'The Dead Boy': Part I(b)
Continued from I(a)
They meet on the train.
‘Hi,’ he says, as they stand in the middle of a corridor. ‘I thought you might get cold feet.’
‘I never go back on what I’ve set my mind to,’ she says. She smoothes the fabric of her robes - goodness, it feels odd to wear her uniform again.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s go and see what these seventh years are made of.’
*
Just before the Christmas holidays, she and Patrick (a Scottish Ravenclaw) becomes public, and one afternoon when she is about to leave the common room, Ron emerges out of nowhere to block her path.
He leans against the wall and folds his arms. ‘A toyboy, Hermione?’
‘What of it?’ she asks haughtily, shifting her bag into a more comfortable position.
‘Isn’t he a little young for you?’
She folds her own arms. ‘He’s mature for his age.’
‘What about your Italian Stallion? Isn’t he your boyfriend?’
‘No, he isn’t,’ she says. ‘And besides, he’s gone back to Italy to be with his family. Excuse me, I have a lesson to get to.’ She brushes past him and climbs through the portrait hole with nose in the air, trying as hard as she can not to feel twelve years old again.
*
‘It hurts,’ Harry whispered from where he lay on the flagstones in a pool of his own blood. ‘It ... hurts.’ His eyes closed.
Abruptly, Ginny reached forwards and grabbed the front of his blood-soaked robes. ‘Don’t you dare give up,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t you dare die on me.’
His body shook limply in her grip, but his eyes didn’t open.
‘Ginny,’ croaked Hermione, ‘Ginny, don’t - you’re hurting him -’
‘Good,’ she muttered fiercely. ‘Wake up, idiot - don’t you dare leave me and our daughter!’
His eyes cracked open and a slow, sweet smile spread across his face. ‘It’s a girl?’
‘Harry?’ whispered Ginny, pressing her hand to his cheek. ‘Harry, hold on - there’ll be another Healer in a minute - we’ll get you to Mungo’s.’
‘Mmm,’ said Harry sleepily. ‘That would be nice.’
The Healer Ron had brought with him shook her head despairingly, but Ginny didn’t see; her hair was hanging down over her face. ‘It’s OK, Harry ... just hold on,’ she said.
Harry was whispering hoarsely; Hermione leant forwards to hear him, but then she realized he was trying to say Ginny’s name. ‘Ginny,’ he managed, ‘where’s the baby?’
Ginny paused, and then she spun around on her knees and reached out to Madam Pomfrey. As the matron crossed over to them from the respectful distance she had been dutifully maintaining, Harry grabbed Ron’s hand and shot Hermione a smile.
Ginny knelt in front of Harry with their daughter in her arms and knelt forwards so he could see her.
He smiled broadly. ‘She’s beautiful,’ he said. ‘Just like her Mummy. What are you going to call her?’
‘I … oh, Harry …’
‘Call her something beautiful …’ His eyes closed again, and this time Hermione knew it was for the last time.
‘Harry, don’t …’ sobbed Ginny. ‘You mustn’t …’
‘I love you, you know,’ he rasped.
‘Oh, Harry,’ she sobbed onto his chest, ‘don’t leave me, please …’
He did, of course.
But not in that way, either.
*
After the Leaving Feast, she is walking through the Entrance Hall when McGonagall stops her. ‘Miss Granger, may I speak to you?’ Hermione stops. ‘In here,’ says McGonagall, leading her into a small antechamber off the hall, ‘it won’t take a moment -’
Hermione enters the room to see Ron standing by himself. ‘Professor,’ says Hermione quickly, turning away from him, ‘what -’
‘As I am sure you are both aware,’ says McGonagall over her, ‘the third anniversary of the end of the war is approaching.’
Hermione is not looking at him but she can feel the change in the way he is standing.
‘I have been asked by the Ministry to ask if either of you are willing to speak at the celebratory dinner -’
‘No,’ they both say simultaneously.
‘I thought as much,’ says McGonagall. ‘Well, you do not have to give a speech to attend, you know. I know neither of you has been to one of these dinners before, but I have been urged by the Ministry to remind you that you are both still welcome.’ She pauses expectantly.
‘I ...’ Hermione swallows. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Yeah.’ Hermione turns around; Ron has his hands in his pockets and is looking at the floor. ‘My whole family’s going and I told Ginny I would, so ... yeah. Professor.’
‘I ... yes, I will too, then,’ says Hermione. ‘If Ginny’s going,’ she adds hurriedly.
‘I will inform the Ministry,’ says McGonagall, before turning on her heel and leaving the antechamber.
‘Well, I ...’ starts Hermione. ‘I’ll see you there, shall I?’ She starts towards the door.
‘Wait, Hermione,’ says Ron. ‘What - what’re you doing now? Now that school’s finished, I mean?’
‘I ...’ She thinks of her mum’s latest letter, lying upstairs in her trunk. Darling, why don’t you go travelling for a bit? Derek and Sue have just come back from New York, they say it’s lovely - ‘I think I might apply for a job at the Ministry,’ she says.
‘What department?’
‘Law.’ He nods. ‘Are you still - what about you?’
‘Auror training,’ he says. ‘Hopefully. If I’ve got the grades.’
‘I’m sure you will have,’ she says automatically.
It’s funny, how they haven’t spoken for so long. They had a period, around Easter, just after she broke up with Patrick, when they used to have quite fun conversations at dinner, and of course they still shared a common room, and he was still funny and she still laughed, but it was different when she was so rarely alone with him. This year had been like being ... Parvati. She could say, Oh yes, Ron Weasley, he’s my friend. He said something very funny in Charms yesterday. But she hasn’t really spoken to him in forever.
‘Well, I’ll see you there, then,’ she says with a cheery smile. ‘Give Ginny my love.’ And then she leaves the room as fast as she can.
*
Hermione is late. For the first time in her life, she had to be late for something, and she had to pick today, didn’t she? But her brown dress used to belong to her mum, and there was no doubt about it, she looked frumpy in it, so she changed it to a black one, but then she thought she looked too - well, slutty - so she changed it back. But she isn’t happy, because she knows that photos will probably be taken, and no one wants to look like a potato in a photograph that might be in the national press, and her shoes don’t fit, but at least her hair is straight -
She rounds a corner of the street to see a redheaded couple with a young child standing in front of a skip.
‘Ron, if you hadn’t insisted on changing your robes three times -’
‘You didn’t have to wait! You could have gone with the others -’
‘Erm, hello,’ says Hermione.
They turn at her voice.
‘Hermione!’ cries Ginny, reaching over to embrace her with one arm; her other is balancing her daughter on her hip. ‘Excellent; if you’re late too Mum can’t get cross with us.’
Hermione returns Ginny’s hug and kisses her daughter, who nowadays calls her ‘Mi’, and looks at Ginny’s outfit rather than Ron. Her dress is long, pretty and dark blue with a square neckline and makes Hermione feel suddenly very jealous. Ginny’s never been one for looking girly, but when forced to, she’s always been able to scrub up well, unlike Hermione, who without five hours of preparation time just ends up making a disaster of things. She knows she’s wearing too much blusher -
‘We’re only fifteen minutes late,’ says Ron. Hermione looks up at him involuntarily, but it’s all right, because he’s looking at his watch. ‘We can make a grand entrance. Come on,’ he says over Ginny’s grimace, grabbing her arm. ‘Let’s go.’
The three of them walk around the skip, and then, abruptly, they stop.
The red phone box that serves as the visitors’ entrance to the Ministry is surrounded by a swarm of people, mostly men; in rough-looking travelling robes, they are standing around making casual conversation; some are leaning against the phone box and one is smoking a pipe.
‘Those fuckers,’ says Ginny.
‘What -’ starts Hermione, before noticing the cameras. ‘Are they ... reporters?’
‘Those wanking, fucking, evil, foul pieces of shit. ’ Ginny is shaking with anger. ‘Today of all days -’
‘Today is why they’re here,’ says Ron calmly, but his gaze is very dark.
‘I - I wrote the Minister a letter specifically about tonight, I told him -’ Ginny shakes herself and turns to Ron. ‘Ron, will you -?’
‘Of course,’ he says; swiftly, Ginny hands him her daughter and conjures a blanket from mid-air.
‘It’s OK, darling,’ she whispers as she cocoons her daughter, ‘I’m just wrapping you up in this for a moment - will you hold on tightly to Ron for me? Mummy’s right here ...’ She covers her daughter’s face and kisses her head through the blanket. ‘I’ll go in front,’ she says to Ron.
She straightens up, eyes the oblivious reporters, touches her hair to check it’s in place, says, ‘Those vultures,’ with disgust, and then, these rituals completed, she looks at Ron and nods.
‘Let’s go,’ he says grimly.
Ginny starts forwards, handbag swinging violently.
Ron glances back at Hermione; she is still somewhat shell-shocked. ‘Stay close behind me,’ he says.
The three of them walk quickly down the derelict street, and about fifty feet from the phone box, they are noticed.
‘There she is! There she is!’ Caps are hastily unscrewed from lenses; conversations are ended and pipes vanish; those who were once friends are now bitter enemies.
‘Don’t say a word,’ Ron mutters at her, and Hermione feels anger at his superiority - she knows how to deal with journalists; didn’t she control Rita Skeeter for years? Didn’t she set up the interview with the Quibbler? Didn’t - but her angry thoughts are cut off when they are enveloped by a shouting mass and the flash flash flash and puffs and puffs of smoke in all different colours and she can’t breathe let alone think -
‘Ginny! Ginny! Don’t you think it’s high time you confirmed the rumours of who this kid’s dad is?’
‘Miss Weasley! Over here, Miss Weasley, this one’s for the Daily Prophet!’
‘Ginny, do you have anything to say on the anniversary of the end of the war?’
‘Do you have any comment on the current Minister?’
‘Who are they?’
‘Friends of his - Granger and another Weasley -’
‘Granger! Granger! Do you have anything to say in memory of the Boy-Who-Lived?’
‘Smile, Granger!’
‘Miss Granger, is your Muggle apparel a political statement?’
‘Granger, love, can you tell our readers how you feel on the anniversary of your ex-boyfriend’s death?’
A hand grabs her wrist - the wrist of the hand that is, she realizes belatedly, clutching onto the back of Ron’s robes - and pulls her forwards; she struggles before there is a slam behind her and a sudden darkness and the cries of the reporters are muffled and she realizes that the four of them are in the phone box: they made it.
Ron lets go of her wrist; she realizes that he was the one that pulled her forwards and into the box. Well, of course.
She blinks and keeps blinking. She can’t see anything.
Ron hands his bundle to Ginny, grabs the phone receiver and dials 62442.
‘Welcome to the Ministry of Magic,’ says the female voice that Hermione has always thought of as the Radio Four voice. ‘Please state your name and business.’
‘Ron Weasley, Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger,’ Ron barks. ‘We’re on the guest list.’
After a second, as though it is thinking it over, the voice says, ‘Correct.’
No badges appear, but the floor rumbles and the box starts to sink. When the view is completely black, Ginny unwraps her daughter. ‘There, little one, don’t cry,’ she whispers. ‘Mummy’s here, Mummy’s got you, it’s all going to be all right ...’
Gold light floods the broken glass panes from the bottom up and then the box shudders to a halt. ‘You are not required to register your wand,’ says the voice. ‘The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant evening.’
The door springs open and Ginny marches out. Her face is like thunder.
Hermione looks up at Ron and he looks back at her.
There are so many things she wants to say to him.
‘Ron,’ she says. ‘Would you like to come to America with me?’
*
‘Do you think we’re allowed to be in here?’ asks Hermione anxiously as they climb over a fence somewhere in Kansas. He isn’t trying to help her over, she notices, and then she’s annoyed with herself for noticing because she’s a feminist and she doesn’t want men to help her do things she’s perfectly capable of doing herself. Thank you very much.
‘Who cares?’ he says, hands on his waist and surveying the big green field they’ve just invaded. ‘Race you.’ And then with big bounds he’s loping out into the middle of the field.
She runs after him towards goodness-knows-where and is just about to stop and give up when he throws himself down into the tall grass. Wheezing for breath, she catches up with him and drops down next to him.
‘You’re so unfit,’ he says leisurely, rolling onto his back.
She can only nod as she clutches her side, propped up from the mud by her left elbow.
After a while, she can breathe again; she twists onto her stomach. ‘But what if …’ she starts, unsure of her fears. ‘Someone comes?’
‘Like who?’
She thinks. ‘The farmer.’
‘I grew up in Devon,’ he says with world-wise carelessness. ‘I know how to take care of farmers.’
‘But he’ll be an American farmer.’
‘What’s the difference?’
She doesn’t know. ‘Oh! He might have a gun.’
‘English farmers have guns.’
This is true. What for? What do they shoot? Hermione wonders. Probably ducks or something. ‘But they’re not allowed to shoot people.’
For the first time, he looks slightly worried. ‘American farmers are allowed to shoot people?’
She thinks. ‘I think they’re allowed to shoot burglars.’
He is unconcerned again. ‘Good thing we’re not burgling anything, then.’ His eyes close.
Her body slides down so that her elbows are pointing straight out and her chin is resting on her hands and her hands are resting on the earth.
After a while, she says, ‘I think I understand why Americans think England is quaint. Everything does seem much … bigger, here. Grander.’
Ron’s eyes open. ‘England is not quaint,’ he says with annoyance.
Hermione laughs. Everything’s a bit funnier lying on one’s tummy. ‘You only say that because you grew up in quite possibly the quaintest place on earth.’
‘Hmmph,’ he says, and then he picks a plait of grass and starts chewing it.
After a moment, he says, ‘I would have made a great farmer.’
She props herself back up onto her side. He closes his eyes.
And then because she’s feeling bold and brave, she says, ‘Do you think Harry would have liked America?’
Ron ignores her and continues chewing his grass. She feels a huge annoyance with herself for spoiling it all spreading through the pit of her belly, but then he opens his eyes, takes the grass from his mouth and says, ‘Yeah, I suppose so. I think he would’ve liked the freedom.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she says happily, and twisting over onto her back she looks up at the sky. If she stays in this position, everything she sees is the purest blue, right down from her toes to her forehead. Not being able to escape the view is oddly frightening.
‘But,’ says Ron thoughtfully, ‘it all being so big I’m not sure he would have liked. I always suspected him of being … what’s it called when you’re scared of big open spaces?’
‘Agoraphobia.’
‘I always suspected him of being a closet agoraphobe.’
‘It’s an agoraphobic, Ron, and when did Harry ever show signs of being scared of the outside?’
‘Well … he should have. He grew up in a cupboard.’
‘He didn’t have to live in the cupboard all the time.’
‘That makes it all right, then?’
‘No, but …’ She catches sight of his face and realizes he’s making fun of her. She sighs and tries to throw her hands up in the air in exasperation, but it’s difficult when one is lying down.
‘Hey, Hermione …’ he says.
‘What?’
‘Americans call cupboards closets, don’t they? So Harry really was a closet agraphobe.’
‘Ron Weasley, that is probably the worst joke you’ve ever made. It doesn’t even make sense.’
Time passes. She doesn’t know how much.
‘Do you think Ginny would like America?’ she asks.
‘Definitely,’ he says without hesitation.
His certainty makes Hermione feel guilty. ‘Do you think we should have brought her?’
‘No,’ he says with an equal lack of hesitation.
Hermione looks at him and he looks back at her. When his gaze becomes too intense, she slides her head down onto his shoulder.
She falls asleep.
*
Three hours after Mrs Weasley had vanished, Hermione was sitting next to Ron at the large dining table in the back room of the second floor of Grimmauld Place. Ron was helping Lupin in his attempt to alter one of the Death Eaters’ potions (this one produced a gas that knocked anyone without a Dark Mark unconscious when it was sprinkled over earth) so that it would attack its creators; George was sitting by the wall with his head in his hands; McGonagall was pacing around the room in neat squares with her hands in a knot. Mr Weasley and the rest of his sons were fighting furiously with the rest of the Order somewhere in the battleground that Diagon Alley had become. This room was one of the only places left impenetrable to Voldemort.
Near impenetrable, that was, as the occasional shouts from Harry as he clutched at his head showed all too clearly, but Harry and Voldemort hadn’t gone into each other’s heads for a good twenty minutes now, and Hermione was starting to hope that Voldemort had turned his attention to other matters.
‘Hold still,’ scolded Hestia Jones from where she knelt by Harry and pressed a cloth to the cut on his arm; with a sheepish grimace, he stopped fidgeting. ‘I’m sorry we’re having to do this the Muggle way, but until the Clotless Curse wears off -’
She was interrupted by Tonks walking into the room, pushing her hair out of a cut of her own with a wince.
‘You’ve been ages,’ said Lupin with a quick glance up. ‘You were only supposed to go to The Burrow.’
‘We have a problem,’ she said.
‘What?’ asked Lupin, brow furrowed at the potion.
‘Ginny’s gone into labour.’
There was a very heavy silence at these words.
Hermione felt sick.
‘She’s not due for a week,’ said Harry very quietly.
‘It came on quick,’ said Tonks. ‘Her waters broke when I was there. She’s already in quite a lot of pain.’
Harry’s face screw up. ‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’
Hermione glanced at Ron, next to her: his expression was blank with shock and horror.
‘None of the prisoners have been recovered?’ said Tonks, and at Lupin’s head-shake, she said, ‘Right, then, if we don’t have Molly, I’ll go back to The Burrow. She can’t be by herself.’
‘No, I’m -’ started Harry, standing up.
‘Stay where you are, Potter,’ snapped McGonagall.
His fists clenched. ‘I have to -’
‘You have to stay here,’ said McGonagall. ‘You have been cursed and your blood is not clotting. The protection charms that are keeping Voldemort from possessing you are only surrounding this room. The battle is not over. It is simply too dangerous for you to leave this room.’
‘What was the plan?’ asked Tonks. ‘Mungo’s?’
Harry nodded; he had not sat down.
‘Right, so -’
‘Mungo’s is full,’ said George blankly, raising his head from his arms. ‘The corridors are full of people on stretchers.’
‘They’ll make room for the Boy-Who-Lived’s girlfriend,’ said Lupin slowly.
‘No,’ said Tonks, ‘I’m sorry, but the idea alone of trying to get an in-labour-Ginny into Mungo’s and into a private room without a Death Eater noticing is -’
‘Hogwarts,’ said Harry; his eyes were far away. ‘She’ll be safe at Hogwarts. And Madam Pomfrey -’
‘Has delivered babies before,’ said McGonagall with a nod. ‘I think that is the most sensible suggestion. The students should all be in their towers by now and the hospital wing should be empty -’
‘Hogwarts it is, then,’ said Tonks, striding over to Lupin. She kissed his forehead. ‘Maybe we’ll change the guard in a while, yeah? And the second we get Molly back, you know where to send her.’
‘Tonks,’ blurted Harry.
‘Yeah?’
He looked at his hands. ‘Look after her.’
She saluted. ‘I’ll see you all in a couple of hours.’ She strode towards the door, but before she got there, she stopped. ‘Do we have any idea how long this is going to take?’ she asked, somewhat hesitantly. ‘Is it - is it one of those genetic things?’ She looked at Ron. ‘How fast did Molly have Ginny?’
Ron shrugged, his face still blank.
‘There is not always a pattern between mothers and daughters,’ said McGonagall, ‘but Prewett women are not known for having short labours. And if, as you say, it came on very quickly ...’
‘Right, I’m gone,’ said Tonks, and then she was gone and the door was shut behind her.
There was a deafening bang and a violent roar and Hermione drew her wand, convinced Voldemort had made it through their defences at last; but it was only Harry kicking over a chair with a shout.
Hermione stared at Harry staring at the upturned chair: his chest was heaving and his fists were still clenched.
‘It’s my baby,’ he said. ‘She’s having my baby.’
Lupin was staring into the bubbling potion. Hermione didn’t know what to do about Harry. She was desperate to take Ron’s hand but his expression almost frightened her.
‘I shouldn’t be making her do this by herself,’ said Harry.
‘No, you shouldn’t,’ said McGonagall, marching forwards, ‘but as they say, Potter, “tough luck”: you don’t have any other options. What you should be doing is trying to find a way to end this quickly.’ She pulled a map of Diagon Alley from the pile of parchment on the table. ‘So shall we do that?’
‘I thought you couldn’t kill him yet,’ said George abruptly. ‘All year, you three’ve been saying you can’t kill him yet because there’s “stuff you need to do first”.’
‘Actually, we can now,’ said Ron. ‘As of last week, You-Know-Who can be killed.’ He looked at Harry. ‘I know we didn’t mean to go for that just yet, but -’
‘You want Harry to commit murder in time to cut the cord?’ asked Lupin incredulously. ‘We don’t even know how -’
‘Yeah,’ said Ron, ‘I know we haven’t planned it out, but he kind of took it out of our hands when he attacked Diagon Alley - so since we’re in the midst of a battle -’
‘No,’ said Harry; everyone fell silent. He scrubbed at his face. ‘No, we’re just going to end this - this battle. End it as soon as possible. That’s it. That’s all we’re aiming for.’
After a second, Lupin said, ‘We could try a prisoner swap. That may halt it for a couple of days, at least. He’s taken a lot of ours alive - how many of his do we have?’
‘Only two,’ said McGonagall. ‘Alex Bethnall and James Liverking. Nobodies.’
‘We’d need someone decent for him to care,’ said Ron. ‘Bellatrix. Dolohov. That kind of person.’
Lupin stared at the map. ‘If we can get your dad back here - he’s been in the alley for hours, he might know where the top people are, then we can attempt a -’
‘There’s no way my dad will stop fighting ‘til my mum’s safe -’
‘What we need is someone with Auror experience -’
‘Exactly,’ said Hermione, but no one heard her. ‘Exactly.’ She stood up. ‘I have to go.’
‘Go?’ Ron grabbed her arm. ‘Where?’
She took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to swap with Tonks.’
‘No,’ said Ron. ‘Stay here.’
‘We need Tonks here,’ said Hermione. ‘I’m not much use here. I should go.’
‘But -’
‘Everyone here’s got more battle experience than us,’ she said calmly. ‘Harry can’t leave, and you’re much better at this sort of thing than I am.’
‘We need your brains,’ he said.
‘Yours are fine. Better, in fact.’ She bent down and kissed his forehead in the way Tonks did with Lupin earlier and tried to summon some of Tonks’ optimism. ‘Treat it like chess.’ She walked towards the fireplace. ‘This goes straight to your office, Professor?’
‘Yes,’ said McGonagall. ‘It’s the only connection we have open.’ She nodded. ‘Good luck, Miss Granger.’
‘Are you sure?’ Ron had got up and followed her round the table.
‘I’ll be more use there,’ she said, glancing at Harry. He looked up, nodded at her stiffly, and returned his attention to the map.
‘Since when do you know anything about delivering babies?’ demanded Ron.
‘I probably know more than Tonks.’
Ron stared at her helplessly.
Hermione forced herself to look into his eyes. ‘Ginny needs me.’
He pulled her into a hug. ‘Be careful,’ he said gruffly.
Pressing her lips to his cheek, she had to close her eyes to keep the tears in. She pulled away from him. ‘I love you,’ she said quietly. Ron’s mouth twisted with an attempt at a smile and she squeezed his shoulder, overcome with love. ‘I love you both,’ she said, looking at Harry over Ron’s shoulder. ‘Harry - hurry,’ she added as she put a foot into the fireplace. ‘End this. But don’t do anything stupid.’
*
When they get back from America, they stand in the hall of the empty house of Hermione’s parents - they’re at her aunt’s sixtieth. Surrounded by bags, Hermione checks her post; Ron hovers awkwardly by the front door.
‘I have a letter from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,’ she says, opening the envelope. She reads the first few lines. ‘They’re offering me an interview.’
‘Let’s see,’ says Ron, crossing over to her. She hands him the letter and turns her attention to the rest of her post.
‘Hermione,’ he says after a moment.
She looks up to see that he is not reading her letter and that he looks determined, and then he brings a hand up to her face to touch her cheek. ‘Hermione ...’ he whispers.
‘Ron,’ she says with a tiny smile.
Very gently, he kisses her, then he pulls away and straightens up. ‘I wouldn’t be able to face my brothers if I got back from holiday with you and we hadn’t done that,’ he says.
Once, she might have tutted, but now, she smiles.
*
Outside the door to the hospital wing, Hermione steeled herself. Optimistic, she thought. Think Tonks.
Throwing open the door, she charged in, saying, ‘What have I missed?’
‘Hermione?’ cried Ginny.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed furthest from the door, dressed only in a huge white T-shirt, her hair already sweaty and hanging on either side of her face. By her side stood Tonks, looking attentive, yet at a loss. At the end of the bed stood Madam Pomfrey, standing at a wooden desk and mixing a potion.
Tonks spun around. ‘Hermione?’
‘I’ve come to switch places with you,’ said Hermione, much more bravely than she felt. ‘It makes much more sense if I’m here and you’re there.’
‘I -’ started Tonks. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ said Hermione, hurrying over. ‘Go; you’re needed.’
‘Is Harry coming?’ asked Ginny.
‘He’s ... he’s coming as fast as he can,’ said Hermione, grabbing Ginny’s hand and sitting down on the bed next to hers. ‘He’s going to end this battle and then he’s coming straight here. Honestly, Ginny.’
‘Git,’ said Ginny.
‘Now, now,’ said Madam Pomfrey calmly.
‘If he doesn’t end it, I will,’ said Tonks as she ran from the room.
‘Now, how are you doing? Stupid question,’ babbled Hermione. ‘Hold my hand. Just hold my hand. You’re going to be fine.’
Ginny closed her eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
*
He starts Auror training and she becomes a Wizengamot administrator, and the two of them become Ron and Hermione again. Hermione loves the fact that he knows how to kiss her and she doesn’t have to show him how; she loves the fact that this doesn’t feel like a real relationship, in which every interaction is racing towards that one act, but one in which every kiss is nothing more than a kiss; most of all, she loves that she is still in love with him.
It takes them an awfully long time, unlike the first time they were a couple, but finally in December they have sex, and then they move in together.
Sometimes they lie in bed and watch the raindrops racing each other down the windows on Sunday mornings; sometimes they fight about the washing-up.
Hermione doesn’t mention him, but when his name comes up and Ron abruptly changes the subject, she knows she isn’t the only one who feels his presence.
*
The Healer bent over him, but Harry shook his head impatiently; Hermione could tell it hurt him to do so. ‘No point,’ he said. ‘No ... point. I just want to be with ... you lot. I haven’t ...’ He swallowed. ‘I haven’t got long.’ He swivelled his eyes to Hermione. ‘Where’s Ginny?’
Hermione turned around to see Ginny sitting on the floor by her bed; at Harry’s question, she crawled over, her face blank.
‘Harry, we’ll - we’ll get a Portkey’ said Ron, ‘then we’ll get you to Mungo’s and then -’
‘He can’t be moved,’ said the Healer, unbuttoning Harry’s black robes.
‘We’ll get some more Healers then and then we’ll -’
Harry was shaking his head. ‘Ron, Ron -’ he stopped to cough; his cough sprayed blood - ‘no time. I can’t.’
‘No,’ said Ron, his voice stony. ‘You fucking can. You will.’
‘Ron’s right,’ said Hermione. ‘You just have to hold on, Harry - don’t give up.’
At that moment, the Healer managed to open Harry’s robes and the gasp she gave made Hermione shake with fear all the way through to her core; quickly, she closed her eyes.
‘No time,’ Harry gasped again, and the Healer did not contradict him. ‘Our baby - Gin, I need to see our baby.’
Hermione turned to look at Ginny: she was staring unresponsively at Harry’s bloody form.
Madam Pomfrey nudged her elbow from where she had crept up to crouch beside her: she nudged Ginny’s elbow with the head of her own daughter. Ginny took the baby, and when she was cradling her, she looked down at her wondrously. ‘Here’s our baby,’ she said quietly, and then, louder: ‘here’s our baby girl. Can you - do you want to - hold her?’
‘I ...’ he said, his eyes wide. He reached out a hand, and, probably realizing that there was no way he could hold a baby, Ginny leant over so he could touch his daughter. He stroked her hair. ‘Her hair’s red,’ he said.
‘Dark red,’ said Ron.
‘Like your mother’s,’ whispered Hermione.
Ginny’s eyes on Harry’s crumpling body and failing face filled with tears.
‘Isn’t she brilliant?’ he asked with a pained smile.
‘She is brilliant,’ whispered Ginny. ‘What we made.’
‘She’s gorgeous. She doesn’t take after me.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Well done,’ he whispered. ‘I’m so proud of you.’
Ginny opened her mouth but didn’t say anything.
‘Love you,’ he murmured as his eyes slid closed.
‘No - no!’ cried Ginny, as finally, she seemed responsive. ‘No, Harry, don’t -’
‘Take good care of her, Gi …’ he rasped.
No, not that one, either.
Continue to I(c)
They meet on the train.
‘Hi,’ he says, as they stand in the middle of a corridor. ‘I thought you might get cold feet.’
‘I never go back on what I’ve set my mind to,’ she says. She smoothes the fabric of her robes - goodness, it feels odd to wear her uniform again.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s go and see what these seventh years are made of.’
*
Just before the Christmas holidays, she and Patrick (a Scottish Ravenclaw) becomes public, and one afternoon when she is about to leave the common room, Ron emerges out of nowhere to block her path.
He leans against the wall and folds his arms. ‘A toyboy, Hermione?’
‘What of it?’ she asks haughtily, shifting her bag into a more comfortable position.
‘Isn’t he a little young for you?’
She folds her own arms. ‘He’s mature for his age.’
‘What about your Italian Stallion? Isn’t he your boyfriend?’
‘No, he isn’t,’ she says. ‘And besides, he’s gone back to Italy to be with his family. Excuse me, I have a lesson to get to.’ She brushes past him and climbs through the portrait hole with nose in the air, trying as hard as she can not to feel twelve years old again.
*
‘It hurts,’ Harry whispered from where he lay on the flagstones in a pool of his own blood. ‘It ... hurts.’ His eyes closed.
Abruptly, Ginny reached forwards and grabbed the front of his blood-soaked robes. ‘Don’t you dare give up,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t you dare die on me.’
His body shook limply in her grip, but his eyes didn’t open.
‘Ginny,’ croaked Hermione, ‘Ginny, don’t - you’re hurting him -’
‘Good,’ she muttered fiercely. ‘Wake up, idiot - don’t you dare leave me and our daughter!’
His eyes cracked open and a slow, sweet smile spread across his face. ‘It’s a girl?’
‘Harry?’ whispered Ginny, pressing her hand to his cheek. ‘Harry, hold on - there’ll be another Healer in a minute - we’ll get you to Mungo’s.’
‘Mmm,’ said Harry sleepily. ‘That would be nice.’
The Healer Ron had brought with him shook her head despairingly, but Ginny didn’t see; her hair was hanging down over her face. ‘It’s OK, Harry ... just hold on,’ she said.
Harry was whispering hoarsely; Hermione leant forwards to hear him, but then she realized he was trying to say Ginny’s name. ‘Ginny,’ he managed, ‘where’s the baby?’
Ginny paused, and then she spun around on her knees and reached out to Madam Pomfrey. As the matron crossed over to them from the respectful distance she had been dutifully maintaining, Harry grabbed Ron’s hand and shot Hermione a smile.
Ginny knelt in front of Harry with their daughter in her arms and knelt forwards so he could see her.
He smiled broadly. ‘She’s beautiful,’ he said. ‘Just like her Mummy. What are you going to call her?’
‘I … oh, Harry …’
‘Call her something beautiful …’ His eyes closed again, and this time Hermione knew it was for the last time.
‘Harry, don’t …’ sobbed Ginny. ‘You mustn’t …’
‘I love you, you know,’ he rasped.
‘Oh, Harry,’ she sobbed onto his chest, ‘don’t leave me, please …’
He did, of course.
But not in that way, either.
*
After the Leaving Feast, she is walking through the Entrance Hall when McGonagall stops her. ‘Miss Granger, may I speak to you?’ Hermione stops. ‘In here,’ says McGonagall, leading her into a small antechamber off the hall, ‘it won’t take a moment -’
Hermione enters the room to see Ron standing by himself. ‘Professor,’ says Hermione quickly, turning away from him, ‘what -’
‘As I am sure you are both aware,’ says McGonagall over her, ‘the third anniversary of the end of the war is approaching.’
Hermione is not looking at him but she can feel the change in the way he is standing.
‘I have been asked by the Ministry to ask if either of you are willing to speak at the celebratory dinner -’
‘No,’ they both say simultaneously.
‘I thought as much,’ says McGonagall. ‘Well, you do not have to give a speech to attend, you know. I know neither of you has been to one of these dinners before, but I have been urged by the Ministry to remind you that you are both still welcome.’ She pauses expectantly.
‘I ...’ Hermione swallows. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Yeah.’ Hermione turns around; Ron has his hands in his pockets and is looking at the floor. ‘My whole family’s going and I told Ginny I would, so ... yeah. Professor.’
‘I ... yes, I will too, then,’ says Hermione. ‘If Ginny’s going,’ she adds hurriedly.
‘I will inform the Ministry,’ says McGonagall, before turning on her heel and leaving the antechamber.
‘Well, I ...’ starts Hermione. ‘I’ll see you there, shall I?’ She starts towards the door.
‘Wait, Hermione,’ says Ron. ‘What - what’re you doing now? Now that school’s finished, I mean?’
‘I ...’ She thinks of her mum’s latest letter, lying upstairs in her trunk. Darling, why don’t you go travelling for a bit? Derek and Sue have just come back from New York, they say it’s lovely - ‘I think I might apply for a job at the Ministry,’ she says.
‘What department?’
‘Law.’ He nods. ‘Are you still - what about you?’
‘Auror training,’ he says. ‘Hopefully. If I’ve got the grades.’
‘I’m sure you will have,’ she says automatically.
It’s funny, how they haven’t spoken for so long. They had a period, around Easter, just after she broke up with Patrick, when they used to have quite fun conversations at dinner, and of course they still shared a common room, and he was still funny and she still laughed, but it was different when she was so rarely alone with him. This year had been like being ... Parvati. She could say, Oh yes, Ron Weasley, he’s my friend. He said something very funny in Charms yesterday. But she hasn’t really spoken to him in forever.
‘Well, I’ll see you there, then,’ she says with a cheery smile. ‘Give Ginny my love.’ And then she leaves the room as fast as she can.
*
Hermione is late. For the first time in her life, she had to be late for something, and she had to pick today, didn’t she? But her brown dress used to belong to her mum, and there was no doubt about it, she looked frumpy in it, so she changed it to a black one, but then she thought she looked too - well, slutty - so she changed it back. But she isn’t happy, because she knows that photos will probably be taken, and no one wants to look like a potato in a photograph that might be in the national press, and her shoes don’t fit, but at least her hair is straight -
She rounds a corner of the street to see a redheaded couple with a young child standing in front of a skip.
‘Ron, if you hadn’t insisted on changing your robes three times -’
‘You didn’t have to wait! You could have gone with the others -’
‘Erm, hello,’ says Hermione.
They turn at her voice.
‘Hermione!’ cries Ginny, reaching over to embrace her with one arm; her other is balancing her daughter on her hip. ‘Excellent; if you’re late too Mum can’t get cross with us.’
Hermione returns Ginny’s hug and kisses her daughter, who nowadays calls her ‘Mi’, and looks at Ginny’s outfit rather than Ron. Her dress is long, pretty and dark blue with a square neckline and makes Hermione feel suddenly very jealous. Ginny’s never been one for looking girly, but when forced to, she’s always been able to scrub up well, unlike Hermione, who without five hours of preparation time just ends up making a disaster of things. She knows she’s wearing too much blusher -
‘We’re only fifteen minutes late,’ says Ron. Hermione looks up at him involuntarily, but it’s all right, because he’s looking at his watch. ‘We can make a grand entrance. Come on,’ he says over Ginny’s grimace, grabbing her arm. ‘Let’s go.’
The three of them walk around the skip, and then, abruptly, they stop.
The red phone box that serves as the visitors’ entrance to the Ministry is surrounded by a swarm of people, mostly men; in rough-looking travelling robes, they are standing around making casual conversation; some are leaning against the phone box and one is smoking a pipe.
‘Those fuckers,’ says Ginny.
‘What -’ starts Hermione, before noticing the cameras. ‘Are they ... reporters?’
‘Those wanking, fucking, evil, foul pieces of shit. ’ Ginny is shaking with anger. ‘Today of all days -’
‘Today is why they’re here,’ says Ron calmly, but his gaze is very dark.
‘I - I wrote the Minister a letter specifically about tonight, I told him -’ Ginny shakes herself and turns to Ron. ‘Ron, will you -?’
‘Of course,’ he says; swiftly, Ginny hands him her daughter and conjures a blanket from mid-air.
‘It’s OK, darling,’ she whispers as she cocoons her daughter, ‘I’m just wrapping you up in this for a moment - will you hold on tightly to Ron for me? Mummy’s right here ...’ She covers her daughter’s face and kisses her head through the blanket. ‘I’ll go in front,’ she says to Ron.
She straightens up, eyes the oblivious reporters, touches her hair to check it’s in place, says, ‘Those vultures,’ with disgust, and then, these rituals completed, she looks at Ron and nods.
‘Let’s go,’ he says grimly.
Ginny starts forwards, handbag swinging violently.
Ron glances back at Hermione; she is still somewhat shell-shocked. ‘Stay close behind me,’ he says.
The three of them walk quickly down the derelict street, and about fifty feet from the phone box, they are noticed.
‘There she is! There she is!’ Caps are hastily unscrewed from lenses; conversations are ended and pipes vanish; those who were once friends are now bitter enemies.
‘Don’t say a word,’ Ron mutters at her, and Hermione feels anger at his superiority - she knows how to deal with journalists; didn’t she control Rita Skeeter for years? Didn’t she set up the interview with the Quibbler? Didn’t - but her angry thoughts are cut off when they are enveloped by a shouting mass and the flash flash flash and puffs and puffs of smoke in all different colours and she can’t breathe let alone think -
‘Ginny! Ginny! Don’t you think it’s high time you confirmed the rumours of who this kid’s dad is?’
‘Miss Weasley! Over here, Miss Weasley, this one’s for the Daily Prophet!’
‘Ginny, do you have anything to say on the anniversary of the end of the war?’
‘Do you have any comment on the current Minister?’
‘Who are they?’
‘Friends of his - Granger and another Weasley -’
‘Granger! Granger! Do you have anything to say in memory of the Boy-Who-Lived?’
‘Smile, Granger!’
‘Miss Granger, is your Muggle apparel a political statement?’
‘Granger, love, can you tell our readers how you feel on the anniversary of your ex-boyfriend’s death?’
A hand grabs her wrist - the wrist of the hand that is, she realizes belatedly, clutching onto the back of Ron’s robes - and pulls her forwards; she struggles before there is a slam behind her and a sudden darkness and the cries of the reporters are muffled and she realizes that the four of them are in the phone box: they made it.
Ron lets go of her wrist; she realizes that he was the one that pulled her forwards and into the box. Well, of course.
She blinks and keeps blinking. She can’t see anything.
Ron hands his bundle to Ginny, grabs the phone receiver and dials 62442.
‘Welcome to the Ministry of Magic,’ says the female voice that Hermione has always thought of as the Radio Four voice. ‘Please state your name and business.’
‘Ron Weasley, Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger,’ Ron barks. ‘We’re on the guest list.’
After a second, as though it is thinking it over, the voice says, ‘Correct.’
No badges appear, but the floor rumbles and the box starts to sink. When the view is completely black, Ginny unwraps her daughter. ‘There, little one, don’t cry,’ she whispers. ‘Mummy’s here, Mummy’s got you, it’s all going to be all right ...’
Gold light floods the broken glass panes from the bottom up and then the box shudders to a halt. ‘You are not required to register your wand,’ says the voice. ‘The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant evening.’
The door springs open and Ginny marches out. Her face is like thunder.
Hermione looks up at Ron and he looks back at her.
There are so many things she wants to say to him.
‘Ron,’ she says. ‘Would you like to come to America with me?’
*
‘Do you think we’re allowed to be in here?’ asks Hermione anxiously as they climb over a fence somewhere in Kansas. He isn’t trying to help her over, she notices, and then she’s annoyed with herself for noticing because she’s a feminist and she doesn’t want men to help her do things she’s perfectly capable of doing herself. Thank you very much.
‘Who cares?’ he says, hands on his waist and surveying the big green field they’ve just invaded. ‘Race you.’ And then with big bounds he’s loping out into the middle of the field.
She runs after him towards goodness-knows-where and is just about to stop and give up when he throws himself down into the tall grass. Wheezing for breath, she catches up with him and drops down next to him.
‘You’re so unfit,’ he says leisurely, rolling onto his back.
She can only nod as she clutches her side, propped up from the mud by her left elbow.
After a while, she can breathe again; she twists onto her stomach. ‘But what if …’ she starts, unsure of her fears. ‘Someone comes?’
‘Like who?’
She thinks. ‘The farmer.’
‘I grew up in Devon,’ he says with world-wise carelessness. ‘I know how to take care of farmers.’
‘But he’ll be an American farmer.’
‘What’s the difference?’
She doesn’t know. ‘Oh! He might have a gun.’
‘English farmers have guns.’
This is true. What for? What do they shoot? Hermione wonders. Probably ducks or something. ‘But they’re not allowed to shoot people.’
For the first time, he looks slightly worried. ‘American farmers are allowed to shoot people?’
She thinks. ‘I think they’re allowed to shoot burglars.’
He is unconcerned again. ‘Good thing we’re not burgling anything, then.’ His eyes close.
Her body slides down so that her elbows are pointing straight out and her chin is resting on her hands and her hands are resting on the earth.
After a while, she says, ‘I think I understand why Americans think England is quaint. Everything does seem much … bigger, here. Grander.’
Ron’s eyes open. ‘England is not quaint,’ he says with annoyance.
Hermione laughs. Everything’s a bit funnier lying on one’s tummy. ‘You only say that because you grew up in quite possibly the quaintest place on earth.’
‘Hmmph,’ he says, and then he picks a plait of grass and starts chewing it.
After a moment, he says, ‘I would have made a great farmer.’
She props herself back up onto her side. He closes his eyes.
And then because she’s feeling bold and brave, she says, ‘Do you think Harry would have liked America?’
Ron ignores her and continues chewing his grass. She feels a huge annoyance with herself for spoiling it all spreading through the pit of her belly, but then he opens his eyes, takes the grass from his mouth and says, ‘Yeah, I suppose so. I think he would’ve liked the freedom.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she says happily, and twisting over onto her back she looks up at the sky. If she stays in this position, everything she sees is the purest blue, right down from her toes to her forehead. Not being able to escape the view is oddly frightening.
‘But,’ says Ron thoughtfully, ‘it all being so big I’m not sure he would have liked. I always suspected him of being … what’s it called when you’re scared of big open spaces?’
‘Agoraphobia.’
‘I always suspected him of being a closet agoraphobe.’
‘It’s an agoraphobic, Ron, and when did Harry ever show signs of being scared of the outside?’
‘Well … he should have. He grew up in a cupboard.’
‘He didn’t have to live in the cupboard all the time.’
‘That makes it all right, then?’
‘No, but …’ She catches sight of his face and realizes he’s making fun of her. She sighs and tries to throw her hands up in the air in exasperation, but it’s difficult when one is lying down.
‘Hey, Hermione …’ he says.
‘What?’
‘Americans call cupboards closets, don’t they? So Harry really was a closet agraphobe.’
‘Ron Weasley, that is probably the worst joke you’ve ever made. It doesn’t even make sense.’
Time passes. She doesn’t know how much.
‘Do you think Ginny would like America?’ she asks.
‘Definitely,’ he says without hesitation.
His certainty makes Hermione feel guilty. ‘Do you think we should have brought her?’
‘No,’ he says with an equal lack of hesitation.
Hermione looks at him and he looks back at her. When his gaze becomes too intense, she slides her head down onto his shoulder.
She falls asleep.
*
Three hours after Mrs Weasley had vanished, Hermione was sitting next to Ron at the large dining table in the back room of the second floor of Grimmauld Place. Ron was helping Lupin in his attempt to alter one of the Death Eaters’ potions (this one produced a gas that knocked anyone without a Dark Mark unconscious when it was sprinkled over earth) so that it would attack its creators; George was sitting by the wall with his head in his hands; McGonagall was pacing around the room in neat squares with her hands in a knot. Mr Weasley and the rest of his sons were fighting furiously with the rest of the Order somewhere in the battleground that Diagon Alley had become. This room was one of the only places left impenetrable to Voldemort.
Near impenetrable, that was, as the occasional shouts from Harry as he clutched at his head showed all too clearly, but Harry and Voldemort hadn’t gone into each other’s heads for a good twenty minutes now, and Hermione was starting to hope that Voldemort had turned his attention to other matters.
‘Hold still,’ scolded Hestia Jones from where she knelt by Harry and pressed a cloth to the cut on his arm; with a sheepish grimace, he stopped fidgeting. ‘I’m sorry we’re having to do this the Muggle way, but until the Clotless Curse wears off -’
She was interrupted by Tonks walking into the room, pushing her hair out of a cut of her own with a wince.
‘You’ve been ages,’ said Lupin with a quick glance up. ‘You were only supposed to go to The Burrow.’
‘We have a problem,’ she said.
‘What?’ asked Lupin, brow furrowed at the potion.
‘Ginny’s gone into labour.’
There was a very heavy silence at these words.
Hermione felt sick.
‘She’s not due for a week,’ said Harry very quietly.
‘It came on quick,’ said Tonks. ‘Her waters broke when I was there. She’s already in quite a lot of pain.’
Harry’s face screw up. ‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’
Hermione glanced at Ron, next to her: his expression was blank with shock and horror.
‘None of the prisoners have been recovered?’ said Tonks, and at Lupin’s head-shake, she said, ‘Right, then, if we don’t have Molly, I’ll go back to The Burrow. She can’t be by herself.’
‘No, I’m -’ started Harry, standing up.
‘Stay where you are, Potter,’ snapped McGonagall.
His fists clenched. ‘I have to -’
‘You have to stay here,’ said McGonagall. ‘You have been cursed and your blood is not clotting. The protection charms that are keeping Voldemort from possessing you are only surrounding this room. The battle is not over. It is simply too dangerous for you to leave this room.’
‘What was the plan?’ asked Tonks. ‘Mungo’s?’
Harry nodded; he had not sat down.
‘Right, so -’
‘Mungo’s is full,’ said George blankly, raising his head from his arms. ‘The corridors are full of people on stretchers.’
‘They’ll make room for the Boy-Who-Lived’s girlfriend,’ said Lupin slowly.
‘No,’ said Tonks, ‘I’m sorry, but the idea alone of trying to get an in-labour-Ginny into Mungo’s and into a private room without a Death Eater noticing is -’
‘Hogwarts,’ said Harry; his eyes were far away. ‘She’ll be safe at Hogwarts. And Madam Pomfrey -’
‘Has delivered babies before,’ said McGonagall with a nod. ‘I think that is the most sensible suggestion. The students should all be in their towers by now and the hospital wing should be empty -’
‘Hogwarts it is, then,’ said Tonks, striding over to Lupin. She kissed his forehead. ‘Maybe we’ll change the guard in a while, yeah? And the second we get Molly back, you know where to send her.’
‘Tonks,’ blurted Harry.
‘Yeah?’
He looked at his hands. ‘Look after her.’
She saluted. ‘I’ll see you all in a couple of hours.’ She strode towards the door, but before she got there, she stopped. ‘Do we have any idea how long this is going to take?’ she asked, somewhat hesitantly. ‘Is it - is it one of those genetic things?’ She looked at Ron. ‘How fast did Molly have Ginny?’
Ron shrugged, his face still blank.
‘There is not always a pattern between mothers and daughters,’ said McGonagall, ‘but Prewett women are not known for having short labours. And if, as you say, it came on very quickly ...’
‘Right, I’m gone,’ said Tonks, and then she was gone and the door was shut behind her.
There was a deafening bang and a violent roar and Hermione drew her wand, convinced Voldemort had made it through their defences at last; but it was only Harry kicking over a chair with a shout.
Hermione stared at Harry staring at the upturned chair: his chest was heaving and his fists were still clenched.
‘It’s my baby,’ he said. ‘She’s having my baby.’
Lupin was staring into the bubbling potion. Hermione didn’t know what to do about Harry. She was desperate to take Ron’s hand but his expression almost frightened her.
‘I shouldn’t be making her do this by herself,’ said Harry.
‘No, you shouldn’t,’ said McGonagall, marching forwards, ‘but as they say, Potter, “tough luck”: you don’t have any other options. What you should be doing is trying to find a way to end this quickly.’ She pulled a map of Diagon Alley from the pile of parchment on the table. ‘So shall we do that?’
‘I thought you couldn’t kill him yet,’ said George abruptly. ‘All year, you three’ve been saying you can’t kill him yet because there’s “stuff you need to do first”.’
‘Actually, we can now,’ said Ron. ‘As of last week, You-Know-Who can be killed.’ He looked at Harry. ‘I know we didn’t mean to go for that just yet, but -’
‘You want Harry to commit murder in time to cut the cord?’ asked Lupin incredulously. ‘We don’t even know how -’
‘Yeah,’ said Ron, ‘I know we haven’t planned it out, but he kind of took it out of our hands when he attacked Diagon Alley - so since we’re in the midst of a battle -’
‘No,’ said Harry; everyone fell silent. He scrubbed at his face. ‘No, we’re just going to end this - this battle. End it as soon as possible. That’s it. That’s all we’re aiming for.’
After a second, Lupin said, ‘We could try a prisoner swap. That may halt it for a couple of days, at least. He’s taken a lot of ours alive - how many of his do we have?’
‘Only two,’ said McGonagall. ‘Alex Bethnall and James Liverking. Nobodies.’
‘We’d need someone decent for him to care,’ said Ron. ‘Bellatrix. Dolohov. That kind of person.’
Lupin stared at the map. ‘If we can get your dad back here - he’s been in the alley for hours, he might know where the top people are, then we can attempt a -’
‘There’s no way my dad will stop fighting ‘til my mum’s safe -’
‘What we need is someone with Auror experience -’
‘Exactly,’ said Hermione, but no one heard her. ‘Exactly.’ She stood up. ‘I have to go.’
‘Go?’ Ron grabbed her arm. ‘Where?’
She took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to swap with Tonks.’
‘No,’ said Ron. ‘Stay here.’
‘We need Tonks here,’ said Hermione. ‘I’m not much use here. I should go.’
‘But -’
‘Everyone here’s got more battle experience than us,’ she said calmly. ‘Harry can’t leave, and you’re much better at this sort of thing than I am.’
‘We need your brains,’ he said.
‘Yours are fine. Better, in fact.’ She bent down and kissed his forehead in the way Tonks did with Lupin earlier and tried to summon some of Tonks’ optimism. ‘Treat it like chess.’ She walked towards the fireplace. ‘This goes straight to your office, Professor?’
‘Yes,’ said McGonagall. ‘It’s the only connection we have open.’ She nodded. ‘Good luck, Miss Granger.’
‘Are you sure?’ Ron had got up and followed her round the table.
‘I’ll be more use there,’ she said, glancing at Harry. He looked up, nodded at her stiffly, and returned his attention to the map.
‘Since when do you know anything about delivering babies?’ demanded Ron.
‘I probably know more than Tonks.’
Ron stared at her helplessly.
Hermione forced herself to look into his eyes. ‘Ginny needs me.’
He pulled her into a hug. ‘Be careful,’ he said gruffly.
Pressing her lips to his cheek, she had to close her eyes to keep the tears in. She pulled away from him. ‘I love you,’ she said quietly. Ron’s mouth twisted with an attempt at a smile and she squeezed his shoulder, overcome with love. ‘I love you both,’ she said, looking at Harry over Ron’s shoulder. ‘Harry - hurry,’ she added as she put a foot into the fireplace. ‘End this. But don’t do anything stupid.’
*
When they get back from America, they stand in the hall of the empty house of Hermione’s parents - they’re at her aunt’s sixtieth. Surrounded by bags, Hermione checks her post; Ron hovers awkwardly by the front door.
‘I have a letter from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,’ she says, opening the envelope. She reads the first few lines. ‘They’re offering me an interview.’
‘Let’s see,’ says Ron, crossing over to her. She hands him the letter and turns her attention to the rest of her post.
‘Hermione,’ he says after a moment.
She looks up to see that he is not reading her letter and that he looks determined, and then he brings a hand up to her face to touch her cheek. ‘Hermione ...’ he whispers.
‘Ron,’ she says with a tiny smile.
Very gently, he kisses her, then he pulls away and straightens up. ‘I wouldn’t be able to face my brothers if I got back from holiday with you and we hadn’t done that,’ he says.
Once, she might have tutted, but now, she smiles.
*
Outside the door to the hospital wing, Hermione steeled herself. Optimistic, she thought. Think Tonks.
Throwing open the door, she charged in, saying, ‘What have I missed?’
‘Hermione?’ cried Ginny.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed furthest from the door, dressed only in a huge white T-shirt, her hair already sweaty and hanging on either side of her face. By her side stood Tonks, looking attentive, yet at a loss. At the end of the bed stood Madam Pomfrey, standing at a wooden desk and mixing a potion.
Tonks spun around. ‘Hermione?’
‘I’ve come to switch places with you,’ said Hermione, much more bravely than she felt. ‘It makes much more sense if I’m here and you’re there.’
‘I -’ started Tonks. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ said Hermione, hurrying over. ‘Go; you’re needed.’
‘Is Harry coming?’ asked Ginny.
‘He’s ... he’s coming as fast as he can,’ said Hermione, grabbing Ginny’s hand and sitting down on the bed next to hers. ‘He’s going to end this battle and then he’s coming straight here. Honestly, Ginny.’
‘Git,’ said Ginny.
‘Now, now,’ said Madam Pomfrey calmly.
‘If he doesn’t end it, I will,’ said Tonks as she ran from the room.
‘Now, how are you doing? Stupid question,’ babbled Hermione. ‘Hold my hand. Just hold my hand. You’re going to be fine.’
Ginny closed her eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
*
He starts Auror training and she becomes a Wizengamot administrator, and the two of them become Ron and Hermione again. Hermione loves the fact that he knows how to kiss her and she doesn’t have to show him how; she loves the fact that this doesn’t feel like a real relationship, in which every interaction is racing towards that one act, but one in which every kiss is nothing more than a kiss; most of all, she loves that she is still in love with him.
It takes them an awfully long time, unlike the first time they were a couple, but finally in December they have sex, and then they move in together.
Sometimes they lie in bed and watch the raindrops racing each other down the windows on Sunday mornings; sometimes they fight about the washing-up.
Hermione doesn’t mention him, but when his name comes up and Ron abruptly changes the subject, she knows she isn’t the only one who feels his presence.
*
The Healer bent over him, but Harry shook his head impatiently; Hermione could tell it hurt him to do so. ‘No point,’ he said. ‘No ... point. I just want to be with ... you lot. I haven’t ...’ He swallowed. ‘I haven’t got long.’ He swivelled his eyes to Hermione. ‘Where’s Ginny?’
Hermione turned around to see Ginny sitting on the floor by her bed; at Harry’s question, she crawled over, her face blank.
‘Harry, we’ll - we’ll get a Portkey’ said Ron, ‘then we’ll get you to Mungo’s and then -’
‘He can’t be moved,’ said the Healer, unbuttoning Harry’s black robes.
‘We’ll get some more Healers then and then we’ll -’
Harry was shaking his head. ‘Ron, Ron -’ he stopped to cough; his cough sprayed blood - ‘no time. I can’t.’
‘No,’ said Ron, his voice stony. ‘You fucking can. You will.’
‘Ron’s right,’ said Hermione. ‘You just have to hold on, Harry - don’t give up.’
At that moment, the Healer managed to open Harry’s robes and the gasp she gave made Hermione shake with fear all the way through to her core; quickly, she closed her eyes.
‘No time,’ Harry gasped again, and the Healer did not contradict him. ‘Our baby - Gin, I need to see our baby.’
Hermione turned to look at Ginny: she was staring unresponsively at Harry’s bloody form.
Madam Pomfrey nudged her elbow from where she had crept up to crouch beside her: she nudged Ginny’s elbow with the head of her own daughter. Ginny took the baby, and when she was cradling her, she looked down at her wondrously. ‘Here’s our baby,’ she said quietly, and then, louder: ‘here’s our baby girl. Can you - do you want to - hold her?’
‘I ...’ he said, his eyes wide. He reached out a hand, and, probably realizing that there was no way he could hold a baby, Ginny leant over so he could touch his daughter. He stroked her hair. ‘Her hair’s red,’ he said.
‘Dark red,’ said Ron.
‘Like your mother’s,’ whispered Hermione.
Ginny’s eyes on Harry’s crumpling body and failing face filled with tears.
‘Isn’t she brilliant?’ he asked with a pained smile.
‘She is brilliant,’ whispered Ginny. ‘What we made.’
‘She’s gorgeous. She doesn’t take after me.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Well done,’ he whispered. ‘I’m so proud of you.’
Ginny opened her mouth but didn’t say anything.
‘Love you,’ he murmured as his eyes slid closed.
‘No - no!’ cried Ginny, as finally, she seemed responsive. ‘No, Harry, don’t -’
‘Take good care of her, Gi …’ he rasped.
No, not that one, either.
Continue to I(c)