Down Under

Echoes of the fight ring through the trees, and dust falls like snow against the sky. Hermione leans heavily on Harry’s shoulder as they follow Mr. Weasley out of the ravaged building and into the open air. 

At the edge of the street Mr. Weasley looks over his shoulder and pulls out his wand. “We have to get these two to the Australian Ministry,” he says, gesturing to Yaxley and Alecto still floating unconscious behind him, “before they regain consciousness and become too difficult.” He checks his watch, and then peers at all of them in turn. “Does everyone know where they’re going?” 

George, Harry, and Ron all nod. Hermione sinks further against Harry. The ache in her skull has returned, and her legs tremble beneath her. 

“Good.” Mr. Weasley takes his place beside Yaxley and puts a hand gingerly on the ropes binding the man’s legs. “I’ll go first and let someone know we’re there. George, you bring Alecto. Ron, Harry, follow us and look after Hermione.” His gaze lands on Hermione, and his face softens. “Hermione, try to keep your head up for just a little longer. This might be unpleasant, but we’re going to get you home as soon as we can.” 

Hermione clenches her teeth and bobs her head. 

“Alright.” Mr. Weasley grips his wand and squares his shoulders. “Don’t dawdle. I’ll see you all there.” He turns on the spot, and disappears with a faint pop. 

The air quivers where Mr. Weasley had stood. Quiet hangs heavy over the street, and the pounding in Hermione’s head deepens. 

“Do you want me to wait?” George asks, the question directed to the ground beside Hermione’s feet. 

Hermione’s eyes drift towards him, linger on his face. She wishes he would look at her. 

Ron shakes his head. “You go ahead.”

George’s forehead wrinkles. “Right.” Without a backward glance he takes out his wand and puts a hand on Alecto’s bound feet, his shoulders stiff. He turns on his heel and vanishes. 

Hermione, Harry, and Ron stand alone now, huddled together in a nondescript street far from home. She presses her lips together. 

Some things never change. 

Harry retracts his arm from Hermione’s shoulders as Ron comes to join them. She can feel Harry shift, knows he and Ron are having a silent conversation over the top of her head as they each grip one of her elbows. 

“I’ll try not to splinch any of us,” Ron murmurs. 

Hermione merely nods, unsure if he means it as a joke or not. 

Ron’s grip on her elbow tightens, and darkness engulfs them. 

***

The next several hours pass in a haze. Hermione is aware of the fact that they land at the Australian Ministry, all of their limbs thankfully intact. She allows Harry to guide her down the various corridors, following Mr. Weasley and not caring to ask where they are going. 

A pair of officials meet them at some point, their faces drawn as Mr. Weasley steps forward and gestures to Yaxley and Alecto’s bound forms. Hermione lets herself be ushered into a cavernous office and sink into a chair offered by a faceless assistant. She leans forward and drops her head into her hands.  

There are questions. So many questions, most of them directed at her.  She knows she answers, feels her mouth moving mechanically and hears sound coming out, but cannot recall what she says. Harry and Ron sit beside her, occasionally frowning or letting out cries of indignation as she tells the officials of her interactions with Yaxley. At some point Ron takes her hand, holding it loosely. Hermione looks down, realizing then just how badly she is shaking.

George sits several paces away, next to Mr. Weasley. A muscle feathers in his jaw, his eyes cast down. He must have already told his version of events, because the officials do not ask him for his input. He looks up every so often to nod as Hermione speaks, or to add a detail to her responses, but otherwise stays quiet. 

Hermione looks at her hands, her eyes tracking the angry gash running along her palm. She wishes everyone would leave the room so she can curl up against George and rest her head on his shoulder. She imagines his thumb stroking her back, his mouth pressing lightly against the split skin on her hand. 

The Australian officials ask Hermione about the final fight with Yaxley and Alecto, and she hesitates. She glances up, her stomach twisting. Her eyes find George just in time to catch him averting his gaze.

“I don’t—I don’t know what happened,” she says, her voice sounding alien to her ears. “I was standing there. I had the piece of glass in my hand and I didn’t have a wand. And then—then I was on the ground, and Yaxley was disarmed.” 

She catches her lower lip between her teeth and looks to one of the officials, who scribbles hastily on a roll of parchment, and then to Mr. Weasley. “I wish I could say what happened or how I did it but—but I really can’t.”

Mr. Weasley nods slowly. “Sometimes,” he murmurs, “when those we care about deeply are in danger, we are capable of strange things.” 

Hermione bites down on her lip. Her eyes slide to George again, who frowns at the floor. Hermione tugs her hand from Ron’s grasp and folds it in her lap, running her thumb across her palm. Her chest tightens, and she closes her eyes. 

“I think we ought to be done now,” Mr. Weasley says. 

***

There is already a portkey waiting to take them back to Britain. The Australian officials lead them down another set of winding corridors and nod briskly as they come to a stop within a nondescript office, a single hand mirror sitting on a desk. 

Hermione takes her place near the desk, her head bursting. The air feels thick around her, suffocating. She wants quiet. She wants to lie down. 

Mr. Weasley checks his watch and announces they have less than a minute to go. Hermione sets her hand on the mirror’s handle, leaning to the side so she doesn’t have to see her reflection. Beside her, Ron puts a hand on her shoulder. Hermione inhales and tries not to flinch as the mirror glows blue and they are tugged away. 

Her feet slam into the floor of the lobby at St. Mungo’s and Hermione’s legs buckle. Ron and Harry steady her, holding her upright as Mr. Weasley says something to the witch behind the desk. 

“I’m really fine—” Hermione says faintly as a small crowd of wizards wearing lime green robes surround them and she is pressed onto a stretcher. “Really—”

“It’s just to check,” one of the healers says, smiling kindly. She waves her wand and conjures a phial filled with purple potion. “Take this, dear.” 

Hermione obliges, too tired to argue further. The potion warms her throat, and she lays back, her head growing heavy. She looks around, searching for George one last time. She spots him behind Ron, his expression unreadable. She lifts up her bloody hand, reaching. 

“Yes, I see,” the healer says, taking Hermione’s hand and tucking it back onto the stretcher. 

Hermione shakes her head. “I—” she tries to protest, her tongue thick in her mouth. 

“When you wake all the pain will be gone,” the healer says, their voice warbling like a record on an old gramophone. Hermione turns, searching once again for the faces of George and her friends. The edges of her vision darken, the images receding into nothing.  

The dreamless sleep overtakes her, and she sinks into the beautiful, echoing silence. 

***

When Hermione wakes some indeterminate amount of time later the first thing she notices is the light. Her eyelids blink themselves apart, and she shifts to see a wide window beside her, sunlight streaming through. She looks down and finds herself lying in a narrow bed, the crisp white bedclothes tucked tightly around her. 

“Oh good, you’re awake!” A witch with blonde curly hair and lime green robes bustles over, a clipboard and quill trailing behind her. She hurries towards Hermione, her wand twirling in complex configurations. “How are we feeling?”

“Er—” Hermione sits up slightly and blinks. “Alright, I think.” 

“No nausea or dizziness?” the healer asks, tucking her wand away and peering at her. 

Hermione pauses, looks down at her torso and breathes. “No,” she says after a moment. “No, I actually feel quite well.”

The quill behind the healer scratches a note on the clipboard, and the healer beams. “Excellent! The dreamless sleep did wonders for you. Now, let me see that hand.” 

Frowning, Hermione raises her right hand and extends it. 

“No, no, the other one,” the healer clucks. 

Hermione tucks her right hand into her lap, a flush creeping up her neck. “Sorry.”

“Not a problem.” The healer takes Hermione’s left hand in her own and turns it, bending to examine it carefully. As she does so Hermione realizes the bloody cut has been healed, her skin shining and whole. 

She wonders, with a twist in her gut, if any remnants of the blood oath remain in her system. She holds her breath and searches for the familiar pulse along her left arm, the sparks swimming in her veins. 

All she feels is her heart thumping steadily in her chest. She puffs out her breath, and swallows a whimper as the healer releases her. 

“Don’t worry, love,” the healer says, mistaking her reaction for something else. “We healed that right up. It’s like it never even happened.” 

Hermione gives a tight smile, and nods wordlessly. 

“Everything seems to be coming along nicely,” the healer says, stepping back and skimming the clipboard. “You’ll have to stay through the afternoon for another round of observation, but after that I dare say you’ll be ready to go home.” 

Hermione sits up straighter, her hands twisting in her lap. “Home?”

“That’s right,” the healer nods. “That will be nice for you, won’t it?”

Hermione’s throat tightens, and she chews her lip. “Yes,” she croaks. “Yes, it will be lovely.” 

“Well,” the healer says, turning towards the door and adjusting her robes. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll leave you to it. You have some visitors waiting in the hallway. Would you like me to send them in?”

“Oh,” Hermione shuffles, a hand coming up to smooth her hair. “Yes, please do.” 

With a nod, the healer turns and opens the door. A jabber of voices fills the air, and before Hermione can so much as crane her neck to see the figures approaching, her vision is obscured by a crush of fabric and hair. 

“They didn’t tell me they were going to get you,” Ginny cries into her ear. “Or else I would’ve been there.” 

“It’s okay.” Hermione wriggles away just enough to pull her arms free and wrap them around Ginny, squeezing her. “I’m happy to see you.” 

“The boys said you had been tortured,” Ginny continues, her embrace loosening from bone-crushing to merely suffocating. “They said that Yaxley had you tied—”

“I’m alright, Gin,” Hermione says. “Really, I feel just fine right now.”

“I just can’t—”

“Bloody hell, Ginny, give her some space. She just woke up—”

Ginny frowns and twists to look behind her, and Hermione peers around her shoulders to see Harry, Ron, and Mrs. Weasley standing beside the bed. 

Ginny scowls at her brother. “I wouldn’t be doing this if you had just told me—”

“For fuck’s sake I already said, we had to move fast and you weren’t—”

“Ron! We are in a public place! Watch—”

“Mum even said it was rotten of you to leave without saying anything! Harry was there, he heard—”

“Ginny, hush, I never would have allowed you to go anyways—”

“How are you feeling, Hermione?” Harry asks loudly, stepping around Ron and coming to stand beside Ginny. 

A slow, halting smile spreads across Hermione’s face as she takes in the faces before her, Ron and Ginny glowering at one another, a tin in Mrs. Weasley’s hands no doubt full of homemade treats, Harry’s hair looking like he has just walked through a windstorm. Something in her chest loosens, her heart expands, and tears spill down Hermione’s cheeks. 

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Weasley steps forward, gently prying Ginny away and putting an arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, dear. The healers said it shouldn’t be too long—”

“No, no—” Hermione cries, shaking her head and trying to staunch the tears. “I’m sorry, it’s not—I’m fine, really. I feel better than I have in ages. I’m just so happy to see you all.” 

“Well, we’re glad you’re back,” Mrs. Weasley says, putting a hand to her cheek and smiling. “We were all so worried, when George told us what had happened.” 

“Where is George?” Hermione asks, looking again at the group before her. “Did they have to keep him here?”

Harry and Ginny exchange a look, and Ron’s jaw twitches. 

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Weasley says blithely. “He didn’t want to intrude today. And just as well, he’s been so busy since getting back. That shop is in a right state at the moment, I haven’t the faintest idea how he’ll have it ready to open by the time people are doing their back to school shopping.”

“Oh.” Hermione bites her lip as the words hit her, doing her best to school her expression. She swipes a knuckle against her eye, looking down and trying to find her composure. “Well, I’m so pleased all of you could come. I’ve missed you.”

“Once the healers have cleared you we’ll bring you back to the house,” Mrs Weasley says. She moves behind Hermione, tucking the bedsheets tighter and needlessly fluffing pillows. “The attic room is still made up for you, and I’ll speak with the healers before we go so they know to take you to the floo grates and not the apparition point when you’re discharged.” 

Hermione nods, her eyes burning again as she thinks of returning to the Burrow, with all of its warmth and its endless ghosts. 

“And once you’re well enough you can go and see your parents,” Mrs. Weasley continues. “They’re just a few floors up.” 

“They’re still here?” Hermione asks sharply, her eyes going wide. 

“The healers are still trying to recover their memories,” Ron says, craning his neck to look at her over his mother’s shoulders. “They—er—are all impressed with your memory charm.” 

“Dad’s been visiting most days, though, and says they’re making progress,” Ginny chirps. “They’ve managed to undo quite a lot of the spell work.” 

“Right.” Hermione nods and bites her lip. “I’ll—I’ll go see them soon, then.” She leans back, her shoulders dropping against the pillows. 

“These are for you, by the way, dear.” Mrs. Weasley hands Hermione the tin. “I wasn’t quite sure what you liked best so I put in a little of everything.” 

Hermione opens the tin and is greeted by a pile of every biscuit and sweet she can think of. She looks up at the smiling matron, her cheeks feeling hot and her throat once again tight. “Thank you.” 

“You got ginger biscuits?” Ron demands, reaching around his mother and snatching one from the tin. “Those are my favorites.” 

“Ronald, those are not for you!” Mrs. Weasley admonishes, glaring at him. “If you don’t mind yourself–” 

“It’s alright,” Hermione says, hastily holding up the tin and proffering it. “It would take me weeks to eat all of these. Please, everyone have some.” 

Ron reaches forward and takes two more ginger biscuits, ignoring his mother’s frowns. Harry takes a miniature treacle tart and Ginny helps herself to a piece of fudge. Hermione selects a slice of shortbread, sitting back and nibbling as she faces her friends. 

“So tell me what I’ve missed,” she says, brushing crumbs from the sheets. “You all know what’s happened in Australia.” 

“They’re expanding the ministry project,” Ron says, quickly swallowing a mouthful of biscuit. “Bill and I went out for six weeks and there’s loads of people who are still missing or need the ministry’s help rebuilding things the death eaters destroyed. They’re putting together a task force to oversee it all. Bill and I are co-leading it.” 

Ron’s chest puffs out a bit at the last part, and Hermione smiles. “That’s so lovely, Ron.”

“There’s another task force being set up to try and clean up the castle in time that students can go back for school this fall,” Ginny says. Her face pinches, and she glances furtively towards her mother before adding, “Percy’s helping coordinate that one.” 

Harry and Ron both let out muffled snickers and Hermione takes another bite of shortbread to hide her own grin as she pictures Percy directing a horde of hapless volunteers in the reorganization of the school. 

“What is the state of the castle?” Hermione asks, the laugh in her mouth quickly simmering to sadness as she thinks of the last time she had laid eyes on the place. 

Ginny and Ron sober. “It’s not good,” Ginny shakes her head. “The Great Hall and Entrance Hall are being rebuilt completely. And Percy said even some of the classrooms and towers are damaged enough that they aren’t usable.” 

“And he said about half the paintings and books have been ruined,” Ron chimes in, glancing at Hermione. “So someone will have to come in to rebuild the collections.” 

Hermione closes her eyes, thinking of her beloved Hogwarts library, the volumes and corridors that protected her for six years. 

“Enough of that,” Mrs. Weasley cuts in, taking the tin and holding it out to Hermione until she selects another biscuit and scowling at her children. “We didn’t come here to upset her. There’s plenty of good news to share as well. Bill and Fleur have decided to renovate the cottage, and one of the rooms has been designated as a nursery. They say there’s no news to share right now, but of course you never know. And Charlie has decided to take a little break at home for the last two weeks of the month before going back to Romania. We’ll have a full house for Harry’s birthday dinner.” 

Hermione’s eyes flick to Harry, who shrugs sheepishly in a way that suggests he had not asked for a birthday dinner, but rather had one planned for him. 

Mrs. Weasley continues on, sharing the details of Bill and Fleur’s renovations and Fleur’s “particularity” when it comes to paint colors. 

Hermione leans back, resting her head against her pillows and happily eating biscuits until the tin grows empty and her eyes heavy.   

The door opens, and the blonde healer peers in. “Visiting hours are over in a quarter hour,” she trills. “Just so you know.” 

“Goodness, but that went fast,” Mrs. Weasley exclaims, pausing in her recitation of Harry’s birthday dinner menu. She takes the sweet tin from Hermione’s lap, straightening the bedsheets one last time as she does so. 

Hermione blinks and sits up. She had almost forgotten that she is in a hospital, subject to visiting hours and orders from healers. She looks at Mrs. Weasley, and then at Ginny, and worries she might begin to cry again. 

“Thank you for coming.” 

“Of course, dear.” Mrs. Weasley bends and wraps her in a one-armed hug. “If we don’t see you by tomorrow evening, Arthur will come by the ward on his way home from work.” 

“Night, Hermione,” Harry says, leaning over and folding her into a short hug. “I’m glad you’re alright.” 

“Goodnight,” Hermione says, waving to Ginny and Ron as Harry releases her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Er—” Ron, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, remains standing beside Hermione. “I actually wanted to say something to you. Before—before we go. If that’s alright.” 

Hermione’s eyebrows rise, and she bites the inside of her cheek. “Okay.” 

Ron glances over his shoulder at his mother, sister, and Harry. His ears go pink. “You lot go. I–I’ll just be a minute.”  

Hermione’s stomach coils.

Mrs. Weasley wrinkles her brow but she says nothing as she waddles towards the door and into the corridor. Harry and Ginny follow, not bothering to hide their curiosity. 

The door swings shut, and Ron opens his mouth. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, the words rushing forward as though they have been waiting on his tongue for days. “About what I said before you left.” 

Hermione’s eyebrows climb higher. “Ron—”

The pink flush creeps over Ron’s cheeks.  “I was a git—and—” 

“Ron, really—” 

“The last few days I’ve just kept thinking how terrible I would feel if something happened to you and the last thing I said to you was—” 

“Ron.” Hermione leans forward and puts a hand on his forearm. His jaw snaps shut and he stands still as his eyes drift down towards her. 

“It’s alright,” Hermione says, squeezing his arm and then releasing it. “I’m alright. We’re alright.”

Ron studies her, a hand coming up to cover the place on his arm she had touched. His expression dances from relieved, to confused, and then to resigned. 

“It’s still not going to be the same, though, is it?” he says, his mouth twisting into a sigh. 

“The same as what?” Hermione asks quietly.

“The same as it was.” Ron leans heavily against the edge of the bed, a hand coming up to the back of his neck as he looks at the floor. “It’s not going to be like how it was last year—when we were on the run—and—” 

“No.” Hermione shakes her head. “It won’t.” 

Ron lets out an audible breath, tilting his head up to look out the window beside her bed. “It’s George, isn’t it?” 

Hermione swallows. “What about George?” 

“I’m not an idiot.” Ron turns to face her, his lips pressed together. “It’s obvious—” 

“It’s not obvious,” Hermione murmurs. She sinks down against the pillows, runs a hand through her hair. “Nothing is obvious right now.” 

Ron frowns at her, his arms crossing and uncrossing against his chest. “It’s—you wouldn’t say that if you saw him when he got back here with your parents. Everyone could see it. He was—” 

Ron pauses, takes a breath, his gaze dropping. “He was almost mad— completely frantic. I—I’ve never seen him like that. Not even at the battle. All that mattered—all he cared about—was finding you.” 

His eyes flick up to meet hers, and Hermione feels a renewed lump form in her throat. 

“I knew something changed,” Ron says heavily. 

“Ron,” she croaks. “I—” 

“Just take it easy on him, Hermione,” Ron sighs. “Don’t be too hard on him if he’s a bit of a git.”

“I didn’t plan for this to happen.” The words slip from her tongue, and Hermione feels her cheeks heat. 

Ron just grimaces. “It’s funny,” he says, the edges of his mouth curling into an expression that could almost be described as a smile. “I used to worry you’d wake up one day and decide you fancied Harry.” 

Hermione lets out a short laugh and shakes her head, bringing a hand up to swipe at a loose tear threatening to fall. “I would never.” 

The teardrop slides down her hand, and another falls against her cheek. Hermione takes a stuttering breath and looks at Ron. 

“You know you’re one of my best friends, right?” She bites her lip and tries to ignore the thickness in her voice. “I’m always going to care about you.” 

Ron pauses, his jaw tightening as his hands drift back into his pockets. He nods. “Yeah.”

A weighted, itchy silence drapes over them. Hermione takes a breath, closing her eyes. 

“I should go,” Ron says, stepping towards the door. “I’ll—I’ll see you tomorrow. At the Burrow.” 

Hermione simply nods, her eyes still squeezed shut. She hears Ron’s footfalls grow softer, hears the door whoosh and then click. 

She sits alone, and doesn’t know if the solitude is better or worse. She leans heavily against the pillows and scrubs a hand over her face. 

She thinks of George, of what she will say when he comes to see her. 

She thinks of her parents, separated from her by just a few magical floors. 

Her heartbeat thumps against her ribs, and Hermione counts the beats. Soon, her life will be her own again. Soon, she can make everything right. 

Ron’s face flashes in her mind again, and Hermione lets the tears fall.