Unspoken

VIAL 1

Inky swirls ripple upwards forming into a row of quaint houses and shops. Witches and wizards of every age are bustling about, laughter and merriment the mood of the hour as some sort of festival seems to be underway. A breeze is passing down the street, rolling crisp autumn leaves against stone cobbles ahead of its path. Faded and brown, an oak leaf sticks to the stocks of someone waiting just outside a large window filled with large glass jars of colorful sweets. Warm light pours through the glass and helps brighten the street and the face of the woman waiting.

It’s Hermione Granger.

Her cheeks are flushed from the chill even though she’s wrapped up in a thick maroon and gold scarf that keeps her bushy mane in check along with a knobbly knit hat. Hands in pockets, she waits until a bell tinkles and the doors to the candy shop open wide to let out more people into the crowded streets. 

“Sorry for making you wait, ‘Mione.” a deep voice echoes and she turns to look at a black haired young man who is grinning apologetically. He carries a number of bags on one hand and holds the hand of a youthful, red-haired witch in the other. Another ginger appears behind those two, towering over the group and sniffling awkwardly against the sudden reintroduction of the cold to his person. 

“Not a problem, Harry.” Granger says, the same odd reflective echo affecting her voice, grinning back at her friends.

They fall into step together, Harry and his sweetheart in the middle as they talk over their latest purchases. The group wanders a while, stopping at small stalls that have settled in the gaps between the buildings, admiring small magical trinkets and jewelry. A small child runs past with a steaming pasty in his mittens and the tall red-head grumbles darkly.

“When does the Feast start again?” He hunches his shoulders and stares wistfully after the pasty.

Granger rolls her eyes, “Not for another hour Ron. It’s only six. Hogsmeade started this tradition of the Halloween Festival after the war, and McGonagonnal has since set the Feast later in the evening so all the students get a chance to experience the festival and shop for the holidays.”

“You say that bit about the festival and the war every year.”

“You ask about the Feast every year, too. Plus I’m sure you just filled up on the samples that Mr. Flume puts out if the chocolate by your mouth is any indication.”

There is a small chill in the air that isn’t the frosty autumn evening.

Ron surreptitiously wipes at his mouth with the sleeve of his coat.

A moment passes before the red-headed woman clears her throat and says, “How’s the tooth, Hermione?”

Granger makes a pained face and rubs the left side of her jaw with a gloved hand. “It appears to only be cosmetic. Nothing exposed under the enamel of the tooth. The only damage was the chip cutting the inside of my cheek, and that healed over a week ago.”

“Hagrid feels awful,” intones Harry, “He swears he’ll never bake another rock cake again.”

“That’ll last until we visit him for Christmas.”

They pull into a tighter group as more stalls materialize out of the inky memory. The pathway becomes smaller and the crowd thicker. The witch that is not Granger pipes up with a suggestion. “Why don’t we pop over to Madam Puddifoot’s for a cuppa?” The other three immediately groan in protest, and she grabs onto Harry’s arms endearingly with her big brown eyes pleading. “Oh, come on, it’ll be good fun. She always decorates and she’s taking donations for St. Mungo’s, surely that’s worth it?”

“Are you asking us to pay for confetti in our coffee?” Granger asks in revulsion.

“It’s a donation, Hermione.” 

“Ginny, we can just make a donation to St. Mungo’s and skip the cliched corner shop of horrors. Madam Rosmerta makes better coffee, and anyway, the feast is in less than an hour.” Granger points out again, and Ron nods vigorously from the other side of the group, their momentary tiff forgotten.

Harry, perhaps feeling he has support in the moment, puts a loving arm around his girlfriend’s shoulder and suggests, “Not this year, Gin-”

There is a cold gleam in the younger woman’s eyes that stops him short. “You and Ron made us wait for over an hour in Spintwitches Sporting Needs looking at broomsticks -”

“What do you mean, us ?” protests Granger, “You were in there with them the whole hour!”

“- and neither of you need any more equipment anyway, you could do with putting some of the gold all of you were awarded after the war to a good use, and this is the only stop I’ve asked for all day.” She pulls away from Harry and crosses her arms.

Harry looks stricken while Granger and Ron spare a glance for each other. It becomes clear that Ginny is going to have her way and a chastened Harry accompanies his girlfriend down the road while Granger walks with Ron behind the pair. The sky has gone completely black, clear skies twinkling with starlight as the little group weaves their way around the other festival goers. 

“Harry folded pretty quickly tonight.” Granger says, a raised eyebrow at Ron.

“I swear she sounds more and more like mum. Good luck to Harry, I say.” he mutters under his breath, peeking quickly at his sister to be sure she does not hear him. “Whatever, as long as we aren’t late to the Feast.”

Some more slightly uncomfortable silence. The group rounds a bend in the road and a castle blooms out of the darkness in the distance. The part of the village road they have just departed begins to fade away into a more worn path that is lined with yet more stalls and a few tents. A particularly garish marquee is given a wide berth by the throng of villagers. 

Ron nudges a rock on the path with his shoe as they continue towards a bubblegum pink shop at the end of the lane. “So. Um. How’s the new job?”

“Lots of paperwork,” sighs Granger, “Painswick brings a new batch of… well, I can’t tell you about it, but it’s every day right as I’m trying to leave. I think I might need an assistant if this keeps up.”

“Sounds boring to me. Er, I mean, you like it though?”

“I think so. It’s better than going nowhere in Magical Law Enforcement. And that was better than the Muggle Liaison Office.” she admits a bit sullenly.

Ron nods sagely. “They were wasting you, ‘Mione. S’pose it must have helped that you are chums with the Minister of Magic.”

“Yes, Shacklebolt basically created this job for me, I just have to figure out how I fit in with the rest. Anyway, I cannot talk about work now, you know that. So, um, how is living with George?”

The lanky man stiffens but Granger’s eyes are overly bright, as though hoping to hear something positive about her question.

“You know, if you want this whole we-can-still-be-friends thing to work, let’s just… agree not to talk about some things.” His tone is dull within the echo chamber that is the memory.

Granger flinches and bites her lip. “I didn’t, I mean, I don’t -"

He sighs. “It’s fine. George and I are fine. Better than when we lived at the Burrow together, at least. We almost there yet?”

Ron stretches his neck to look around for any other course of discussion, almost running into Harry and Ginny as they stop outside another jewelry stall. Just next to them is the garish tent from earlier with its vibrant purple canopy and a variety of crystals holding down the cloth siding in the dusty brick road. Strong perfume wafts out of the opening and a theatrical voice calls hurriedly out to them. “You are eaaaaarly, my dears, one moment while I prepare my inner eye…”

Granger’s expression is incredulous. “ Trelawney set up a booth this year?” she protests to Ron, who shrugs his shoulders with an air of disinterest. Harry and Ginny are oblivious to the audible sound of clinking and hiccuping coming forth from the tent as Ginny points out a piece of jewelry to her beloved.

“Is it just me, or is Harry more tense than usual tonight?” Granger asks her tall friend, eyes narrowing at the couple in front of them.

Ron casts his own eyes to the side. He lowers his voice before answering. “You know Harry. He’s never liked crowds.”

Granger turns her sharp gaze to Ron next, frowning, but keeps her voice in low tones as well. “You are a terrible liar, Ronald Weasley. What is going on?”

“Come on, Draco, you don’t want to have your palm read?” says a high voice behind them.

All four friends suddenly tense, different expressions blooming on each of their faces. Harry looks put upon. Ginny glances at her boyfriend in worry. The bored blankness on Ron’s face is immediately replaced with an ugly sneer. Granger is resigned, as though she expects nothing more than the evening to continue to worsen.

“I have no interest in my future other than what I make of it myself.” responds a young man behind the group. A familiar blonde is with a gang of similarly aged cohorts, bundled against the autumn air and laden with their own brown paper packages and bags. “There is also a wait, let’s move on.”

Granger appears to catch the man’s eyes for a moment, but Ron is already speaking before the other group is out of ear shot. “Malfoy willing to slum it with the rest of us regulars out here this year, huh?”

“We are hardly regulars,” Ginny points out, pointing at some kind of scar on Harry’s forehead. 

“Still, I thought he was still hiding at mummy and daddy’s all these years later.” the ginger scoffs, glaring at the back of the wizard who is making his way towards the distant castle.

“He’s not.” Harry says, and the other three turn to look at him expectantly. He sighs, uncomfortable and explains, “He’s finishing a residency at St. Mungo’s. Has been there a couple years now. It’s not talked about widely, but Shacklebolt told me about it some time ago because Malfoy had to be vouched for before they’d let him into the program.”

“That sod is a Healer ?” sputters Ron. 

“That is not an easy program to get into, though,” says Granger surprised, “You have to have your N.E.W.T.S. in Potions, Transfiguration, Charms, Arithma-”

“We know , ‘Mione,”  scoffs Ron, “But Draco Ferret Malfoy a bloody Healer? Merlin’s saggy tits, that’s the last person on earth I’d want treating me.”

“Ronald! Language!” Granger cries, outraged. 

Harry attempts to intercede as Ron bristles. “Look, guys, can we just not do thisfor one evening-”

The faux dreamy voice interrupts them. 

“Come in…. Come in, my children. I have awaited your arrival all evening…”

Ginny goes still as a statue and the black-haired wizard immediately turns her away from the sight of the beaded curtains that ripple as a hand reaches out towards them. Granger and Ron also take a step backward as the sickly fingers grasp at empty air. Harry pulls his girlfriend under the scalloped awning of Madam Puddifoots and whispers inaudibly into her ear. 

Pointing discreetly at the lovers, Granger asks again, “Seriously, what is going on, Ron?”

The red-head groans and rubs the back of his neck, muttering so quietly that it almost isn’t discernable, “Harry is proposing tonight, okay?” 

“What, tonight ?” she asks in shock, jaw dropping.

“Keep your cool, ‘Mione, for Godrick’s sake,” he growls, grabbing her shoulder quickly and pulling them back towards the fortune teller’s tent. “Harry has been preparing this for ages; don’t ruin it for him.”

“I mean, it’s about time,” she says, attempting to peer over her shoulder at them with Ron checking her sharply with a light smack to the arm. “It’s been seven years.”

“Right, and we don’t want to ruin this for our best friend .” he says pointedly. “To think I’d need to lecture you on keeping a low profile…”

Granger frowns again and peers up at her friend. “Wait, how do you know this and I don’t?” From the pointed and hurt look on his face, the reason appears to dawn on her. She squeezes her eyes shut and a moment of silence passes before she opens them again. “I haven’t been around much lately, have I?”

She states it as more of a fact than a question and the pain from both sides visibly washes over the pair.

“We know it’s the job, ‘Mione, just… it’d be nice if we saw you more often. Even me, ya’know?” 

“I know.” Granger hangs her head. “I’m so sorry, Ron. And I’ll tell Harry I’m sorry later. I promise I’ll leave the office more.”

Ron grins widely. “Maybe pop over this Sunday for breakfast at the Burrow? I know mum misses you. Plus I doubt you’ll be let off the hook with the wedding planning. Merlin knows I’m not going to go dress shopping with Gin-”

Granger gasps and Ron whirls around to follow the line of her eyesight to the shocking scene behind him. The crowd has parted like the sea before Harry who is on one knee in the middle of the cobblestone thoroughfare. Ron curses like a sailor and drops his packages into the dust, scrabbling inside his pocket until he pulls out an ancient camera. He only just starts fiddling with the dials as their best friend conjures a velvet navy box in a whoosh of golden sparkles. The onlookers start screaming with joy as the flash of the camera goes off with a blinding white light.

The flash overwhelms the memory and only just fades back to the scene as Granger is dragged off guard through the curtains of the slovenly purple tent.

The sights and sounds of the village are gone, replaced by the cramped interior of the marquee, a large round table and tufted stools taking up most of the room. A brazier burning a sickly sweet smell emits smoke in the corner; the space is hazy and the smell of sherry mixes with the perfume. A crystal ball sits in the middle of the table and reflects what little light is available from the brazier. A thin older woman in large spectacles thrusts Granger onto the one of spindly stools. Professor Trelawney is draped in multiple scarves, strings of beads, her hair is a rat's nest of feathers and herbs. 

“What are you doing?” demands Granger in outrage, attempting to stand and white knuckling the edge of the table with fury as she leverages it for support. 

“It was most important that you come here this evening. I knew, of course, that you would. The orb has spoken to me of the dangers that are soon to befall you aaaaaall.”

The younger witch’s face is already pale in the dim light of the tent but the shadows give character to her incensed expression. Trelawney slaps her hands down onto the table, causing Granger to jump back slightly in her seat. The would-be diviner rocks back and forth, arms rigid, her eyes rolling up into skull as she intones, “The crystal has shown me your futuuuuure! A dark storm is brewing in your heart - sorrow, pain, betrayal, and death. A trifecta of misfortune awaits!”

“You just named four things, you spurious…” Granger hisses through her teeth. She forcefully rises to her feet, stool scraping as she makes to leave.

The curtain of beads clinks as she attempts an exit but Trelawney reaches out and grabs the young woman’s wrist. Granger looks back at the witch in shock and disgust. A hard shake of her arm does not dislodge the crone, whose nails begin to dig into the fabric of Granger’s jacket. Trelawney is staring past her, face slack, eyes unfocused. Cursing her captor, Granger begins yanking her hand, but stills when the so-called seer begins to speak in a dark, raspy tone unlike her earlier dreamy voice.

“They will come for her in the deep. In the darkness… She uncovers their lies and they will come for her. She threatens their ways of magic and they will come for her. And though she will rise, you will fall. All will be forgotten, all will be lost. They will come for you in the deep. They will come for you in the darkness… you will be lost. Lost… Lost…”

The death grip on her wrist slackens and Granger half falls out of the tent in her rush to get outside. The memory blurs as the young woman takes her bearings outside in the evening air and several moments pass until the wispy images of the villagers come into proper focus. Her heavy breathing rings in and out, her expression unsure, unimpressed, and furious - all in equal parts.

The brunette witch is unsteady on her feet as she tries to rise to her full height but the enthusiastic circle around Harry and Ginny buffets her a few times as she struggles back to Ron’s side. Her disappearance has gone unnoticed as the red-head continues to snap pictures of the couple, a sparkling ring on Ginny’s finger where there had not been one minutes earlier. They happily drown in the congratulations on the onlookers.

She does not speak but Ron suddenly shouts, “What?!” and appears from behind the camera to look at her. “Blimey, ‘Mione, you alright?”

A grin quickly replaces the shadow on Granger’s face and she is quick to hug Ron around the middle. “Just happy for our friends!” she shouts back up at him over the still clamoring crowd, and they smile at one another before finding themselves personally congratulating Harry and Ginny, who have managed to gain access to their friends once again. 

“What happened to ‘It has to be on the steps of the castle,’ mate?” jokes Ron as Ginny gushes over her ring to Granger.

“Well, you only live once,” laughs Harry as the blackness swells and the memory ends.