fic for inthesewalls: A Little Touch of Fever in the Night (Hermione, Ron, Harry, R)
Title: A Little Touch of Fever in the Night
Recipient: inthesewalls
Rating: soft R
Characters: Hermione, Ron, Harry
Warnings: language, character death, extreme postwar dystopian angst
Author's Notes: Harry's brief disappearance during the war was all the opportunity the Death Eaters needed to take over the Ministry. Now muggleborn wizards are forced into detention camps away from the rest of society, including Ron, who has chosen a life of exile with Hermione and a mentally disabled Harry.
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"Hermione, you can't." Ron’s hand clamped around Hermione’s forearm tight enough to bruise. When he saw the wince of plain run across her features, he loosened his grip, but only a little.
"Ron, let go of me!" She spoke to Ron like she would a child, her voice impatient and dismissive. But the white knuckles of her hands as she gripped the tea tray gave her away all too easily. "We discussed this already, and I will you not have you in my way. Now let go of me, or I'll-"
"Or you'll what, Hermione? Hex me?"
Hermione's jaw tightened in a familiar stubborn expression, and she elbowed Ron out of her way. "This hurts me as much as it does you." Ron fell silent.
"Now are you coming with me to give Harry his tea? You know how much he loves it when you tell him one your ridiculous Quidditch stories before we say goodnight."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It had been nearly three years now since Hermione and Ron woken up one morning to find that Harry had gone missing during the hunt for the last horcrux. After three months of fruitless searching, they returned to 12 Grimmauld Place to strategize with the remaining Order members until he returned. But with Harry gone, the Death Eaters slowly but surely carved a path across the country. On New Years day they cemented their takeover of the Ministry, and then the real horror began. City by city they had rounded up all the Muggleborns, broke their wands, burned their robes, and sent them off to various detention camps scattered across the countryside where they would no longer be an eyesore to their pureblood superiors. Hermione had been picked up and taken to the London Muggle Quarter when she had left her home in a desperate attempt to get word out to her parents to leave the country. Ron, in the company of band of resistors made of former students and Order members, had attempted to liberate one of the smaller camps. Voldemort's forces had retaliated swiftly by attacking the relatives of detainees that lived on the outside-including setting the Burrow on fire with his parents, the twins, and Ginny inside.
Many pureblood families took their wealth and fled the country, while those loyal to Voldemort gave a toast to their esteemed leader's success. Half-bloods split into factions, with some giving up their wands and robes to go live with their families in the Muggleborn quarter, others shunning their Muggle background and dedicating themselves to the pureblood cause. They clung to the small bit of freedom afforded them due to their wizarding ancestry. Soon, the new government seized their assets and they were forbidden to do any work beyond the level of semi-skilled labor. They were now thought of as third class-citizens-legally beneath even the house elves. During that time it was a rare day when the paper didn't mention yet another Half-blood suicide.
For three months, Hermione had received no word from either Ron or Harry through the information channels within the camp, surviving on little more than hearsay. As the citizens of the quarter realized that Voldemort's intereste in them waned as soon as they were no longer an immediate threat, they residents of the quarter began to play on the weaknesses of a few sympathetic half-blood guards so that they might receive materials to start building new homes. All of the citizens of the quarter were doing their best to try and move on. Hermione threw her lot in with the rest and tried to go on living-signing up to receive one of the flimsy gray homes that were being set up in what was quickly beginning to look like a small town.
Nearly eight months after it had all began, Ron had shown up at Hermione's doorstep, wandless and robeless as well, with only a few magical items that he had managed to smuggle in from the outside. Pictures of his family, a Chudley Cannons t-shirt with a flying snitch-things that, when the deal was sweetened with a few Sickles, the guards were willing to overlook. They put their efforts into looking for Harry again. Since the Ministry takeover, the Prophet had managed to all but erase the name Harry Potter from its pages, other than running the occasional propagandistic article in which Harry was quoted as giving his full support to Lord Voldemort.
It had been three months from the last time they'd seen Harry's name in the paper at all when his body was tossed against their door in the middle of the night. He had been subjected to round after round of Cruciatus, leaving him with little more than the mind of a child, and occasional violent tremors that rendered him unable to feed himself most of the time. A note had been pinned to his shirt. Do what you will to him, I am finished. But I shall drop in for a visit from time to time. the note had said
And so they had tried to begin their life again.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Hermione stood at the gate to Bellatrix's sprawling manor, nervously clutching her small bag. She had known sooner or later that it would happen to her too. Being in the detention camps didn't make her deaf to all the rumours about how having mudblood servants was all the rage among pureblood families. Even some half-bloods were known to have one, in an attempt to remind the world once more how they scorned those filthy Muggleborns as much as or more than everyone else. She lifted her hand to the gate, and it swung open of its own accord. A wave of remorse swept over her as she felt the magic. It was much easier to forget when she was in the camp, to pretend she had never left the Muggle world when wandless ones such as herself surrounded her. It was hard not to think back to three years ago, at Hogwarts, when she was just getting used to having the call of magic hovering attentively at her fingertips, waiting to be channeled through her wand to make her simplest wishes reality.
It had been three years now since they'd lost the war. What had they been thinking, anyway? To send three brash 16 year olds to the front lines in a war against generations of purebloods whose knowledge of the Dark Arts was bred so deep that it was as familiar to them as their own fingerprints. It was a miracle that they had emerged alive.
Hermione placed her foot down on the last step before the large mahogany door to Bellatrix's estate, and found that she could go no further. The wicked looking gargoyles peering down from the roof reminded her of the French Gothic cathedrals she'd seen in books as a child. The doorknocker bore a scowling face above it. As she raised her hand to the brass monstrosity, the eyes flew open quickly, only to narrow quickly once again in ill-concealed suspicion.
"Mudbloods…," said the face in a voice dripping with contempt, "must use the entrance on the southern side of the premises."
For a split second Hermione was shocked, and leant into the door, her hand tightening involuntarily into a fist. But her arm was barely above the level of her waist when a searing pain exploded on the inside of her left arm. The second rule in the " Muggleborn's Guide to Effectively Serving Your Pureblood Masters " sprang to her mind: Treat your master's house as your own! Remember, an obedient servant is a happy servant! Any effort to defile your master's property will be met with swift punishment. The picture in the book had shown a young man dropping a delicate vase on the ground and then writhing on the ground in obvious torment.
Still short of breath from the unexpected pain, Hermione rolled up her sleeve. As she had expected, the portion of her arm upon which was tattooed a small rendition of the crest of the House of Black was a swollen, angry red. She had tried to forget about it since it had first been burned into her skin two weeks ago, soon after she had received a letter by owl on heavy parchment indicating that she had been summoned to serve as a lady's maid to Bellatrix Black. She hadn't been surprised that day--on the contrary, when hiring Muggleborns as servants became the newest craze among Pureblood women Hermione had been surprised that she had had nearly a year before the summons had arrived. She suspected that Ron's status as a pureblood had had something to do with the delay, but when pressed, he had refused to talk about it. She had never told him that a part of her was relieved to have the work-Ron's job cleaning the Ministry owlery just wasn't paying enough.
Her heart rate having returned to normal, Hermione made her away around to the other side of the house. The sun was making its slow crawl along the horizon, waking up the small birds that nested in the trees and birds around the manor. Nearly hidden between two high and perfectly manicured hedges was a small nondescript wooden door with a tiny window.
After two swift knocks, the door was yanked open by a cranky looking elderly house elf. "You will not be taking Stebby's job! Stebby has been serving the Most Honorable family of Black since before you were born!" Hermione was taken aback by the elf's anger.
"I don't want to be here at all!" she shot back. The elf glared at her but began to move down a small, dark corridor with little decoration on the walls. The ceiling was uncommonly low, Hermione thought, but then again, it must have only been used for house elves until now. They came out in a small closet, the door of which opened into a corridor with sparkling hardwood floors and intimidating portraits of the Black ancestors as they stared down at her.
"Stebby is not believing you but Stebby is following the mistresses orders and bringing you to the bedroom." With a pop, the disgruntled house elf disappeared, leaving her alone in the corridor. Hermione stood there for a over a minute when the door was suddenly wrenched open.
"You do not get paid to stand there and gawk, mudblood. Now come here. I need help putting on my jewelry". Hermione followed her to her vanity table, wanting to run all the while but afraid there would be a rehashing of the painful episode at the front door of the manor.
"I do hate this necklace, you know." Bellatrix settled into the fragile looking chair next to her vanity and lifted up her mass of black hair. There was not a gray hair to be seen anywhere, but Hermione would have bet 10 Galleons that it wasn't natural. The war had been hard on everyone, not just the losing side. "It's so…gauche. I only wear it because Rudolphus likes it. He likes the way it looks against my skin. 'Like the blood of Muggles', he says." She smiled to herself in the mirror. "You know, when this whole idea of hiring mudbloods first started up I was quite outraged. I couldn’t believe it. Was there something wrong with house elves now? And letting a Mudblood touch your things-touch you even! Can you imagine how I felt?" Hermione successfully fastened the clasp on the heavy necklace and watched it sparkle against Bellatrix's pale skin, the very color of it making her feel a bit ill.
"But then one day Cissy flooed me and says 'Bella, you have to see what Lucius got me for my birthday!' and as you can imagine, I couldn't believe my eyes when I arrive at the Manor and there's this filthy mudblood boy kneeling at before her, letting those ugly Muggle rags you lot call clothing dirty up her Persian flying carpet-and he's massaging her feet! Touching her! I nearly left there and then." Bellatrix picked up a silver backed brush from her vanity table. "Brush," She commanded, "and gently, or you'll regret it." The look in her eyes told Hermione that it was in her best interest to obey. "Now, where was I? Oh, yes. So this mudblood was touching my dear Cissy. And I asked her, 'Doesn't it make you feel awful, letting his dirty mudblood hands touch you like that? How can you stand it?' And well, she told me she hadn't liked it as first, but it really is kind of thrilling, you know? Feeling their nasty little hands against one's skin. Knowing that you can make them do anything for you, that they…belong…to you. It's almost as good a feeling as-well, you know. I suppose your little blood traitor gives it to you good, doesn't he?" Bellatrix's laugh was high and tinny.
Hermione stood, clenched fists shaking at her sides in silent anger so strong she thought that at any moment she might be sick. "Do not talk about Ron."
"Oh, don't be so sensitive, my dear." Bellatrix scoffed. She rose from her seat and went to admire herself in a full-length mirror. "It was just a little joke. I bet he's red everywhere. " Hermione flushed. "Oh, he is, isn't he? Now tell me one more thing…," her gaze turned menacing. "Do you ever let dear Harry watch? I mean you're such good, dear friends and all…"
Without thinking, Hermione lunged at Bellatrix's throat and squeezed as tightly as she could. For a moment, she thought she might actually succeed in killing her, before the pain in her arm registered above the rush of adrenaline through her veins. Hermione began to scream and fell to the floor, feeling as if her entire arm had been set afire. Dimly, she registered Bellatrix's laugh above the sound of her own screams before she blacked out.
Rule No. 1 of the Muggleborn's Guide to Effectively Serving Your Pureblood Masters: Above all, treat your Master and Mistress as your Lord, fulfilling their wishes with a light heart and a generous spirit!
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Hermione cracked her eyes open, woozy and unsure of where she was. The way the late evening light slanted over the bedcovers told her that she was at home. How had she gotten home? Where was Bellatrix? She sat up, panicking.
"Ron? Ron??" she heard footsteps pound down the hallway.
"Thank Merlin, you're awake." Ron leant over her, his large frame blocking her view of anything else. He placed a cool cloth on her forehead that did nothing to help the turmoil in her mind.
"Ron, how did I get there? Where's Bellatrix? How did I-"
"Shh, it's all right. I have a contact in the Auror Division that called me when you'd been brought in. Unconscious, you were. They were supposed to keep you there for three days to cool off, he'd said, but he let you off early. You were lucky, they must like you down there." Ron tried to smile, but it only made the worry in his eyes stand out even more.
"Ron, how did you-?" her eyes fell on the pale band of skin around his wrist. Right before they'd left on their search for the horcruxes, Ron's father had given him an old Muggle watch of gold. It had never worked properly--especially around Harry-but all the same Ron had never taken it off once in the last five years. And now it was gone. "Your watch…the one your father gave you."
"Don't worry about it. It wasn't that important. I just consider myself lucky that Abington has a weakness for Muggle artifacts."
"Ron, you shouldn't have…I could have waited the three days." Ron said nothing, only shrugged. Hermione sat up experimentally, and let out a breath of relief to find out that she felt fairly normal. She realized that the house was extraordinarily quiet, and cast her glance over to the bedside clock. "Ron, where's Harry? We were supposed to pick him up at five, and it's nearly eight now!"
"It's all right Hermione, he's at Dean's house tonight, remember? Dean won't mind. He'll understand once we explain."
"No, no no….he's not at Deans' place tonight, Ron! How could you forget?" she went to her closet and started rifling through for a sweater warm enough to keep her warm against the cool of the evening. "Dean is working overtime this month, so he can save up enough for an extended pass to leave the compound and go visit his mother." The night passes, small magical documents that allowed the bearer to be out of the Muggleborn quarter past curfew, were often prohibitively expensive. It was set to a certain time limit, and the bearer would be automatically portkeyed back to the quarter once the time limit was up. Hermione had tried to save up enough to get out and visit her mother once, but paying people to watch Harry while she ran errands and went to work had depleted their funds to the point where she'd given up.
"Well, where is he then?"
"Down the row, at Mafalda's. I practically had to beg her to take him on for the day. Last time Harry broke three of her dishes." She found her shoes and stuffed her feet halfway in, Ron on her heels as she made her way to the door.
"Why is that important? You paid her back, didn't you? Harry is a good guy. He doesn't bother anyone." Hermione stopped in the doorway and turned around, looking at Ron for a long moment.
"He scares people, Ron. Harry scares people. He's a living reminder of what Voldemort has done to all of us, and what he can still do if we step out of line?" Hermione expression turned remorseful. "Sometimes, I think that's why he let Harry live, you know? So that we never forget." Remembering where she was, she pulled her coat tighter around her and made for the door. "Are you coming with me or not?" Ron nodded.
They wound up and down the rows of houses, all the same gray, thrown together hastily and with little to tell them apart from each other. Dim lights sat between every few houses, throwing sickly looking light on the path beneath their feet. Neither said anything, Ron's long legs easily keeping up with frantic stride. After about five minutes, Hermione stopped short at a fairly new looking house, with a small plant sat in the window in an effort to make life a bit cheerier. The house was eerily silent. She had barely raised her hand to knock, when the door opened.
"You're late, Hermione." Mafalda was a thin, drawn looking woman with mousy brown hair pulled back into a bun, a tearful toddler clutching her skirts. "You said you wouldn’t be late. He did it again. One of his fits. Wouldn't stop for nearly two hours. I gave him my only bottle of Dreamless Sleep, and he just kept it up!"
"I told you, Mafalda," began Hermione, exasperated. "Dreamless Sleep doesn't work on him. It's not strong enough."
Ignoring Hermione, she kept going on heedless. "Two hours! I had to send my little Emmelda next door so she wouldn't be scared. And what will the neighbors think?" she rambled on, letting Ron push past her into the house.
Harry was curled up into the corner of the sitting room, rocking back and forth and keening softly to himself. His scar stood out in bright red relief against the paleness of his skin, unhidden, as they had to keep his hair short now so that he didn't try to pull it out. As Ron got closer, he could smell the strong scent of sweat, urine, and fear coming from him. Although Harry was nearly as tall as Ron now, to Ron he seemed like little more than a child. He crouched down to Harry's eye level, while Hermione hovered nervously behind them. Mafalda watched at from a safe distance.
"Hey, Harry. Feeling all right there, mate?" said Ron, trying to sound comforting.
"I had an accident," Harry whispered.
"Aw, that's all right. These things happen to the best of us."
"He was in my head again." A frown crossed his face. "Hurt. It hurt it hurt it hurt."
"Well, you'll be okay now, right? It's time to go home. Hermione'll make you some tea and you'll be right as rain. Now, can you stand up for me?"
Harry slowly uncurled himself and stood up. A large wet patch covered the front of his worn jeans.
"It's not right, the way he is," whispered Mafalda from her corner of the room. "It was like You-Know-Who was lookin' at me, right out from those eyes of his. Green…. Green just like the killing curse." She turned to Hermione sharply. "He can't come back. I'm sorry, but…but I've a little girl to raise, and I can't have her being around that."
Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but Ron cut her off. "Don’t worry, we won't be."
"Ron!" Hermione stared sharply at Ron. "I'm so, so sorry Mafalda. Is there anything I can do to…"
"Just keep him away from here. That's all you need to do."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ron leaned against the counter, drying the dishes as Hermione washed them. They'd left Harry in the tiny dining room they had, eating bacon and toast, and pumpkin juice. Breakfast was his favorite food. Their first Christmas together, Hermione had spent all day cooking a turkey only to have Harry knock it off the table in a fit of anger, repeating the word "breakfast" over and over again like a litany.
"I've been thinking…we should try and get out of here." Said Ron, carefully not looking at Hermione. "I can't stand it anymore in here, Hermione, it's driving me mad. Sometimes I feel like the magic is going to burst from my veins and kill me if I don't get out of here soon."
Hermione's eyes grew wild. "Ron, shhh! He could be listening. Through Harry!"
"Oh, bollocks, Hermione! What does it matter if he hears us or not? He's going to come after us eventually. Did you truly think that he would let us just sit here, living our days out in sweet domestic bliss with our dear friend Harry Potter and our kind and friendly neighbors? You're mad! He'll be back, I know it. I can feel it."
"Ron, that's ridiculous. He's finished with us! He has to be. What else does he have to take from us? Our wands are gone, and all we have to wear is muggle clothing-anyone who saw us on the street would have us arrested immediately…"
"But Hermione, I've been hearing things. At work. Working at the Ministry does have its perks, even if I am stuck cleaning owl shit all day." He shelved the last of their few dishes and turned to her, his gazed intense. "They…they're saying that You-Know-Who is getting restless. That's it's too quiet, that things settled too quickly for his liking. He's going to come after the Muggleborn quarters, I know it. And who better to make an example of than us? We need to get out while we still have time."
"And what about Harry, Ron? What about him? Are we going to leave him behind?"
Ron hesitated. "We can take him with us."
"Don't be daft, Ron. If we take Harry with us, it's as good as sending Voldemort an owl telling him where we are." Ron winced. "I'm not blind. The 'visits' are increasing. They only used to come once a month, and now it's two, three times a week. He must be angry or something."
"Well, maybe Harry'll get better." His voice grew desperate as he paced around the impossibly tiny kitchen. "There's got to be a potion or a healer, or…"
"What healer would serve us? We can't even get somebody to watch Harry while we're at work anymore. They're all too afraid of being killed," Hermione responded, her voice bitter.
"Do you remember the time he saw Neville's parents? Out of their minds because of the Cruciatus?" Hermione nodded. "He told me later…Harry told me that if that ever happened to him that…that I should kill him. Said it wasn't any kind of life to be living." Ron couldn't bring himself to look at Hermione's face.
"Don't say that, don’t say that, don't say that! There has to be another way! There has to be! I'll stay here with Harry and you leave. It will be all right, really."
"It wouldn't be safe, Hermione." His voice was tense, angry. "As soon as he saw I was gone, he would come after you."
"No, no, no. I will not listen to your utter rubbish! Harry's fine, he's happy, he's happy here and with us, and as long as the three of us are together it will be all right."
"Hermione! How can you lie to yourself like that? Do you honestly think he enjoys sitting at Mafalda's all day staring out the window, pissing and shitting himself every time-every time Voldemort decides to mess with his head a little bit more? Do you think he likes getting those tremors of his so bad that he can barely feed himself? So bad that he nearly bites his tongue off?
Hermione hung her head in her hands. "No, no…Ron don't say this to me."
"And what about me, Hermione? What about us? Neither of us can hold a job with us always having to take vacation time to watch him every time someone gets too scared to be around him anymore. And every night, whenever I try to touch you, try to hold you, it's barely ten minutes into the game when he has a nightmare and you run off to sit and comfort him!"
A crash sounded from the other side of the door. Hermione stood straight abrupt, but Ron grabbed her arm to stop her from moving.
"He's fine, Hermione. There's nothing in there that can hurt him."
"But what if he fell? What if something happened? I have to go check on him, Ron."
He released his grip on her arm. "Fine, go check on him. But think on what I've said." He picked up his coat from where he had tossed on the back of the kitchen chair. "I'm going out."
"But what if Harry needs us for something!"
Ron stopped at the kitchen door, his expression pained. "Harry was my best mate, Hermione. That--is not Harry in there. I never…I never imagined I would be a father at twenty, you know?" He shut the door behind him, and a minute later Hermione heard their thin front door bang shut.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When Ron came back that night, even though he was reeking of Firewhiskey, even though he grabbed Hermione so hard that she knew she'd have bruises on her arms for the next week, she didn't have the heart to tell him to stop as he pressed her to his body.
It was the next morning before Ron had thought to wonder why Harry had been so silent that night before. No nightmares, no tremors, no visits from Voldemort when they would have to wake up and change the bedclothes and hold Harry until he went to sleep again. And when he noticed the empty bottle of Draught of the Living Death in the rubbish bin-worth nearly a week's wages on the black market and the only way Muggleborns could purchase potions these days-he said nothing about it. Wasn't it bad enough that it had a part of him wished it could always be this way…that Harry would always be quiet?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Two weeks later, Hermione sat at a table polishing another fork in Bellatrix's massive mound of flatware and wondered when she'd become so submissive. It was probably somewhere after the day they'd broken her wand and before the time she received a moving photograph of her parents having tea, taken through the window. No threat or any writing, just a warning to let her know that they held her in check.
Ron had had to quit his job at the owlery to watch over Harry until they found someone else to take care of him again. Which was highly unlikely given the speed of Mafalda's tongue and the relatively small size of the Muggle quarters. But Hermione worried as things grew tighter, as the little bit of food she had to serve every day grew gradually smaller. And although summer was approaching now, what would they do once winter came? The little bit of nothing she made by working for Bellatrix wouldn't be enough to keep them warm and fed once it started to snow.
A sharp pop sounded in the air and she found herself faced by Stebby, his eyes working with mischievous glee. "The mistress is wanting to see her mudblood in the parlor."
Hermione's eyes went to the clock. It was nearly ten p.m. and time for her to be going home, what did that hag want now? She wiped the silver polish off of her hands and put the flatware back into the drawer of the overwhelmingly large mahogany buffet that stood in the dining room.
Bellatrix was sitting at her writing desk, light summer robes cut to hang gracefully across her figure. She often talked about how Azkaban was the best diet she'd ever went on, even though it was really terrible for the skin. Hermione cleared her throat softly to announce her presence.
"Ah, it's you." She waved her quill absentmindedly towards a spindly looking wooden chair. "Sit."
"What do you want from me this time?"
"Nothing more than for your filthy little race to be wiped from this earth, but they told me that it would be too much work. Too messy, they said." She smiled at Hermione. "Do you have anymore silly little questions for me? I do like this game."
Hermione shook her head. She'd become used to Bellatrix's talk, used to the hateful epithets spilling from her lips. Bellatrix wasn't taking the slowdown of Voldemort's reign of terror too well, she spent most of her time reminiscing about those bygone halcyon days where you could pull a muggle from the streets and have your way with them without a thought. Now you had to check and make sure it wasn't in the service of anyone, and it was all so inconvenient really.
"Now, my darling, my most gracious husband and I have decided to help you." Hermione was silent-she'd learned early that Bellatrix loved nothing so much as showing off. "We've heard about your poor boy and what a state he's in."
"Who told you about Harry?"
"Gossip travels, my dear! I often wonder how my Lord pulled that one off-the Longbottoms aren't nearly as interesting as the kind of antics your Harry Potter gets up to. Now, where was I? -Oh, yes. I was thinking that you could just bring him here, and let Aunty Bella take care of him for you, hmm?"
"You daft cow! Ron and I would never hand Harry over to you."
Bellatrix pressed her mouth into a narrow line. "Well, don't say I didn't ask you nicely. The day will come sooner than you think when the Dark Lord is finished playing with him. I will have him, you mark my words. And if I'm lucky, maybe they'll throw in your little blood traitor as part of the bargain. Now leave. Your smell is making my stomach turn."
Hermione ran down the long path from Bellatrix's house. If she hadn't believed Ron before, she did now. Who knew how long they had before they came after Harry? It had been so foolish to believe that they would ever be through with the likes of Voldemort. She leaned against the gate, catching her breath, when a small bunch of white flowers at the side of the road caught her eye.
She knelt down and pulled the plant from the earth, small bits of dirt clinging to the roots.
"Hemlock," she whispered to herself.
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Hermione came home to find Ron asleep at the dinner table, his mouth hanging open. She shook him urgently.
"Ron, Ron wake up! Where's Harry?"
"Wha--?…He's upstairs, taking a piss before bed."
"Ron, they're coming after Harry. After us. She told me."
He blinked at her, his eyes unfocused. "Who's coming after us?"
"Bellatrix! She says that Voldemort is growing tired of Harry. And when he does she's going to, she's going to…we have to get out of here, now. We'll go to Egypt. I'm sure your brother had friends there who would take us in…"
"But what about Harry? What will we do with him?"
Hermione looked into her bag and slowly pulled out the plant, carefully wrapped in a handkerchief. "It's…it's hemlock. It's poisonous." Ron stood up abruptly.
"Oh, fuck, Hermione. We can't…we can't."
"Ron, we have to! You were right. We can't take him with us, what are we going to do, sit here and wait for Bellatrix to come kill him, then us, too?"
"Hermione, I didn't mean it the other night, not really. I can't…we can't…it's Harry, he's my best friend." Ron's face took on the slightly lost look that had characterized him so much as a boy. He followed her numbly as she went into the kitchen.
"It's okay, Ron, I'll do it. I'll…I'll put it in his tea." She was talking through her tears now. "It won't hurt Ron, it won't hurt I swear, I remember reading that you go quietly-you just gradually stop feeling and then you're gone." She got up quickly and shook the plant out of the handkerchief into her hand. As the water flowed into their small, battered pot, Hermione knew that she had to do this now, driven by adrenaline and fear, or that she never would, that they would wait for Bellatrix to come, to take Harry and Ron both, and that she would not be able to fight anymore.
She had to save one of them, didn't she? She couldn't lose both.
"Hermione, stop. Hermione, you can't do this!" Ron's voice was slightly hysterical. "I won't let you."
"We have to, Ron, we have to. If we really love him, we'll do what's best for him." The scant bit of water in the pot began to boil. She pulled a bit of loose tea from the cabinet…chopped a bit of the root into fine pieces…dumped it all into the small cat-shaped tea ball Ron had given her for her last birthday. She heard Ron make a strangled sound in the back of his throat as she pulled the small tea tray out from the cabinets.
"Hermione, you can't." Ron’s hand clamped around Hermione’s forearm, his grip tight enough to bruise. When he saw the wince of pain run across her features, he loosened his grip, but only a little.
"Ron, let go of me!" She spoke to Ron like she would a child, her voice impatient and dismissive. But the white knuckles of her hands as she gripped the tea tray gave her away all too easily. "We discussed this already, you know this is all we can do for him! Why make it any harder on him so that will be easier for us? Now let go of me, or I'll-"
"Or you'll what, Hermione? Hex me?
Hermione's jaw tightened in a familiar stubborn expression, and she elbowed Ron out of her way. "This hurts me as much as it does you." Ron fell silent.
"Now are you coming with me to give Harry his tea? You know how much he loves it when you tell him one your ridiculous Quidditch stories before we say goodnight." She pushed through the kitchen door, leaving Ron behind.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hermione spooned the tea from the cup into Harry's waiting mouth, watching no small amount of it dribble down his nightshirt. His hands shook in the covers, as the tremors always got worse at night. After about half of the cup was gone, she set it down on the bedside table once. She placed a tender kiss on his forehead, near his scar, still prominent on his forehead. A tear slid down her cheek.
"Sad. Don't be sad. No cry, no cry." Harry petted her hand, his adult face creased painfully into a childlike expression of worry. Hermione looked up, startled, when she felt the other side of the bed dip down. Ron sat next to Harry, and ruffled his hair playfully.
"Aw, don't worry, mate. She's just got a bit of something in her eye, that's what. You know how girls get." Harry smiled vacantly at Ron, obviously not understanding his meaning. He struggled to keep his voice level. "Let's get you tucked in now, all right? It's getting late." Adjusting the pillows, he helped his brother, his fellow solider, his best friend lay back comfortably in the bed.
"Good night, Harry. Good night."
Recipient: inthesewalls
Rating: soft R
Characters: Hermione, Ron, Harry
Warnings: language, character death, extreme postwar dystopian angst
Author's Notes: Harry's brief disappearance during the war was all the opportunity the Death Eaters needed to take over the Ministry. Now muggleborn wizards are forced into detention camps away from the rest of society, including Ron, who has chosen a life of exile with Hermione and a mentally disabled Harry.
--
"Hermione, you can't." Ron’s hand clamped around Hermione’s forearm tight enough to bruise. When he saw the wince of plain run across her features, he loosened his grip, but only a little.
"Ron, let go of me!" She spoke to Ron like she would a child, her voice impatient and dismissive. But the white knuckles of her hands as she gripped the tea tray gave her away all too easily. "We discussed this already, and I will you not have you in my way. Now let go of me, or I'll-"
"Or you'll what, Hermione? Hex me?"
Hermione's jaw tightened in a familiar stubborn expression, and she elbowed Ron out of her way. "This hurts me as much as it does you." Ron fell silent.
"Now are you coming with me to give Harry his tea? You know how much he loves it when you tell him one your ridiculous Quidditch stories before we say goodnight."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It had been nearly three years now since Hermione and Ron woken up one morning to find that Harry had gone missing during the hunt for the last horcrux. After three months of fruitless searching, they returned to 12 Grimmauld Place to strategize with the remaining Order members until he returned. But with Harry gone, the Death Eaters slowly but surely carved a path across the country. On New Years day they cemented their takeover of the Ministry, and then the real horror began. City by city they had rounded up all the Muggleborns, broke their wands, burned their robes, and sent them off to various detention camps scattered across the countryside where they would no longer be an eyesore to their pureblood superiors. Hermione had been picked up and taken to the London Muggle Quarter when she had left her home in a desperate attempt to get word out to her parents to leave the country. Ron, in the company of band of resistors made of former students and Order members, had attempted to liberate one of the smaller camps. Voldemort's forces had retaliated swiftly by attacking the relatives of detainees that lived on the outside-including setting the Burrow on fire with his parents, the twins, and Ginny inside.
Many pureblood families took their wealth and fled the country, while those loyal to Voldemort gave a toast to their esteemed leader's success. Half-bloods split into factions, with some giving up their wands and robes to go live with their families in the Muggleborn quarter, others shunning their Muggle background and dedicating themselves to the pureblood cause. They clung to the small bit of freedom afforded them due to their wizarding ancestry. Soon, the new government seized their assets and they were forbidden to do any work beyond the level of semi-skilled labor. They were now thought of as third class-citizens-legally beneath even the house elves. During that time it was a rare day when the paper didn't mention yet another Half-blood suicide.
For three months, Hermione had received no word from either Ron or Harry through the information channels within the camp, surviving on little more than hearsay. As the citizens of the quarter realized that Voldemort's intereste in them waned as soon as they were no longer an immediate threat, they residents of the quarter began to play on the weaknesses of a few sympathetic half-blood guards so that they might receive materials to start building new homes. All of the citizens of the quarter were doing their best to try and move on. Hermione threw her lot in with the rest and tried to go on living-signing up to receive one of the flimsy gray homes that were being set up in what was quickly beginning to look like a small town.
Nearly eight months after it had all began, Ron had shown up at Hermione's doorstep, wandless and robeless as well, with only a few magical items that he had managed to smuggle in from the outside. Pictures of his family, a Chudley Cannons t-shirt with a flying snitch-things that, when the deal was sweetened with a few Sickles, the guards were willing to overlook. They put their efforts into looking for Harry again. Since the Ministry takeover, the Prophet had managed to all but erase the name Harry Potter from its pages, other than running the occasional propagandistic article in which Harry was quoted as giving his full support to Lord Voldemort.
It had been three months from the last time they'd seen Harry's name in the paper at all when his body was tossed against their door in the middle of the night. He had been subjected to round after round of Cruciatus, leaving him with little more than the mind of a child, and occasional violent tremors that rendered him unable to feed himself most of the time. A note had been pinned to his shirt. Do what you will to him, I am finished. But I shall drop in for a visit from time to time. the note had said
And so they had tried to begin their life again.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Hermione stood at the gate to Bellatrix's sprawling manor, nervously clutching her small bag. She had known sooner or later that it would happen to her too. Being in the detention camps didn't make her deaf to all the rumours about how having mudblood servants was all the rage among pureblood families. Even some half-bloods were known to have one, in an attempt to remind the world once more how they scorned those filthy Muggleborns as much as or more than everyone else. She lifted her hand to the gate, and it swung open of its own accord. A wave of remorse swept over her as she felt the magic. It was much easier to forget when she was in the camp, to pretend she had never left the Muggle world when wandless ones such as herself surrounded her. It was hard not to think back to three years ago, at Hogwarts, when she was just getting used to having the call of magic hovering attentively at her fingertips, waiting to be channeled through her wand to make her simplest wishes reality.
It had been three years now since they'd lost the war. What had they been thinking, anyway? To send three brash 16 year olds to the front lines in a war against generations of purebloods whose knowledge of the Dark Arts was bred so deep that it was as familiar to them as their own fingerprints. It was a miracle that they had emerged alive.
Hermione placed her foot down on the last step before the large mahogany door to Bellatrix's estate, and found that she could go no further. The wicked looking gargoyles peering down from the roof reminded her of the French Gothic cathedrals she'd seen in books as a child. The doorknocker bore a scowling face above it. As she raised her hand to the brass monstrosity, the eyes flew open quickly, only to narrow quickly once again in ill-concealed suspicion.
"Mudbloods…," said the face in a voice dripping with contempt, "must use the entrance on the southern side of the premises."
For a split second Hermione was shocked, and leant into the door, her hand tightening involuntarily into a fist. But her arm was barely above the level of her waist when a searing pain exploded on the inside of her left arm. The second rule in the " Muggleborn's Guide to Effectively Serving Your Pureblood Masters " sprang to her mind: Treat your master's house as your own! Remember, an obedient servant is a happy servant! Any effort to defile your master's property will be met with swift punishment. The picture in the book had shown a young man dropping a delicate vase on the ground and then writhing on the ground in obvious torment.
Still short of breath from the unexpected pain, Hermione rolled up her sleeve. As she had expected, the portion of her arm upon which was tattooed a small rendition of the crest of the House of Black was a swollen, angry red. She had tried to forget about it since it had first been burned into her skin two weeks ago, soon after she had received a letter by owl on heavy parchment indicating that she had been summoned to serve as a lady's maid to Bellatrix Black. She hadn't been surprised that day--on the contrary, when hiring Muggleborns as servants became the newest craze among Pureblood women Hermione had been surprised that she had had nearly a year before the summons had arrived. She suspected that Ron's status as a pureblood had had something to do with the delay, but when pressed, he had refused to talk about it. She had never told him that a part of her was relieved to have the work-Ron's job cleaning the Ministry owlery just wasn't paying enough.
Her heart rate having returned to normal, Hermione made her away around to the other side of the house. The sun was making its slow crawl along the horizon, waking up the small birds that nested in the trees and birds around the manor. Nearly hidden between two high and perfectly manicured hedges was a small nondescript wooden door with a tiny window.
After two swift knocks, the door was yanked open by a cranky looking elderly house elf. "You will not be taking Stebby's job! Stebby has been serving the Most Honorable family of Black since before you were born!" Hermione was taken aback by the elf's anger.
"I don't want to be here at all!" she shot back. The elf glared at her but began to move down a small, dark corridor with little decoration on the walls. The ceiling was uncommonly low, Hermione thought, but then again, it must have only been used for house elves until now. They came out in a small closet, the door of which opened into a corridor with sparkling hardwood floors and intimidating portraits of the Black ancestors as they stared down at her.
"Stebby is not believing you but Stebby is following the mistresses orders and bringing you to the bedroom." With a pop, the disgruntled house elf disappeared, leaving her alone in the corridor. Hermione stood there for a over a minute when the door was suddenly wrenched open.
"You do not get paid to stand there and gawk, mudblood. Now come here. I need help putting on my jewelry". Hermione followed her to her vanity table, wanting to run all the while but afraid there would be a rehashing of the painful episode at the front door of the manor.
"I do hate this necklace, you know." Bellatrix settled into the fragile looking chair next to her vanity and lifted up her mass of black hair. There was not a gray hair to be seen anywhere, but Hermione would have bet 10 Galleons that it wasn't natural. The war had been hard on everyone, not just the losing side. "It's so…gauche. I only wear it because Rudolphus likes it. He likes the way it looks against my skin. 'Like the blood of Muggles', he says." She smiled to herself in the mirror. "You know, when this whole idea of hiring mudbloods first started up I was quite outraged. I couldn’t believe it. Was there something wrong with house elves now? And letting a Mudblood touch your things-touch you even! Can you imagine how I felt?" Hermione successfully fastened the clasp on the heavy necklace and watched it sparkle against Bellatrix's pale skin, the very color of it making her feel a bit ill.
"But then one day Cissy flooed me and says 'Bella, you have to see what Lucius got me for my birthday!' and as you can imagine, I couldn't believe my eyes when I arrive at the Manor and there's this filthy mudblood boy kneeling at before her, letting those ugly Muggle rags you lot call clothing dirty up her Persian flying carpet-and he's massaging her feet! Touching her! I nearly left there and then." Bellatrix picked up a silver backed brush from her vanity table. "Brush," She commanded, "and gently, or you'll regret it." The look in her eyes told Hermione that it was in her best interest to obey. "Now, where was I? Oh, yes. So this mudblood was touching my dear Cissy. And I asked her, 'Doesn't it make you feel awful, letting his dirty mudblood hands touch you like that? How can you stand it?' And well, she told me she hadn't liked it as first, but it really is kind of thrilling, you know? Feeling their nasty little hands against one's skin. Knowing that you can make them do anything for you, that they…belong…to you. It's almost as good a feeling as-well, you know. I suppose your little blood traitor gives it to you good, doesn't he?" Bellatrix's laugh was high and tinny.
Hermione stood, clenched fists shaking at her sides in silent anger so strong she thought that at any moment she might be sick. "Do not talk about Ron."
"Oh, don't be so sensitive, my dear." Bellatrix scoffed. She rose from her seat and went to admire herself in a full-length mirror. "It was just a little joke. I bet he's red everywhere. " Hermione flushed. "Oh, he is, isn't he? Now tell me one more thing…," her gaze turned menacing. "Do you ever let dear Harry watch? I mean you're such good, dear friends and all…"
Without thinking, Hermione lunged at Bellatrix's throat and squeezed as tightly as she could. For a moment, she thought she might actually succeed in killing her, before the pain in her arm registered above the rush of adrenaline through her veins. Hermione began to scream and fell to the floor, feeling as if her entire arm had been set afire. Dimly, she registered Bellatrix's laugh above the sound of her own screams before she blacked out.
Rule No. 1 of the Muggleborn's Guide to Effectively Serving Your Pureblood Masters: Above all, treat your Master and Mistress as your Lord, fulfilling their wishes with a light heart and a generous spirit!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hermione cracked her eyes open, woozy and unsure of where she was. The way the late evening light slanted over the bedcovers told her that she was at home. How had she gotten home? Where was Bellatrix? She sat up, panicking.
"Ron? Ron??" she heard footsteps pound down the hallway.
"Thank Merlin, you're awake." Ron leant over her, his large frame blocking her view of anything else. He placed a cool cloth on her forehead that did nothing to help the turmoil in her mind.
"Ron, how did I get there? Where's Bellatrix? How did I-"
"Shh, it's all right. I have a contact in the Auror Division that called me when you'd been brought in. Unconscious, you were. They were supposed to keep you there for three days to cool off, he'd said, but he let you off early. You were lucky, they must like you down there." Ron tried to smile, but it only made the worry in his eyes stand out even more.
"Ron, how did you-?" her eyes fell on the pale band of skin around his wrist. Right before they'd left on their search for the horcruxes, Ron's father had given him an old Muggle watch of gold. It had never worked properly--especially around Harry-but all the same Ron had never taken it off once in the last five years. And now it was gone. "Your watch…the one your father gave you."
"Don't worry about it. It wasn't that important. I just consider myself lucky that Abington has a weakness for Muggle artifacts."
"Ron, you shouldn't have…I could have waited the three days." Ron said nothing, only shrugged. Hermione sat up experimentally, and let out a breath of relief to find out that she felt fairly normal. She realized that the house was extraordinarily quiet, and cast her glance over to the bedside clock. "Ron, where's Harry? We were supposed to pick him up at five, and it's nearly eight now!"
"It's all right Hermione, he's at Dean's house tonight, remember? Dean won't mind. He'll understand once we explain."
"No, no no….he's not at Deans' place tonight, Ron! How could you forget?" she went to her closet and started rifling through for a sweater warm enough to keep her warm against the cool of the evening. "Dean is working overtime this month, so he can save up enough for an extended pass to leave the compound and go visit his mother." The night passes, small magical documents that allowed the bearer to be out of the Muggleborn quarter past curfew, were often prohibitively expensive. It was set to a certain time limit, and the bearer would be automatically portkeyed back to the quarter once the time limit was up. Hermione had tried to save up enough to get out and visit her mother once, but paying people to watch Harry while she ran errands and went to work had depleted their funds to the point where she'd given up.
"Well, where is he then?"
"Down the row, at Mafalda's. I practically had to beg her to take him on for the day. Last time Harry broke three of her dishes." She found her shoes and stuffed her feet halfway in, Ron on her heels as she made her way to the door.
"Why is that important? You paid her back, didn't you? Harry is a good guy. He doesn't bother anyone." Hermione stopped in the doorway and turned around, looking at Ron for a long moment.
"He scares people, Ron. Harry scares people. He's a living reminder of what Voldemort has done to all of us, and what he can still do if we step out of line?" Hermione expression turned remorseful. "Sometimes, I think that's why he let Harry live, you know? So that we never forget." Remembering where she was, she pulled her coat tighter around her and made for the door. "Are you coming with me or not?" Ron nodded.
They wound up and down the rows of houses, all the same gray, thrown together hastily and with little to tell them apart from each other. Dim lights sat between every few houses, throwing sickly looking light on the path beneath their feet. Neither said anything, Ron's long legs easily keeping up with frantic stride. After about five minutes, Hermione stopped short at a fairly new looking house, with a small plant sat in the window in an effort to make life a bit cheerier. The house was eerily silent. She had barely raised her hand to knock, when the door opened.
"You're late, Hermione." Mafalda was a thin, drawn looking woman with mousy brown hair pulled back into a bun, a tearful toddler clutching her skirts. "You said you wouldn’t be late. He did it again. One of his fits. Wouldn't stop for nearly two hours. I gave him my only bottle of Dreamless Sleep, and he just kept it up!"
"I told you, Mafalda," began Hermione, exasperated. "Dreamless Sleep doesn't work on him. It's not strong enough."
Ignoring Hermione, she kept going on heedless. "Two hours! I had to send my little Emmelda next door so she wouldn't be scared. And what will the neighbors think?" she rambled on, letting Ron push past her into the house.
Harry was curled up into the corner of the sitting room, rocking back and forth and keening softly to himself. His scar stood out in bright red relief against the paleness of his skin, unhidden, as they had to keep his hair short now so that he didn't try to pull it out. As Ron got closer, he could smell the strong scent of sweat, urine, and fear coming from him. Although Harry was nearly as tall as Ron now, to Ron he seemed like little more than a child. He crouched down to Harry's eye level, while Hermione hovered nervously behind them. Mafalda watched at from a safe distance.
"Hey, Harry. Feeling all right there, mate?" said Ron, trying to sound comforting.
"I had an accident," Harry whispered.
"Aw, that's all right. These things happen to the best of us."
"He was in my head again." A frown crossed his face. "Hurt. It hurt it hurt it hurt."
"Well, you'll be okay now, right? It's time to go home. Hermione'll make you some tea and you'll be right as rain. Now, can you stand up for me?"
Harry slowly uncurled himself and stood up. A large wet patch covered the front of his worn jeans.
"It's not right, the way he is," whispered Mafalda from her corner of the room. "It was like You-Know-Who was lookin' at me, right out from those eyes of his. Green…. Green just like the killing curse." She turned to Hermione sharply. "He can't come back. I'm sorry, but…but I've a little girl to raise, and I can't have her being around that."
Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but Ron cut her off. "Don’t worry, we won't be."
"Ron!" Hermione stared sharply at Ron. "I'm so, so sorry Mafalda. Is there anything I can do to…"
"Just keep him away from here. That's all you need to do."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ron leaned against the counter, drying the dishes as Hermione washed them. They'd left Harry in the tiny dining room they had, eating bacon and toast, and pumpkin juice. Breakfast was his favorite food. Their first Christmas together, Hermione had spent all day cooking a turkey only to have Harry knock it off the table in a fit of anger, repeating the word "breakfast" over and over again like a litany.
"I've been thinking…we should try and get out of here." Said Ron, carefully not looking at Hermione. "I can't stand it anymore in here, Hermione, it's driving me mad. Sometimes I feel like the magic is going to burst from my veins and kill me if I don't get out of here soon."
Hermione's eyes grew wild. "Ron, shhh! He could be listening. Through Harry!"
"Oh, bollocks, Hermione! What does it matter if he hears us or not? He's going to come after us eventually. Did you truly think that he would let us just sit here, living our days out in sweet domestic bliss with our dear friend Harry Potter and our kind and friendly neighbors? You're mad! He'll be back, I know it. I can feel it."
"Ron, that's ridiculous. He's finished with us! He has to be. What else does he have to take from us? Our wands are gone, and all we have to wear is muggle clothing-anyone who saw us on the street would have us arrested immediately…"
"But Hermione, I've been hearing things. At work. Working at the Ministry does have its perks, even if I am stuck cleaning owl shit all day." He shelved the last of their few dishes and turned to her, his gazed intense. "They…they're saying that You-Know-Who is getting restless. That's it's too quiet, that things settled too quickly for his liking. He's going to come after the Muggleborn quarters, I know it. And who better to make an example of than us? We need to get out while we still have time."
"And what about Harry, Ron? What about him? Are we going to leave him behind?"
Ron hesitated. "We can take him with us."
"Don't be daft, Ron. If we take Harry with us, it's as good as sending Voldemort an owl telling him where we are." Ron winced. "I'm not blind. The 'visits' are increasing. They only used to come once a month, and now it's two, three times a week. He must be angry or something."
"Well, maybe Harry'll get better." His voice grew desperate as he paced around the impossibly tiny kitchen. "There's got to be a potion or a healer, or…"
"What healer would serve us? We can't even get somebody to watch Harry while we're at work anymore. They're all too afraid of being killed," Hermione responded, her voice bitter.
"Do you remember the time he saw Neville's parents? Out of their minds because of the Cruciatus?" Hermione nodded. "He told me later…Harry told me that if that ever happened to him that…that I should kill him. Said it wasn't any kind of life to be living." Ron couldn't bring himself to look at Hermione's face.
"Don't say that, don’t say that, don't say that! There has to be another way! There has to be! I'll stay here with Harry and you leave. It will be all right, really."
"It wouldn't be safe, Hermione." His voice was tense, angry. "As soon as he saw I was gone, he would come after you."
"No, no, no. I will not listen to your utter rubbish! Harry's fine, he's happy, he's happy here and with us, and as long as the three of us are together it will be all right."
"Hermione! How can you lie to yourself like that? Do you honestly think he enjoys sitting at Mafalda's all day staring out the window, pissing and shitting himself every time-every time Voldemort decides to mess with his head a little bit more? Do you think he likes getting those tremors of his so bad that he can barely feed himself? So bad that he nearly bites his tongue off?
Hermione hung her head in her hands. "No, no…Ron don't say this to me."
"And what about me, Hermione? What about us? Neither of us can hold a job with us always having to take vacation time to watch him every time someone gets too scared to be around him anymore. And every night, whenever I try to touch you, try to hold you, it's barely ten minutes into the game when he has a nightmare and you run off to sit and comfort him!"
A crash sounded from the other side of the door. Hermione stood straight abrupt, but Ron grabbed her arm to stop her from moving.
"He's fine, Hermione. There's nothing in there that can hurt him."
"But what if he fell? What if something happened? I have to go check on him, Ron."
He released his grip on her arm. "Fine, go check on him. But think on what I've said." He picked up his coat from where he had tossed on the back of the kitchen chair. "I'm going out."
"But what if Harry needs us for something!"
Ron stopped at the kitchen door, his expression pained. "Harry was my best mate, Hermione. That--is not Harry in there. I never…I never imagined I would be a father at twenty, you know?" He shut the door behind him, and a minute later Hermione heard their thin front door bang shut.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When Ron came back that night, even though he was reeking of Firewhiskey, even though he grabbed Hermione so hard that she knew she'd have bruises on her arms for the next week, she didn't have the heart to tell him to stop as he pressed her to his body.
It was the next morning before Ron had thought to wonder why Harry had been so silent that night before. No nightmares, no tremors, no visits from Voldemort when they would have to wake up and change the bedclothes and hold Harry until he went to sleep again. And when he noticed the empty bottle of Draught of the Living Death in the rubbish bin-worth nearly a week's wages on the black market and the only way Muggleborns could purchase potions these days-he said nothing about it. Wasn't it bad enough that it had a part of him wished it could always be this way…that Harry would always be quiet?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Two weeks later, Hermione sat at a table polishing another fork in Bellatrix's massive mound of flatware and wondered when she'd become so submissive. It was probably somewhere after the day they'd broken her wand and before the time she received a moving photograph of her parents having tea, taken through the window. No threat or any writing, just a warning to let her know that they held her in check.
Ron had had to quit his job at the owlery to watch over Harry until they found someone else to take care of him again. Which was highly unlikely given the speed of Mafalda's tongue and the relatively small size of the Muggle quarters. But Hermione worried as things grew tighter, as the little bit of food she had to serve every day grew gradually smaller. And although summer was approaching now, what would they do once winter came? The little bit of nothing she made by working for Bellatrix wouldn't be enough to keep them warm and fed once it started to snow.
A sharp pop sounded in the air and she found herself faced by Stebby, his eyes working with mischievous glee. "The mistress is wanting to see her mudblood in the parlor."
Hermione's eyes went to the clock. It was nearly ten p.m. and time for her to be going home, what did that hag want now? She wiped the silver polish off of her hands and put the flatware back into the drawer of the overwhelmingly large mahogany buffet that stood in the dining room.
Bellatrix was sitting at her writing desk, light summer robes cut to hang gracefully across her figure. She often talked about how Azkaban was the best diet she'd ever went on, even though it was really terrible for the skin. Hermione cleared her throat softly to announce her presence.
"Ah, it's you." She waved her quill absentmindedly towards a spindly looking wooden chair. "Sit."
"What do you want from me this time?"
"Nothing more than for your filthy little race to be wiped from this earth, but they told me that it would be too much work. Too messy, they said." She smiled at Hermione. "Do you have anymore silly little questions for me? I do like this game."
Hermione shook her head. She'd become used to Bellatrix's talk, used to the hateful epithets spilling from her lips. Bellatrix wasn't taking the slowdown of Voldemort's reign of terror too well, she spent most of her time reminiscing about those bygone halcyon days where you could pull a muggle from the streets and have your way with them without a thought. Now you had to check and make sure it wasn't in the service of anyone, and it was all so inconvenient really.
"Now, my darling, my most gracious husband and I have decided to help you." Hermione was silent-she'd learned early that Bellatrix loved nothing so much as showing off. "We've heard about your poor boy and what a state he's in."
"Who told you about Harry?"
"Gossip travels, my dear! I often wonder how my Lord pulled that one off-the Longbottoms aren't nearly as interesting as the kind of antics your Harry Potter gets up to. Now, where was I? -Oh, yes. I was thinking that you could just bring him here, and let Aunty Bella take care of him for you, hmm?"
"You daft cow! Ron and I would never hand Harry over to you."
Bellatrix pressed her mouth into a narrow line. "Well, don't say I didn't ask you nicely. The day will come sooner than you think when the Dark Lord is finished playing with him. I will have him, you mark my words. And if I'm lucky, maybe they'll throw in your little blood traitor as part of the bargain. Now leave. Your smell is making my stomach turn."
Hermione ran down the long path from Bellatrix's house. If she hadn't believed Ron before, she did now. Who knew how long they had before they came after Harry? It had been so foolish to believe that they would ever be through with the likes of Voldemort. She leaned against the gate, catching her breath, when a small bunch of white flowers at the side of the road caught her eye.
She knelt down and pulled the plant from the earth, small bits of dirt clinging to the roots.
"Hemlock," she whispered to herself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hermione came home to find Ron asleep at the dinner table, his mouth hanging open. She shook him urgently.
"Ron, Ron wake up! Where's Harry?"
"Wha--?…He's upstairs, taking a piss before bed."
"Ron, they're coming after Harry. After us. She told me."
He blinked at her, his eyes unfocused. "Who's coming after us?"
"Bellatrix! She says that Voldemort is growing tired of Harry. And when he does she's going to, she's going to…we have to get out of here, now. We'll go to Egypt. I'm sure your brother had friends there who would take us in…"
"But what about Harry? What will we do with him?"
Hermione looked into her bag and slowly pulled out the plant, carefully wrapped in a handkerchief. "It's…it's hemlock. It's poisonous." Ron stood up abruptly.
"Oh, fuck, Hermione. We can't…we can't."
"Ron, we have to! You were right. We can't take him with us, what are we going to do, sit here and wait for Bellatrix to come kill him, then us, too?"
"Hermione, I didn't mean it the other night, not really. I can't…we can't…it's Harry, he's my best friend." Ron's face took on the slightly lost look that had characterized him so much as a boy. He followed her numbly as she went into the kitchen.
"It's okay, Ron, I'll do it. I'll…I'll put it in his tea." She was talking through her tears now. "It won't hurt Ron, it won't hurt I swear, I remember reading that you go quietly-you just gradually stop feeling and then you're gone." She got up quickly and shook the plant out of the handkerchief into her hand. As the water flowed into their small, battered pot, Hermione knew that she had to do this now, driven by adrenaline and fear, or that she never would, that they would wait for Bellatrix to come, to take Harry and Ron both, and that she would not be able to fight anymore.
She had to save one of them, didn't she? She couldn't lose both.
"Hermione, stop. Hermione, you can't do this!" Ron's voice was slightly hysterical. "I won't let you."
"We have to, Ron, we have to. If we really love him, we'll do what's best for him." The scant bit of water in the pot began to boil. She pulled a bit of loose tea from the cabinet…chopped a bit of the root into fine pieces…dumped it all into the small cat-shaped tea ball Ron had given her for her last birthday. She heard Ron make a strangled sound in the back of his throat as she pulled the small tea tray out from the cabinets.
"Hermione, you can't." Ron’s hand clamped around Hermione’s forearm, his grip tight enough to bruise. When he saw the wince of pain run across her features, he loosened his grip, but only a little.
"Ron, let go of me!" She spoke to Ron like she would a child, her voice impatient and dismissive. But the white knuckles of her hands as she gripped the tea tray gave her away all too easily. "We discussed this already, you know this is all we can do for him! Why make it any harder on him so that will be easier for us? Now let go of me, or I'll-"
"Or you'll what, Hermione? Hex me?
Hermione's jaw tightened in a familiar stubborn expression, and she elbowed Ron out of her way. "This hurts me as much as it does you." Ron fell silent.
"Now are you coming with me to give Harry his tea? You know how much he loves it when you tell him one your ridiculous Quidditch stories before we say goodnight." She pushed through the kitchen door, leaving Ron behind.
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Hermione spooned the tea from the cup into Harry's waiting mouth, watching no small amount of it dribble down his nightshirt. His hands shook in the covers, as the tremors always got worse at night. After about half of the cup was gone, she set it down on the bedside table once. She placed a tender kiss on his forehead, near his scar, still prominent on his forehead. A tear slid down her cheek.
"Sad. Don't be sad. No cry, no cry." Harry petted her hand, his adult face creased painfully into a childlike expression of worry. Hermione looked up, startled, when she felt the other side of the bed dip down. Ron sat next to Harry, and ruffled his hair playfully.
"Aw, don't worry, mate. She's just got a bit of something in her eye, that's what. You know how girls get." Harry smiled vacantly at Ron, obviously not understanding his meaning. He struggled to keep his voice level. "Let's get you tucked in now, all right? It's getting late." Adjusting the pillows, he helped his brother, his fellow solider, his best friend lay back comfortably in the bed.
"Good night, Harry. Good night."