Down Under

A thundering quiet pulses between Hermione and George as the hotel room door clicks shut behind them and they make their way out onto the street. Hermione slants a glance over her shoulder at George as they walk, his words ringing in her ears. 

I will get you and your parents out of Australia and back home to England no matter what. Or I will die trying.

Her kidneys and lungs turn to stone as she turns the words over in her head, putting them next to the plan she had so carefully constructed. In her mind she examines both George’s promise and her shredded plan, inspecting them in the light, searching for some trapdoor or loophole they can sneak through. 

There must be something—something she has not yet thought of. Something that will ensure they all return home safely. 

She puts a hand to her pocket, feels the bulging products through the fabric. She doesn’t know now, how she will use the hidden contraptions, but she feels better knowing they are there. 

Her eyes slide back to George, his shoulders straight and his jaw set as he leads them through the hotel lobby. His hair hangs past his jaw, and as he walks she can see flashes of mangled skin and the dark hole in place of his left ear. She glances down and sees the maroon stripe of crusted blood against his palm. 

She wishes she had thought to heal both of their hands before they left. She flexes the fingers of her left hand, the heat and sparks within her veins still palpable. 

The stones in her stomach grow heavier as George opens the lobby door and they step out into the open air. Hermione pauses and glances over her shoulder, letting out a breath as she confirms they are still alone. 

George steps into a darkened corner to the side of the building and holds out his hand. Hermione places her palm in his, her eyes coming back up to rest on his face. In the streaked sunlight the shades of blue in his eyes seem to move, the strands twisting and crashing against each other like waves in a tempest. Hermione imagines for a moment what it would feel like to tip forward and swim in them, to hold still and let the waves crest and crash over her.

George squeezes her hand but doesn’t move. Hermione’s stomach twists.  

She wants so desperately to keep him safe, to know that he will return home when this ordeal is over. She hopes that when everything is done and she has done whatever it is that she will do today he knows just how much he has come to mean to her. She hopes he knows how deeply she cherishes him. 

A more honest person would use a different word. A braver person would say that word to George in this moment. But Hermione Granger knows that she is neither honest nor brave enough. 

So she will do what she has always done: make a plan and think on her feet and do everything she can to keep the people she loves out of harm’s way. She thinks of Harry, of how he had walked alone into the forest two and a half months ago to save them all.

She almost wishes her path forward were so clear, so obvious. She would gladly walk into a forest and greet a curse if it meant knowing George and her parents would be safe. She is a coward in many ways, but she no longer fears death, not when she has seen the alternative. 

George’s words come back again, and Hermione considers them once more. 

There is a way to keep them all safe. There must be. She just has to find it. 

Beside her, George shifts and tucks her into his side. Hermione has a moment to draw a breath as he turns on the spot, and then the world falls away. 

***

Her feet hit pavement and she blinks rapidly as the bright, sunlit world settles around her. 

The National Library sits before her, and Hermione swallows a flash of disappointment. The expansive building and its towering pillars seem somehow smaller in the daytime, dwarfed and muted by the brilliant expanse of blue sky around it. 

“You ready?” George murmurs beside her, his hand tightening around hers as he swivels his head to survey their surroundings. 

Hermione nods, her free hand drifting to the pocket of her cloak. She runs her fingertips over the protruding fabric, feeling the outline of the trick wand. “Ready.” 

“Let’s get inside, then. Try to stay on my right side, if you can. It’s easier to hear you.” 

George marches towards the heavy front door, his spine straight and gaze never settling in any one place for more than a moment. Hermione bites her lip, the knot in her stomach constricting as they walk through the doorway and into the familiar lobby. 

The lobby itself looks different than it had in Hermione’s memory. In the daylight it seems larger, more spacious. Illogically, it feels almost more empty now, with just a handful of people ambling about the gleaming white tiled floors rather than shadows lounging against every surface. 

George walks them to the welcome desk and comes to a stop, carving a benign smile onto his face. 

“Good morning,” he says to the woman at the desk. “Charles Darcy’s the name, and I believe I have an appointment to review some election records.” 

The woman frowns and bends to look at the glowing computer monitor in front of her. Out of the corner of her eye Hermione sees George shove his free hand in his pocket, no doubt for his wand. 

As George chats with the woman behind the desk and assures her that he had made an appointment weeks ago over the telephone, Hermione takes on the task of keeping watch over the space around them. She rocks back on her heels, eyes jumping to each of the figures hanging lazily about the room. 

The woman behind the desk moves a computer mouse languidly over its trackpad, clicking furiously as the crease between her eyebrows deepens. An elderly man sits in a wooden chair a few paces away, his chin dipping so close to his chest that Hermione can’t be sure he isn’t asleep. Another woman, this one middle-aged and with blonde hair that Hermione is quite sure is unnatural, meanders in and out of the lobby flipping through a stack of papers. 

She searches each of their faces for any sign of recognition, some trace of Yaxley or her parents. She finds only glazed, distracted expressions, and a few unconcealed frowns of disapproval from the blonde woman as she eyes Hermione’s dark cloak. 

The wheeze of the door sounds behind them and Hermione whips around so quickly she nearly loses her balance. George’s hand tightens against hers, holding her upright, and Hermione lets out a breath as she sees a small elderly woman waddle through the doorway and join the man in the chair. 

The quickness of her pulse does not subside as Hermione accepts that the new arrival also seems to have no interest in her or George. She shakes her head slightly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. 

She realizes that she had expected Yaxley to still be at the library, waiting for them to return. Looking around the open, bright lobby of the National Library once again, Hermione feels almost foolish for the intensity with which she prepared this morning, anticipating another fight. 

Maybe she was mistaken. Maybe all of it—the cloak, the plan, the oath—had been unnecessary. 

She glances up and sees the woman behind the desk take a brochure from the desk and hand it to George, her mouth puckered like she just bit into a lemon. 

George accepts the brochure, face twisted in a grimace. 

“Thank you, Eden,” he says. “My colleague and I appreciate it.” 

Eden gives George a rather terse nod before returning to the computer monitor, and George turns to glance at Hermione. 

“It seems the records we’re looking for will be in the last reading room down the corridor,” he says in a measured voice, nodding towards the nearest hallway. 

Hermione follows his gaze and does her best to hold her breaths steady as memories of the night before crash into her. 

“Okay,” she hears herself say.

George leads her down the corridor, still clutching her hand.  The door to the records room they had been in the night before sits locked, and Hermione wonders what state it had been in when the staff arrived that morning. 

The reading room sits at the end of the corridor, the blonde woman from the lobby standing by the door. 

“What can we help you find today?” she asks, eyebrows arched as they approach. 

“Er—” George pauses and glances towards Hermione. “Electoral records from the past year, if you can do that.” 

The woman nods and shoulders past them. 

George and Hermione step into the reading room and sink into the closest chairs. 

“I feel like he’s going to jump out at us at any bloody moment,” George murmurs under his breath, craning his neck to look down the corridor.

“I know,” Hermione whispers. “I thought—I really thought he’d be waiting—” 

“We just can’t let our guard down.” George mutters. 

“Constant vigilance,” Hermione says with a wry smile.  

George slants a glance at her. “You think old Mad-Eye would be proud if he saw us now?” he asks.

“I’m sure,” Hermione says softly. She drops her hand to the pocket of her cloak again and lets her fingers run across the fabric. 

George looks down, his eyeline following her fingers to the bulging pocket at her hip. “You—” 

He cuts off abruptly as footsteps sound and the blonde woman returns, her arms laden with file boxes. 

“This is all the electoral records from the past calendar year,” she grumbles as she drops the boxes on the table. “Come find me if you need anything else.” 

“Thank you,” Hermione says, though the woman has already turned and stalked away. 

“Dunno what’s got her wand in such a knot,” George mutters. 

Hermione shrugs and leans forward to remove the lid from the first box. “She probably just thinks we’re odd. She’s made a face every time she’s looked at my cloak.” 

George purses his lips. “Don’t take it off.” 

“I wasn’t going to.” 

“Good.” George arches an eyebrow and holds up his left hand between them, the bloody slash glistening under the fluorescent lights. “I’d rather prefer if we did what we can to keep you safe, now that I’ve promised on pain of death—” 

“It’s not pain of death and you know that,” Hermione says, shaking her head. She looks down and runs a finger over her own palm. “It just—will magically compel us to uphold the terms we’ve set when the proper conditions arise.” 

“Hm,” George hums. “Much better.” 

Hermione chews her lip and turns her mind back to the morning, sitting on a bed in a hotel room with George Weasley, their hands clasped and words solemn as their blood mingled and merged. 

George pushes the first box of records towards Hermione and removes the lid from a second. 

“Lucky we’ve had so much practice at the library before we got here,” he says lightly, flicking through the pile of documents. “After the Land Registry, this seems simple.” 

Hermione lets a smile unzip slowly across her face. He is so good at this, redirecting her thoughts in a more pleasant direction. Finding light in the bleakest of moments. 

She pulls the box closer and takes out the first record. 

***

It is almost amusing how quickly they find what they are looking for. 

They have been sifting through documents for barely an hour, have not even opened the third box, when Hermione’s eyes land on the name she has been looking for for the last nine weeks. 

“George,” she croaks, holding up the nondescript form in her hand. “I found it.” 

George’s head jerks up and he stares at her, eyes wide. “You have it?” 

Hermione nods and scans the name and address on the form one more time before handing it to him. George takes the sheet of paper from her, his mouth moving silently as he reads it. 

He looks up and locks his gaze on her. “Let’s go, then.” 

They pack up quickly, Hermione hastily dumping forms and cards back into the file box and restoring the lid. George sweeps both boxes from the table without a word, waiting for Hermione to move beside him before striding towards the door. 

They return the file boxes to the blonde woman and barely stop before saying a swift goodbye. Hermione feels her heart pick up its pace once again, each beat landing heavily against her ribs as George takes her hand and tugs her towards the front door. 

The crisp afternoon air wafts across her face and dances through her hair. Hermione follows George down the tiled walkway and across the street, side-stepping into a shadowy vestibule. 

George pauses, his own breaths sounding rather shallow as he tightens his hand around hers.

“You ready?” he asks. 

Hermione nods, tipping her chin up and meeting his eye. 

George takes a breath and turns. 

Darkness consumes them. Hermione feels her organs squeeze, her body compressed to almost nothing, and then her feet find solid ground and light once again presses upon her. 

She blinks and turns to observe the place where they have landed. She and George stand in the middle of a quiet, shady street lined with cozy houses. Hermione’s breath catches as she sees the house to her left, the one that according to the electoral records, is the permanent address for Wendell Wilkins. 

It is a modest bungalow, with a large window at the front displaying a wide, overcrowded bookshelf and plush sofa. Almost without permission, the image flashes in Hermione’s head of her parents passing evenings on that sofa, each absorbed in their own book. 

A dog barks from somewhere nearby, and Hermione jumps slightly, remembering exactly where they are and why. 

“Do you see anyone nearby?” she whispers to George, spinning around to look for any sign of neighbors. 

George shakes his head, his hand going to his pocket and extracting his wand. 

“I think we’re clear,” he says. He holds the wand in his hand and murmurs, “invenio.” 

Hermione holds her breath and watches as the wand spins and lands directly at the house with the bookshelf. 

George’s expression grows dark. “He’s here,” he says. 

Hermione swallows her breath. “At least we know.” 

George brushes a piece of hair from her face. “It’s going to be alright. We’re going to get them home.” 

She gives a shaky nod, her eyes sliding again to the large window, the overflowing bookshelf. “I know.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer before she strides across the street and up the walkway of the house with the bookshelf. She can hear George’s sound of exasperation, his heavy footfalls as he catches up to her. 

She doesn’t pause when she comes to the front door, not bothering to knock before she twists the doorknob. 

The door swings open. 

George steps in front of her, an arm reaching out and pushing her behind him. Hermione steps to the side, clenching her teeth together as George holds his wand aloft and they creep carefully into the house. 

“We’ve been waiting for you two.” 

Hermione sees Yaxley standing near the doorway, just out of view from the front window. His wand hangs lazily at his side and he grins at them like they have just arrived for a dinner party. 

George raises his wand, and Hermione puts a hand into the pocket of her cloak, when she steps past the foyer and catches sight of the two figures bound with heavy ropes and hunched against the wall on the far side of the room. 

Time seems to freeze around her. The air sticks to her throat. 

They are here, in the flesh. Hermione takes another step into the house, her jaw growing slack and her eyes leaving Yaxley’s form altogether as she takes in the sight of her parents. Her father’s hair has grown longer than she has ever seen it, the coarse brown hair curling around his ears and sticking out in bushy patches. Her mother looks leaner, more tanned than Hermione ever remembers seeing her at home, her dark eyes skittering over the newcomers. 

They look shrunken, shocked. The ropes binding their wrists seem to sprout directly from the hardwood, the heavy cords wrapped around the Grangers’ skin without any visible knot. Hermione wants to cry as she realizes she has never seen either of her parents in such a pitiful position. 

But they are here. 

Hermione wants to run to them. She wants to stride across the room, Yaxley be damned, and wrap them both in an embrace so tight that pieces of their souls sink into hers. 

She wants to dig her fingers into their skin and never let go of them again. 

Beside her, both Yaxley and George wave their wands simultaneously, and a furious mix of red and purple light fills the room. 

George shoves Hermione to the side, and reality crashes back into her. 

“Go get your parents and get them outside,” he says in a rough whisper, jabbing his wand towards Yaxley in an attempt to stave off the slew of curses barreling towards them. “If he follows you then do your best to distract him so I can get a clear shot.” 

Hermione glances towards Yaxley, and brings her hand down to her cloak pocket. The veins in her left arm burn and her body inches away from Yaxley, as though her very bones are trying to avoid a fight. 

Keeping one eye on the battle happening beside her, Hermione hurries across the room, past George and towards her parents. To her dismay, they shrink away from her, spines chafing against the wall and the heavy rope leaving angry red marks against their wrists. Both her mother and father volley their attention between the duel unfolding in their entryway and Hermione rushing towards them across the room, a look of abject horror on their faces. 

Hermione feels her mother’s eyes land on her and tries to smile, tries to will any kind of ancient family magic to take control and break whatever spell Yaxley has cast over them. 

No sign of recognition sparks in her mother’s eyes. 

Hermione forces her gaze away and drops to her knees in front of her parents. She can see the light, hear the grunts and yelps coming from George and Yaxley. 

She reaches out to take hold of the ropes wrapped around her mother’s wrists. Her mother shrieks and jerks her hands back, the strands growing taut around her skin. 

“I’m trying to help!” Hermione cries, reaching forward again as her mother recoils “Please, I want to help you—” 

“Get away from her!” Hermione’s father shouts, leaning forward and using his elbow to bat Hermione’s hands away. “Go! You won’t do anything to her—” 

“I’m not trying to,” the words come out choked and Hermione looks frantically around the room. There has to be something—anything—that can help—

“Just leave us be,” her mother sobs, her head bobbing as she turns her face away. “We haven’t done anything—” 

“I know,” Hermione says, her face burning as she pivots and bends to examine the spot on the floor from which the ropes have sprung. “I know you haven’t—I know—” 

Her fingers catch against the rough strands and Hermione looks about the room. The ropes must be magical, as there are no knots to untie and no beginning or end that she can find. She must cut them. She needs a knife—or a blade of some sort—something—

Her eyes spot a glimpse of a countertop through the doorway and she realizes the kitchen must sit on the other side of the bookshelf. 

“Why are you doing this—” Hermione’s mother continues to sob, her words wobbling as she trembles against her husband. “We haven’t done anything—” 

“I know you haven’t,” Hermione says again, getting to her feet and backing away. “I’m sorry—” her voice catches. “I’m so sorry—” 

She puts one foot in front of the other, not even bothering to look at George and Yaxley before she runs through the arched doorway and into the kitchen. 

The space is small and bright, the counter sprinkled with appliances just as their little kitchen in Hampstead Garden had been. Hermione darts forward as she spots the knife block, hastily withdrawing a heavy serrated knife from its slip. 

She prays it will work.

A flash of red fills the kitchen, and Hermione whips around, a scream bubbling up from her chest. Yaxley stands in the doorway, wand pointed at her, his look of triumph melting into one of amusement as the jet of red grazes her cloak and rebounds. 

“Oh, you must think you’re very clever, don’t you?” he asks, chuckling. He flicks his wand and another jet of light approaches. Hermione ducks, the knife still clutched in her hand. 

“You think because you can wrap yourself in an enchanted piece of fabric you’ll be protected, Mudblood?” Yaxley asks. “How very sweet.” 

Hermione shifts, moving to the side so she has a clear view of the doorway. Behind Yaxley, Hermione sees a figure moving, a wand waving. Yaxley twists just as a blast of blue erupts from George’s wand only to be deflected. 

“Not so fast, you spineless blood traitor,” Yaxley spits. 

George aims another spell, and Yaxley spins around, his wand slicing through the air so George is sent hurtling backwards. He lands with a sickening thud against the wall next to Hermione’s parents. 

She watches, her ribcage constricting, as George slumps for a moment. Her parents look down, horrified, frozen in place. 

Slowly, George brings a hand to his head and gets unsteadily to his feet. Hermione’s breath loosens.

A curse cuts close to Hermione’s side and she turns hastily back to face Yaxley, wheeling sideways to avoid the litany of spells barreling towards her. 

Yaxley follows her, stalking her through the kitchen and into the hallway. Hermione realizes with a sinking heart that they are moving away from her parents, away from the front room and the doorway. 

“I won’t let you slip away this time,” Yaxley says, twirling his wand in his hand and grinning at her. “I have big plans for you, you see. I think you will prove most useful to me and my friends.” 

“No thank you,” Hermione replies primly, thrusting her free hand into the pocket of her cloak. “I’ve my own plans, I’m afraid.” 

She drops the decoy detonator on the floor beside her. Yaxley continues to advance. A barrage of curses still rains from his wand, and Hermione dances as she tries to avoid them, the cloak swishing around her ankles. 

“It’s really nothing to be afraid of,” Yaxley purrs as he aims another jinx at her. “Why, I might even be inclined to release your disgusting muggle parents if you just agree to come with me. It seems a fair trade, don’t you think?” 

Hermione’s body freezes, her very blood seeming to still as she considers the words. She swallows and brings a hand up to her throat, catching hold of the magpie pendant against her neck. 

“No,” she says, eyes narrowing. “No. I won’t.” 

Yaxley’s lip curls. “A pity,” he says. “I thought you were supposed to be bright.” 

A loud bang sounds and a cloud of black smoke billows from an adjacent room. Yaxley frowns, head spinning to look behind him. “What—” 

Hermione seizes the opportunity. She runs through the hallway and back towards the front room where her parents still sit, eyes wide and faces pale. 

“Don’t move,” she says in a harsh whisper as she drops down beside her mother, brandishing the knife. Hermione ignores her mother’s scream as she sets the blade against the rope, sawing it back and forth. 

“What are you—” 

“I’m trying to get you both out of here!” she cries, not allowing herself to look up as she drags the blade against the rope with as much force as she can muster. 

“Why isn’t it working?” Hermione’s father demands, leaning forward to look at the rope holding his wife’s wrist, which remains stubbornly intact despite Hermione’s best efforts. 

“It’s magic,” Hermione says, a kernel of panic beginning to bloom in her brain as she hears a series of thumps and shouts from the hallway. “The ropes are magic and they must be reinforced somehow—” 

“What do you mean magic—” 

“Hermione!” 

George’s voice crashes into her and Hermione looks up to see him rush through the doorway, his wand still held high. “Thank Merlin—” 

“I need your help!” she shouts, jumping to her feet and pointing at the ropes. “They must have some sort of magical reinforcement on them. I can’t break them. I need you to—” 

George kneels beside her and Hermione can hear the footsteps approaching from the hall. 

She gets to her feet and jumps to the side as Yaxley enters the room again, his face stormy and his wand already slicing through the air. 

“Enough of this,” he snarls. “Stop this or I promise I will slaughter them both while you sit and watch.” 

Hermione says nothing, just shakes her head as she backs away, towards the kitchen again. She can see the ropes fall away from her mother, sees George turn and raise his wand to those binding her father. 

Yaxley follows her. Hermione’s eyes drift towards George again, the veins in her left arm burning. They are running out of time. She cannot hold Yaxley off much longer. 

“You should have taken my offer when I gave it, Mudblood,” Yaxley sneers. He flicks his wand and Hermione gasps as she is sent tumbling backwards into the kitchen table and chairs. 

She thinks of the words uttered earlier. The veins of her left arm burn hot, like her blood is screaming at her to remember the promises she has made. 

Hermione realizes two things simultaneously. 

It is the only way to be sure. She just needs to create an opportunity. 

Yaxley’s wand taps against the air and Hermione rolls to the side as the chair beside her shatters. She scrambles to her feet and backs further towards the kitchen, shoving her hand into her cloak pocket. She takes hold of a small, neon box and holds it up above her shoulder, lip trembling.

“No!” 

She can hear George’s furious shout across the room and makes the mistake of looking up. 

He stares at her, mouth open and face red. He looks almost ill. “Hermione, no! Don’t—” 

“Make sure they’re safe,” she cries, her eyes darting to her parents, still hunched against the wall but free of the bindings. She sees her mother turn, her expression shifting. “Make sure they’re safe and that they remember.” 

She takes a breath and prays the time she can give them will be enough. 

He will come find her. He has promised. 

Before she can pause or look at George again, she opens the box and flings the contents over Yaxley’s head. It lands lightly against the floor and in a blink a great, bubbling, stinking swamp blossoms across the front room, stretching from one wall to the next. George and the Grangers sit on one side of the dense muck, just barely visible through the sprouting aspens and white oaks, while Hermione and Yaxley stand on the other.  

Yaxley looks at her with unqualified glee, his wand hanging limply at his side as he scans the portable swamp. 

“A little martyr,” he croons. He raises his wand. Hermione holds her breath. She does not reach for a trick wand, does not lunge for Yaxley or try to shield herself. 

She thinks of Harry, and stands upright. Watching, waiting. 

Yaxley’s mouth moves, his wand pointed straight at her chest. 

The magpie charm flutters against her throat and Hermione tries to raise a hand to touch it once more. 

A flash of light fills the house, and the world goes dark.