The Number One Rule of Chasing Trouble and Danger
Hermione bursts into George’s room the next morning, her arms laden with books.
“Oi!” he shouts from his bed, glaring at her over his shoulder with something resembling his old fervor. “What’s the matter with you, running into a bloke’s room like that?”
Hermione frowns, her cheeks feeling rather warm as she glances around the room. It hadn’t occurred to her he would still be asleep, or possibly undressed. Oh God, he wasn’t—
“You’re lucky I don’t sleep naked,” George grumbles, snatching his wand from the floor and summoning a t-shirt from across the room. He pulls the shirt over his head, still griping. If he hears her sigh of relief he doesn’t say anything.
“For your information I have walked into Ron and Harry’s room much earlier than this and never had a problem,” she says primly, taking a tentative step into the room and setting the books on the floor beside his bed.
“Yeah, well, they’ve probably learned to expect that.” George rolls his eyes and glowers at the books beside him. “What are these?”
“Travel guides,” Hermione says, sitting cross-legged on the floor and taking the top volume from the stack, paging through to find the spot where she had left off the night before. “I’ve been planning all week and if you’re coming with me you’ll have to catch up.”
“You’re reading all these?” George asks.
“Yes.”
He leans over the bed and snatches one of the books from the pile. “Australia on a Budget: How to make the most out of your visit to the land down under, what in the—”
“We’re going to have to have an understanding of the country,” Hermione snaps, shutting the book with a thump. “When I cast the charm on Mum and Dad I made them believe their greatest ambition is to move to Australia and so if I’m going to track them down I’m going to have to understand the way tourists and expats think. Not to mention I’m going to have to know the areas to stay away from and which places are affordable, especially if I’m going to be there for a while and Merlin knows where they’ve ended up–”
“Okay, okay, sorry,” George says, glancing at her over the top of the book lying open in his lap. “I didn’t realize there was so much prep work to do here.”
“How do you think Harry and Ron made it this far without dying?” Hermione sniffs, turning back to her guide book.
“Fair enough.”
“Now, I’ve already marked the parts that I think are most important to you to read,” Hermione says, nodding towards the books. “It’d be great if you read more than that but I know you and F—” George’s eyes snap to her and Hermione catches herself. “And your friends,” she amends hastily, “never did your reading so I figured—”
“You would make it as easy as possible,” George drawls. “I appreciate it.”
“I’ll also need you to give me any clothes or books or things you’ll want to pack,” Hermione says. “I’ll put them in the knapsack.”
George blinks at her. “Why would you pack my things in your bag?”
Hermione pauses. “Because it’s safer. It’s what we did this last year on the run. I have a magically expanded—”
“I’ll pack my own things,” George shakes his head. “And give me half the books and whatever else we’ll need. It’s better to have two places we’re keeping things.”
“What—no!” Hermione sputters. “I am perfectly responsible—”
“Granger, the number one rule of chasing trouble and danger is to always have a backup plan,” George sighs. “If we both have a bag then we have a better chance of not losing everything we own.”
“We’re not chasing danger,” Hermione mutters. “We’re finding my parents.”
George flashes her a tight, glinting smile. “Darling, with you there’s always a little danger involved.”
Hermione purses her lips. “I’ll leave these with you.” She gets to her feet, leaving the books in a pile.
George glances at them and nods. “Anything else?”
“Yes, actually. We’re going to be flying to Australia–”
“Alright,” George interrupts with a shrug. “Though I didn’t think you liked broomsticks.”
“I don’t,” Hermione says through gritted teeth. “And can you please not interrupt?”
George shrugs but says nothing.
Hermione bites back a sigh and continues. “We’re flying there the muggle way. In an airplane.”
George quirks an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because it’s next to impossible to get an international portkey right now and the wait time for a non-essential international apparition license is approximately six weeks.”
“Come off it,” he scoffs. “You’re Hermione sodding Granger, they’d probably write you one of those in a second.”
“I already tried,” she answers tightly. “Since my business is personal and my parents are muggles it doesn’t warrant an exception.”
She sees George’s face darken, and plows ahead before he can throw out any platitudes or additional questions. “So we’re going to travel the muggle way. I’ve already gotten in touch with a travel agent who can arrange the tickets for us and find a place to stay so we have something to tell people when we get there.”
“Hang on,” The frowns. “You’re actually buying the airplane tickets and paying for a hotel?”
“Just one way for the tickets and just one night for the hotel,” Hermione replies, her impatience growing. “After that we can confund officials enough that we shouldn’t have a problem.”
“So why do you need the reservations at all?”
“Because I don’t know that I want to count on either of us being able to perform a confundus charm powerful enough to convince everyone to let us through with no ticket instead of just a different ticket,” Hermione said slowly. “And I don’t want to feel like a giant magical prat for pretending muggle rules don’t apply to me.”
“Won’t we need muggle money?”
“I have money.”
“But muggle money?”
“I have muggle money,” Hermione says, bringing a hand up to rub her forehead. “I’m a bloody muggleborn, George, or have you forgotten that?”
“Right.” He puts his hands up in surrender as he had the night before. “Sorry. Didn’t mean–”
“Just read the sections I marked,” Hermione gestures to the books. “And think about what you want to pack. I’d like to leave by the end of the week. Which reminds me why I brought up the flight at all. We need passports.”
“Passports?” He raises his eyebrows.
“Muggle identification,” Hermione explains, ignoring the confusion on his face. “They’re documents that allow people to travel to other countries. My real one expired ages ago and I’m guessing you’ve never had one, so I started making one for each of us this morning.”
Out of her back pocket she pulls two pieces of thick paper, each folded in half so they look like tiny books.
George eyes the paper in her hands. “You’re charming them so the muggles think we’ve got the passes?”
“The passports, yes.” Hermione throws the top paper to him and he catches it easily, holding it in front of his face to inspect it.
“Charles Darcy?” George cocks an eyebrow.
“I gave us both fake identities,” she shrugs. “You can change it if you like. It would be helpful if you added your real birthday to it, though. I didn’t know it and thought it would be easier if we each used our real birthdays just in case anyone decides to question us.”
“Sure.” George snatches his wand and taps the paper, squinting as he looks it over. “I’m from Derby?”
Hermione shrugs. “I needed a real address and obviously couldn’t use the Burrow. It was one of the first places that came to mind.”
“Where’d you say you’re from then?”
“North London.” She hands the paper to him.
“Right. Elizabeth Wilkins?”
“I thought it’d be best if I had the same last name as Mum and Dad believe they have,” she says quietly. “It might make things easier.”
“Of course. And you’re from Hampstead Garden?”
Tears threaten yet again as Hermione nods her head. “24 Meadway,” she whispers. Before George can ask another question she straightens and nods towards the paper in his hand. “Do you think you’ll be able to remember everything?”
“I don’t know,” George rolls his eyes. “So much to remember here.”
“Just don’t make a mistake if someone asks,” Hermione shoots back. “We should try not to draw attention to ourselves.”
George nods, looking down at the paper and the pile of books at his feet. Hermione watches him, pursing her lips as she does. He looks better than he did in the kitchen the night before, which is a relief. And having a task at hand seems to have brought back some of his old energy. But still she can see the bags below his eyes, the tell-tale lines across his forehead. She sighs, and turns toward the door.
“It’s fine if you decide not to go,” she says gently, one hand already wrapped around the doorknob. “I know it’s a lot to ask, and I won’t—”
“I’m going with you.” George fixes her with a stare similar to the one he had given her the night before, his jaw clenched and eyes bright. He holds up the fake passport and tilts his head. “I’ll have it all down, don’t worry.”
Hermione pauses. “Well, if you change your mind—”
A look she can’t quite decipher settles across his face. “I won’t.”
She simply nods and turns to leave, sighing heavily as she closes the door behind her. With George having custody of her travel guides, and her owl order from the apothecary not due to arrive until the afternoon, Hermione walks downstairs.
Harry sits in the kitchen with Ginny and greets her with a smile.
“Hey,” he says as she draws near. “How’s it going with—er—everything?”
Hermione shrugs as she summons a teacup. “It’s fine, I suppose.” She pours a cup of tea and sits at the table, raising her eyebrows as Harry and Ginny appear to have a nonverbal conversation right in front of her. Before she can ask what they’re doing, Ginny turns to face her, eyes blazing.
“You’re leaving.” It isn’t a question.
“Yes,” Hermione says crisply, trying to restrain herself from giving Harry a dirty look. She hadn’t explicitly asked him to keep their conversation yesterday to himself, but would a little discretion be too much to ask for?
“I’m going to find my parents and reverse the memory charm.”
Ginny frowns. “And you’re going alone?”
Hermione purses her lips and takes a sip of tea. “George actually said he would go with me.”
Ginny’s eyebrows pull together. “He did?”
“Yes,” Hermione says again. She puts her head down to rest on her palm, tired of talking about the trip, about who will accompany her. “I’m going to call the travel agent tonight and make arrangements to leave on Friday.”
“You’re leaving Friday?” Harry’s head shoots up and he stares at her open-mouthed. “But that’s—”
“We’ll need to leave soon before the ministry shuts down all sorts of travel out of Britain,” Hermione responds. “And,” she adds grudgingly, “there’s really nothing for me to do here.”
“Other than spend some time with everyone.” Harry scowls.
Hermione rolls her eyes. “I’ve spent plenty of time with everyone. And I’ll be able to see you all once I’m back. But I have to—” she pauses and meets his eye. “I know you understand—”
Harry’s face softens. He reaches out and squeezes Hermione’s hand. “I do, yeah, it’s just I thought you’d wait at least until Ron was done—”
Hermione bites her lip and hopes neither of them can see the guilt on her face. “I can’t wait that long.”
Harry nods, his face soft behind his glasses as he looks at her. Beside him, Ginny opens her mouth as if to say something, but stops as she catches sight of Harry.
“You’ll have to tell Ron you’re leaving Friday,” Harry says finally.
Hermione nods, feeling her face redden. “I know.”
“D’you think he’ll take it well?” Harry very nearly laughs as he asks the question.
Hermione gives a small, wan smile and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “It can’t be as bad as other arguments we’ve gotten into, can it?”
Harry snorts and leans back, retracting the hand that had laid on Hermione’s. “I guess we’ll see.”
***
Harry is right. Ron does not take the news well. But even Harry had not predicted how poorly the conversation would go.
“You’re leaving Friday?” he cries when Hermione tells him of her plans.
She nods, fighting to keep her expression neutral.
“But—” Ron sputters, “but, Hermione, you can’t just—”
“I have to do this, Ron,” she sighs. “I have to find them.”
“So just wait a few weeks and I’ll go with you. We’ll do it together—”
“I have to do this now. I can’t—”
“You can’t go there by yourself. Half the known death eaters have up and disappeared and could be anywhere—”
“I can take care of myself and besides George will be there—”
“George will be there?” Ron blinks and stares at her. “What?”
Hermione nods again. “He said he’d go with me. To make sure nothing happens to me.”
Ron scowls. “So you’re just going to go off with George to Australia?”
“And find my parents. Yes.”
Ron bites his lip, his ears turning slightly pink. “But what about—Hermione, I told you I’d go with you once—”
“No,” she shakes her head, harder this time. “No, Ron, I have to — I don’t—” she stops short, unsure what she wants to say next. I don’t have it in me to wait five weeks? I don’t feel the way about you that you feel about me? I don’t think I can take weeks or months of you looking at me like that without feeling like the worst person in the world?
“I have to do this now,” she says finally, her voice sounding alien to her ears, all composure and coolness. “I have to go now while I can, and I have to find them. I appreciate you being willing to go but I have to do this now.”
Ron stares at her.
“Hermione.”
His voice is gentler now, and when he steps forward and puts a hand on her elbow his face scrunches in concern. “I’ll go with you. Really, I can talk to Dad and have them reassign me—”
“No.” She shakes her head and moves away, looking at the floor to avoid seeing his face. Bile swims up her throat and she swallows it, wishing for the thousandth time she had never kissed him, had never gone to the chamber with him, had never regarded him with anything warmer than sisterly affection. She doesn’t love him, had confused an overwhelming familiarity and sincere fondness for something more, and had acted rashly when she thought she had less than a day left to live. And now he was going to unknowingly punish her for her foolishness.
“Ron,” she sighs. “Please. Stay here. You’re doing so much, and everyone is so grateful.” He rolls his eyes. She ignores him. “Stay here where you’re needed. I’ll be fine in Australia.” She gives a smile which she hopes looks more sincere than it feels. “Really, I should be back within a week.”
“I don’t want you to leave so soon.” His blatant eagerness, the open vulnerability in his voice hits Hermione in the stomach like a punch. She closes her eyes.
“Hermione, please,” Ron continues. “I can’t—I know you have to find your parents but I can’t lose you this soon. Please, just wait, let me talk to Dad. We’ll go together, you and me—”
“I can’t do that, Ron,” she shakes her head. “I can’t—you and I— we can’t—”
“But we could—”
“We can’t!” She steps back, tearing her arm from his grasp and looking wildly around the kitchen.
“We can’t, and we won’t. It was a mistake—all of it a mistake and we—I can’t do that to you! It just—”
“A mistake?” Ron’s eyes narrow, and the flush on his cheeks darkens.
“No,” Hermione stammers, “I just mean that I shouldn’t have—”
“I get it.” Ron stares furiously at her. “You felt bad for me, that was it, wasn’t it? Poor Ron needed someone to snog him—”
“No!” The tears burn behind her eyes again, and when would they stop? Hermione sniffs, feeling mucus and bile shoot back into her sinuses, rushing to her head. “No, Ron, honestly you have to know how important you are to me—”
“Not important enough for you to let me come with you—”
“It wouldn’t be fair to you—”
“You know what,” he shakes his head. “Have a lovely time in Australia. Honestly. I hope you find your parents and everything goes well so you can go back to your own house and leave me alone.” He turns on his heel and stalks out of the room.
“Ron!”
The tears flow freely now, and Hermione rushes up to the attic, flinging herself on the bed and burying her face in the pillow. Not for the first time that week, she wishes the world would just open up and swallow her.
It is too much. It all is too much. Ron must surely hate her now; the look on his face said as much. The wizarding world lies in shambles around her, and the muggle world seems cold and empty now that her only family lives around the globe, unaware of her existence.
A sob escapes Hermione’s throat and she curls herself into a ball against the mattress.
How is anyone supposed to cope with one world, let alone two?
She drifts to sleep at some point, her mind fuzzy from the tears and the stress and the sounds that still rattle in her brain whenever she lies down. The sky outside her window is dark when her door blasts open and Hermione leaps to her feet, hand going frantically to the floor for her wand.
“How do you like it now when someone barges in—” George stands in her doorway, arms filled with books, the small grin on his face fading when he catches sight of Hermione’s puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks. “Oh—er—sorry. Are you—”
“Fine,” Hermione says in a voice much higher than her own, smoothing her shirt and waving him inside. “What do you have?”
“Just giving these back to you,” George says, looking somewhat sheepishly around the room. “If there were an award for the most knowledgeable pretend muggle tourist in Australia I think I’d win it.”
Hermione gives a weak chuckle and watches him place the books on the floor at her feet. “Glad to hear it. I’ll phone the travel agent tomorrow and get our tickets.”
“Great.” George nods. “I’ll have everything packed.” He looks much different from the night before in the kitchen. Not quite happy, but purposeful, and the change makes Hermione smile slightly.
“I’ll let you know once I have the tickets,” she says.
“Right,” George gives a short shake of his head and glances around the room. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your beauty sleep, then.” He gives a wan smile, and Hermione thinks she detects an attempt at a joke.
“Goodnight,” she says.
***
The next two days pass in a blur of owl orders and travel guide annotations. Thursday morning finds Hermione sitting cross-legged on the floor of the attic bedroom, the knapsack by her side and a litter of books strewn about the room.
A knock rings out against the door, first tentative and then insistent.
Hermione looks from the book in her hands and frowns. “Come in.”
The door creaks against its hinges as George steps into the room. He looks across the room, eyebrows moving high up his forehead as he sees the number of books scattered about. He doesn’t comment, though, as he walks towards her.
“I’ve been thinking,” he announces, coming to a stop in front of her.
Hermione sets the book down beside her and looks up. “I’ll send an owl to the Prophet,” she says coolly.
“Funny,” George retorts, though he does not smile. He bends down and drops a folded piece of paper in her lap. “I’ve been thinking about my Charles Darcy character.”
Hermione raises her eyebrows in surprise. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” George nods. “I added my birthday to the passport thing.”
Hermione gingerly picks up the paper passport and opens it. When she glances down she can see April 1, 1978 scrawled across the page in vivid black ink.
“I’ve also decided on my job,” George says. “I’m a solicitor. I’ve always wanted to be able to tell people I’m one of those.”
“Why?” Hermione crinkles her nose, thinking of her old next door neighbor Mr. Fredericks, who worked as a solicitor and wore an ill-fitting toupee to the office every day.
George shrugs. “We overheard a bloke at school talking about solicitors one time and thought they were some sort of magical animal salesman. We both wanted to be one until Lee told us what they actually are.”
Hermione frowns in confusion, trying to work through this explanation. “What—”
“Never mind,” George cuts her off. “I’m guessing you’ve already figured all this out for your own identity?”
Hermione nods.
“Well?” George presses.
“What?”
George rolls his eyes. “What’s your job? Or, rather, what’s Elizabeth Wilkins’ job? It will look funny if someone asks me and I don’t know.”
“Oh.” Hermione pauses and bites her lip. “I’m a student,” she says.
“Still?” George wrinkles his brow. “You’re a little old to be saying that, Granger.”
Hermione shakes her head. “I’m a university student at Oxford. Studying literature.”
She sucks in a breath as she looks down again at her books. Studying drama and literature at Oxford had been a dream she had shared with her parents, ever since she visited the ancient university and her mother bought her a copy of The Tempest. Young Hermione had put her little nose in the air and informed her parents that while being a dentist was all well and good, she would spend her time reading books in a castle.
She had managed to do just that, in a way. Not that her parents had any idea of it anymore.
George clears his throat, pulling Hermione from her thoughts. “How did Ronnie-kins take the news that you’re leaving?”
Hermione forces her face into a neutral expression and shrugs, her eyes dropping down to her book again as she thinks about the scene in the kitchen that morning. Ron had studiously ignored her when she walked into the room, buttering his toast with such ferocity he nearly put a hole in it.
“You know how he is.”
“Yes.” George rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry, Granger. Ronnie’s always alright once he’s thrown his tantrum. He’ll come around.”
Hermione nods but does not reply. She has not told a soul other than Harry about the real reason for Ron’s anger. Judging by George’s reply, Ron hasn’t told his family that the two of them aren’t a couple. She doesn't know if this is a kindness or a cruelty on his part.
She looks up through her eyelashes and sees George watching her, his arms crossed against his chest and his expression dancing between irritation and pity. She quickly drops her gaze to her lap and chews her lip. Part of her wants to scream and tell George to stop looking at her like that, that there is nothing there, that Ron is angry with her because he thinks she’s rejecting him and running away to Australia to avoid him.
She feels bile rise up her throat as she realizes that really, he is right. When laid out plainly, she has rejected him, and now she is running away to Australia to avoid him.
She closes her eyes and prays once again that she can in fact bring them home. The prayer is laced with the smallest bit of panic that has not been there before. As George watches her, a question comes to Hermione’s mind that she has not yet considered.
If her friendship with Ron breaks, will she still be invited to call the Weasley family her own?
Somehow she doubts it.