” he broke off, seeming to be struggling for the right words. After a moment of hesitation he finally cleared his throat to speak, causing Hermione to glance up at him. His jaw was set. “I’ve been a huge git—rubbish, really—and I’m sorry, sorry that messed this up….because this…you…us…this is the most important thing…and if anything happened to you, and I hadn’t said anything—if I hadn’t told you how much you mean to me—I would just, I would just…” Ron stammered, his mouth fighting to form a word that would not come. But Hermione knew. She knew because it reverberated from somewhere deep within her as well. “Die?” It was one word, and very faint. But Hermione had said it. Ron let out a quiet breath, a shimmer of relief moving across his face. “Yeah.” And suddenly everything clicked into place. Hermione met his gaze, and swallowed. After feeling as if it had taken an eternity to get to this point, things suddenly seemed to be moving entirely too fast. But fighting the desire to fidget, she stood still, waiting…willing him to finally take that step. Well, any step, really—as long as it wasn’t away. Letting go of her hand, Ron circled his arms around her waist, tugging her gingerly towards him. As she sank into him, she was once again amazed at how perfectly her body fit against his, and how comforting it felt to rest her head on his shoulder. She could stay like this forever, breathing him in. Ron’s hand left her waist to cup her cheek, his thumb following her jaw line toward her mouth. It was hardly a movement, really, just the slightest of caresses, asking her, almost hesitantly, to lift her face. Knowing what would follow, Hermione willingly tilted her chin up to him. And as his lips lightly brushed against hers, Hermione closed her eyes, transfixed…memorizing… Ron. Hermione was uncertain how long they stood there, but time had seemed to slow just for them. Eventually their kiss broke just as softly as it had begun, and Ron returned his hands to her waist pulling her tight to him again. He was content to hold her in silence, and she held onto him in return, attempting to remember how to breathe. Her ear pressed against his chest, she lost herself in the even and steady beat of his heart. In time her own racing heart slowed to match his, and she pulled back to look at him with what she was certain was a ridiculous grin on her face. “Well, that was worth the wait.” Ron barked out a laugh and matched her grin. “It was pretty good wasn’t it?” Hermione smirked, rolling her eyes. “You’re insufferable.” His arms tightened around her waist. His manner was jovial, but his eyes earnest. “But that’s why you like me, right?” She reached up, running her fingertips over the rough of his cheek. Not an ounce of doubt remained in her mind. She nodded silently, holding his steady gaze. “This changes everything, you know,” he whispered. His fingers squeezed her waist. “Are you ready for tomorrow?” She drew a deep breath, and reached for his hands weaving her fingers through his, all the while evaluating, considering what tomorrow would bring. Not only was she starting down a new path with Ron, but potentially, and very probably, a dangerous search for the remaining horcruxes. Both were leading to places unknown. But somehow this didn’t frighten her—because she was holding Ron’s hands, and they were strong and sure and good. She felt invincible. “I’m ready.” She nodded, confident. “And Harry needs us.” Ron nodded. “Yes, Harry needs us. But following Harry is not going to be easy, you know.” Hermione refrained from rolling her eyes. “When has it ever been easy?” “True.” He conceded with a short laugh. “But this is different—this is no small thing—once we start down this road, there’s no going back.” Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you actually suggesting that we let Harry leave tomorrow without us?” “No, no—I mean, I’m with him no matter what—I just, I suppose what I’m trying to say is that whatever happens out there, Harry has to make it through to face Voldemort in the end.” “Of course he does, Ron, that’s the whole point—” “Let me finish,” Ron interrupted, tightening his grip on her hands. “That means that if there’s cursed water that has to be drunk, I’m going to be the one to drink it. Or if we come across Death Eaters and the curses start flying I’m going to make certain that nothing bad happens to Harry—do you understand? I’m leaving tomorrow fully prepared for this, and I need to you to understand that it’s the choice I’ve made.” Hermione swallowed, her throat agonizingly constricted. She clutched Ron’s hands to steady herself. She heard what he was saying, and even though she didn’t want to hear it, she knew that what he said was true. This was the crux of the matter. There was no one else but Harry who could defeat Voldemort, and instinctively, without even sparing it much thought, she knew that their loyalties ran to Harry first before they ever touched each other, and that was how it had to be. “And that’s why I didn’t want you to go…” Ron murmured, steadying her by the elbows. “Because every day that I’m with you—I just want to forget about Voldemort and the war—but I can’t. None of us can. And I suppose that’s what I mean by there’s no going back after tomorrow.” Hermione nodded, looking down. She understood. “All right, then.” He lifted her face up by her chin. “So you have to promise me, when this is all said and done, you’ll have no regrets.” Knowing what she had to do, she nodded. “No regrets?” Ron pressed. “No regrets.” But Hermione did have regrets now. Two years later, as she sat on Ron’s bed looking at his battered suitcase. She regretted a lot of things. She regretted that they hadn’t married when they had originally planned. She regretted that her last conversation with Ron had essentially been an argument rather than a lovers’ parting. And more than anything else, she was haunted by the wretched fact that Ron had died taking a curse that had been intended for her, the Muggle-born know-it-all, and the smartest witch of her age. *** Ginny wiped a clinging strand of a cobweb from her sweaty forehead. She was annoyed that it had taken so long to find all of her jumpers and winter-weight robes, but she had finally succeeded and at long last could leave the dusty, dingy attic as well as the company of the disgusting ghoul who, at the moment, was caught in a full body bind inside a broken wardrobe located under the peak of the attic’s gable. Knowing that they would have to be washed, Ginny stuffed all of her winter clothes into an empty box and pushed it in front of the attic’s hatch. Wiping her hands on the front of her overalls, she turned to study the room in the dim light. The last thing that she needed was to find the old tea caddy with missing canisters—she thought she knew where it was, but the light was so poor, it was hard to tell. She last remembered seeing it on her great-grandmother’s sewing cabinet and, walking in that direction, found that it was exactly where she had left it. The black lacquer case was covered in a layer of dust. Ginny brushed her hand across the smooth cover, revealing a swath of gold, of red, and of black. A brilliant gold dragon hovered in a valley of intense red with darker gold mountains and evergreens silhouetted on the satiny black lid. The box was oriental in design, but definitely magical. The dragon flicked his spiky tail at her from its perch in the valley, his golden eyes blinking at the sudden change in light. Ginny traced the outline of the dragon’s spikes with her finger, surprised at how cool the cover felt despite the heat of the attic. She adored this tea caddy. Since the tea canisters were missing, it had no value to anyone other than herself, and as a child she used it to hide some of her more cherished possessions within its compartments. Not only was it a perfect hiding place, it also reminded her of Charlie, her dragon-wrangling hero. She used to sit and watch the dragon for hours, wondering what Charlie was doing that moment and whether the dragons were really as terrifying as she had read in books. She had always thought that the dragon on the tea caddy seemed nice, and actually rather cute, and that her mother really didn’t need to worry about Charlie so much. But she had been naïve then, now she knew why her mother worried. Once she went to Hogwarts, the tea caddy was forgotten, the contents inside frozen in time. But as Ginny was packing to leave for the last time, she knew that there were a few things that she needed to retrieve. The case opened without a sound, and she inhaled the long forgotten, but intensely familiar, scent of musty jasmine and stale tea that permeated the caddy. Opening the first compartment, she found a small rubber ball that had silver and gold sparkles zooming around the inside, a pink quill with swirling rainbows, a teaspoon with the Hogwarts crest (that the twins had brought back for her after their first year), and a set of Quidditch trading cards. It was odd now to think of what had been important to her as a ten-year-old, and now none of these things held any value—sentimental or real. Her eyes skimmed over to the second compartment, pulling open the velvet cover. Inside was a fat packet of letters. These had value. The stack included letters from Bill sent while he was in Egypt, from Charlie while he was an apprentice in Romania, several from Percy telling her all about Hogwarts and how to be successful there, ten from the twins outlining their escapades, and lastly, a small bundle from Ron that he had sent throughout his first year at school. Ginny pulled them out, flipping through them until she found the scraggy and lopsided scrawl that belonged to Ron. Five letters from him—only five—but she was pleased to see that they were all still there. Taking the entire bundle, she closed the lid on the caddy and walked back toward the attic door, reluctantly freeing the ghoul on the way. She watched as he sulked off to a far and dark corner of the attic. Ginny retrieved her box of clothes, and carefully navigated the ladder, leaving all the dust and cobwebs behind. She would have kept going all the way down to her room, except that the glow of the sunset stopped her—the shaft of light on the upper landing was unexpected. No sunlight had touched this landing since…Ginny sucked in a deep breath. The door to Ron’s room was open. She knew that her mother must still clean the room but Ginny had never seen her do it, and seeing the open door now felt oddly taboo. Ginny cautiously approached, peeking around the doorframe to see if anyone was there. Hermione. Who else would it be? Ginny repositioned the box in her arms, trying to decide if she should walk into the room or not. Hermione was staring blankly at Ron’s rucksack. She wasn’t crying, so maybe she was all right. Ginny studied her empty expression. No, she wasn’t all right…not really. Ginny didn’t know what she would say to her, but she knew that she couldn’t leave her in there alone. “Hey.” Hermione jumped, her head jerking upwards. “Sorry.” Ginny winced, realizing that her voice had been louder than she had intended. Shifting again, she dropped the awkward box of clothing beside the door. She considered leaving the letters there as well, but couldn’t. They were too important. Ginny focused again on Hermione. “You okay?” Hermione nodded, although she didn’t speak. “You’re loads stronger than I am…I haven’t been able to open the door to this room…not once.” Hermione sniffed in disbelief. “It took me forever to work up the courage to leave your room to come to the attic—I couldn’t bear to even pass it. How pathetic is that?” “Well, I suppose we’re both pathetic then,” Ginny offered with a small smile. She walked into the room and went over to the bed. Sitting beside her, she inspected the careworn lines on Hermione’s face. She looked unusually pale, even in the orange glow of Ron’s room. “How long have you been in here?” “Not too long,” Hermione replied. She seemed to notice Ginny’s close inspection and began pressing her palms against her cheeks, attempting to knead the life back into her face. “Are you finished in the attic?” “Just,” Ginny nodded with a sigh. “I think I’ve found everything I need, including a few things that I’d forgotten about.” “That’s good then. Your mother had me bring up tea. It’s in your room—I suppose we should go back down and make certain Arnold hasn’t eaten all the biscuits.” “I suppose so.” Neither of them moved. Hermione returned to studying Ron’s suitcase, and Ginny stared at the letters still clutched in her hands. The heat of the attic had caused them to turn yellow prematurely and the black ink to turn a dark shade of green. Ginny’s thumb traced the angular pitch and jut of her name across the note. Ron’s writing had always been so messy. It had given her mother fits, at least initially. Ginny distinctly remembered because she had learned to write at the same time. Her mother had tried repeatedly to have Ron hold his quill in the correct manner, but he never did. His writing matured as he got older, but it never really improved. Ginny had always been proud of her own writing in comparison, even making fun of his on occasion, but now that seemed silly and incredibly juvenile. Why had it mattered so much? Ginny looked up to find Hermione studying the letters in her hand, and she suddenly felt daft for having brought them into the room. What had she been thinking? Hermione would recognize the scratchy scrawl immediately, and the last thing she wanted was to make the situation any more painful than it already was. Ginny stuffed the letters into the pocket of her overalls. It didn’t seem to matter though. Hermione broke the silence. “The memories are just so strong...I don’t know whether to be happy that I have them...or to be sad that they are a constant reminder of what I don’t have any more.” Ginny nodded, understanding completely. “Good or bad, I think I want the memories.” They sat in silence again, but this time not as long. She glanced over at Hermione. “I’m glad you’re here.” “Thanks.” Ginny drew in a deep breath and then stood. Grabbing Hermione’s hand, she forced her to stand as well. “Enough of this. Come on, let’s go down to my room. We need to talk and it’ll be much more enjoyable over tea and biscuits.” Ginny retrieved the box of clothing from the hall and clumped down the stairs, carrying it into her room. She unceremoniously dumped the clothes into the laundry basket in the corner of her room, and gathering the bundle of letters from her front pocket she tucked them along the side of her overflowing trunk. Satisfied, she then turned to retrieve the tea tray from the dresser. Arnold was now burrowed under the granny square that was his blanket, snoring. From the trail of crumbs, it appeared as if he had had less than a handful of biscuits and—given the generous quantity of food—these would not be missed. The girls poured themselves a cup of tea each, kicked off their shoes, and then sat comfortably on Ginny’s bed. Ginny chose to lean against the headboard next to the open window, feet tucked up under her, and Hermione sat curled against the wall by the footboard. “So spill,” Ginny finally said after they had both had ample time to sip their tea in silence. “You said in your letter that you had something important to tell me…” Hermione nodded, setting her teacup aside on the dresser. Ginny could tell that she was nervous by the methodic way she pressed her palms on her skirt. Ginny pulled her knees up to her chest, and leaned back against the headboard, feeling the summer breeze from the open window rustle her hair. Finally she suggested, “Why don’t you just start at the beginning?” Hermione drew a deep breath, stood, and moved towards the window, obviously flustered. She brushed the billowing curtain aside and looked out on the back garden for a moment, and then turned back toward Ginny, twisting and untwisting her hands as she spoke. “I need to tell you what I have been trying to do for the last year.” Hermione began to recount what she had been attempting to achieve that year as an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries. Her voice was very even at first, but as she continued, it quickly became choked. Ginny truly hadn’t known what to expect, but tales of time travel had been the furthest thing from her mind. As Hermione proceeded to tell her of all her failed attempts to save Ron, Ginny’s eyes began to sting and breathing became difficult. And even worse, it didn’t seem to end. The stories continued to multiply, and Ginny found it harder and harder to listen; it was horrifying. It was too much. How could any one person do this? Hermione gazed absently out of the window. “I worked on this for months. I revisited and analyzed the battle from every angle. However, the more I worked on it, the more I realized that every solution that I came up with had a negative effect on something else. The intensity of the Last Battle left no clear way to retrieve Ron, without causing multiple side effects that might then spiral out of control. It simply could not be done.” Ginny sank back against the headboard, too stunned to speak. She needed time to let everything Hermione had said sink in. Glancing at Hermione, she saw that her features were still taut and that there must still be something else that she had not said yet. Ginny shifted on the bed, uncertain of what it was, but hoping it wasn’t anything worse than forcing yourself to relive your worst nightmare, over and over again—on purpose. She shuddered; she couldn’t imagine the anguish that Hermione must have endured watching Ron die repeatedly...how could she still be sane? Then suddenly, she understood. “Hermione, you can’t continue to blame yourself for Ron’s death.” Hermione glanced quickly at Ginny, and then returned to studying the windowsill. “Hermione, look at me.” Ginny spoke firmly. She waited until Hermione’s eyes met hers. “It was not your fault.” Hermione absently rubbed at a spot on the windowsill before returning to sit next to Ginny. For want of anything else to say, Ginny felt compelled to say it again, only this time with more conviction. “Not your fault.” Hermione let out a slow and measured breath. The two girls sat quietly a moment, lost in their own thoughts. Hermione cleared her throat, but her voice was still ragged. “I’ve decided to leave the Ministry of Magic. The National Wizarding Institute of Science has recently formed a new department in experimental magic, so I’ve decided to apply for one of the openings.” “That’s great, really great, Hermione!” Hermione nodded, looking down at her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Ginny reached over and placed her hand on her clenched fingers. “Leaving the Ministry won’t make your grief over Ron any less real.” “No, I suppose not. But it does close the door on my dream that Ron might come back.” Ginny retracted her hand, and looked at the photograph of her brothers on the nightstand by her bed. The twins were mercilessly tossing Percy’s Prefect badge back and forth over his head, Bill and Charlie were wrestling each other in the background, and Ron was waving enthusiastically at them both. “Ron’s not coming back, Hermione.” The room was silent for a moment, and then Hermione whispered, “I know.” They sat on Ginny’s bed for a while in silence, Hermione playing with a handkerchief she had clutched in her hand, and Ginny toying with the frayed edge of the bed quilt. Neither of them touched the remainder of her tea, and each failed to notice the dimming light of the room as the sun sank outside Ginny’s window. Ginny’s thoughts eventually returned to Harry, as they normally had since receiving his owl earlier that week. But this time it was not because of his letter tucked in her side pocket, but instead because of all that Hermione had said—all that she had been through throughout the previous year. Ginny missed Ron terribly, and she could barely stand to be at home again—without him, but the thought of being without Harry…much as Hermione was without Ron…caused her stomach to cramp painfully. She quietly slipped her hand into a side pocket of her overalls, lightly touching the parchment tucked there. He was coming home. Finally. And as much as she really didn’t know where her relationship with Harry currently stood, she had decided, tonight, that he would not leave again…at least, not without her. She was no longer interested to sit on the sidelines, waiting. It was time to be involved.
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