Echoes of War

Fleur Delacour was bored with men. She stood before one now in the Paris conference room of Charismatics Spellcraft International, bored out of her mind. She rested one hand on her hip and gazed disinterestedly out the window as Mr. Craftsworthy, the Staffing Specialist from the London office, spoke to her about employment opportunities.

"...there are more assignments than we can possibly handle," he was saying. "Too many places where the Protection Enchantments have been destroyed by Death Eaters. Whole staff is busy - supply and demand, you know - Camille Jaloux has given us your name, and I do hope you'll consider..." The man trailed off and looked at Fleur. He had to be sixty at least and the ardent way in which he stared at her would have made most young women uncomfortable.

It bored Fleur.

"Just tell me what it is zat you want me to do. I want to leave 'ere," she snapped. And though many superior business partners would have fired her on the spot for her cheek, the man at the table continued to gaze at her worshipfully, utterly unaffected by her tone.

It had used to amaze Fleur, when she was a child, the level of pettish cruelty she could inflict on men without their even minding. After it had ceased to amaze her, it had amused her - she'd made a game of it. How cold could she be before they would dare to contradict her? How selfishly could she act before they would give up? But no matter what she said, or how horribly she behaved, it didn't matter. They never noticed. They always gazed at her glassily, always nodded and accommodated and fetched and were boring. Terribly disappointing creatures, men.

"Never listen to them, darling," her grandmother had said firmly, again and again. "Never trust them. They are all far too easily distracted."

Fleur remembered the hard bite with which the words had always been spoken. "You are fortunate, little one, to be only part-veela. You may use the magic only at your will. But I, who will never know that freedom, have learned not to believe a word they say. And neither should you."

Fleur's mother had regarded that advice as somewhat harsh - she had told Fleur that though it was true most men would be weakened by her, one would surely happen along who was less easily impressed by beauty. There were honest men in the world, she had always averred. Fleur's own father, after all, had been such a man.

But, harsh or not, by the age of eleven Fleur had been grateful for her grandmother's warning. In her first year at Beauxbatons Academy, the boys had come at her in droves. All of them, through to the seventh years, spent their energy trying to commandeer her time; Fleur quickly found that if she wanted to study at all, she would have to isolate herself in her room. And as if all of that was not disconcerting enough for such a young girl, Fleur had also been only eleven when a boy had first attempted to kiss her. Really kiss her. It had frightened her to death.

After a letter to her mother and a tearful interview with the Headmistress, Fleur had become more careful, and more isolated - and much more cunning.

Time and experience had made her almost diabolical about it. If there was anything she wanted, she could have it if there were men about. And if she wanted to be kissed - which, eventually, she did - there was no shortage of candidates for the provision of strong arms, a mouth, and a lot of promises. She more or less knew the speech by heart: they liked to tell her how beautiful she was, that they loved her and would die for her. At first it had been interesting to hear it, in all its versions. But in recent years, whenever they used the word 'love', Fleur had to suppress a snort. How could they possibly love her? Not a one of them had bothered to know her. And even though, in the past, it had been rather entertaining to kiss them and then watch them run in circles for no reason at all, that had now become boring as well.

Fleur had honestly begun to wonder whether there were any other men in the world like her father had been. She wondered if any of them would ever stop looking at her hair long enough to listen to her speak. She wondered if any of them would ever stand up to her. Because the way it stood now, things were just as her grandmother had warned her they would be. Fleur found it absolutely impossible to believe a word that any of them said.

All but one. She admitted that there had been one.

"...to London. Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle Delacour, are you listening to me?"

Fleur opened her eyes, annoyed to be interrupted from her reverie. She looked down at Mr. Craftsworthy disdainfully and told the truth. "Non. I 'av not 'eard a word you 'av said. Can you not sum up? I am sick of standing 'ere."

He smiled indulgently. Of course. Fleur let out a breath of impatience.

"Gringotts Bank," he said, tapping his notebook with his quill and not taking his eyes off of her, "is in need of extra help - many of the Protective Enchantments have been destroyed."

Fleur shrugged loosely. A bank? Fine. She didn't really care. "I was under ze impression zat Gringotts employed curses for protection, not Charms," was her only reply.

"Well, yes - in the vaults. But then there are personnel chambers, you know. International Services rooms, Muggle currency exchange experts, curse breakers' offices - that sort of thing. The human employees would rather have their quarters enchanted than cursed. Not everyone is as comfortable with curses as the goblins are."

Fleur nodded. She wouldn't want to work surrounded by a lot of curses, herself. Dark magic of any kind was the last thing she wanted to be near now. Dark magic was only a reminder of the past, and she wanted no reminders, not now, not this autumn, when the war was finally beginning to lose its razor's-edge hold on her. The war had been over all summer.

Not that time had brought Gabrielle back.

Fleur felt tears sting her eyes immediately, as they always did when she thought of her sister. She tried not to dwell on it, tried not to imagine the things Gabrielle might have suffered after she had been taken from Mont Ste. Mireille. Fleur hated to imagine any child at the hands of a Death Eater, but the acute, writhing sickness it caused to think of Gabrielle - the sheer terror that her sister must have felt, and the pain... It was a horrible thing, to have to hope that a loved one had been killed quickly and mercifully. But Fleur did hope it. She hoped that they had killed Gabrielle on the spot, from behind and without warning - that she had been an unsuspecting victim - that her last memories had been happy ones. That hope was all that had given Fleur any comfort since January.

"...in the morning. Mademoiselle, I think you are, perhaps, not quite listening?" Mr. Craftsworthy beamed at her, as if she had done something wonderful. "Come, come, hear what I am offering you. There is a transfer available -"

"To Gringotts of Paris. I was listening, Monsieur."

"Ah - no -" he looked extremely nervous to have to contradict her " - to Gringott's of London, Mademoiselle Delacour. I do beg your pardon, but it is Gringotts in London that needs you - I have several senior Enchantment Experts staffing the Paris branch already."

Fleur's eyes narrowed. "You are saying zat I am not qualified to work 'ere in France?"

The man immediately began to apologize profusely. "Good heavens no! I didn't mean it in such a way - do forgive me - that is, you are very young - but so talented, of course!"

Fleur waved him off. It was unimportant to her what he thought of her work. She knew that she was brilliant. She had only wanted to make him suffer a little bit, for underestimating her.

"I accept," she said briefly, in the manner of a queen pardoning her page.

Mr. Craftsworthy was clearly relieved and grateful to her for not having chastised him further. "The - the transfer? You'll accept the position at Gringotts?"

"Oui." Fleur studied her nails and sighed.

"Excellent!" Mr. Craftsworthy clapped his hands together. "I will forward the appropriate papers to Madame Jaloux, regarding the transfer, and I'll have your identification to your desk by the end of the month. You will begin in the second week of September. Is that an acceptable amount of time in which to make your plans?" He gazed at her imploringly.

Fleur nodded once, then turned and left the conference room without another glance, feeling almost pleased for the first time in months. She had an assignment. Something new to focus on. Mont Ste. Mireille was nothing but a daily, living reminder of Gabrielle, and Fleur was grateful for an opportunity to move away from it. London... well, it certainly wasn't Paris... but it would be different, at least. The men would not be different, of course. Fleur snorted softly. They never were. But a change of scene was actually welcome in any case. And also, Bill Weasley was British.

The thought came to Fleur suddenly before she could stop it, and along with the thought came an odd flutter in her heart. He had stood quietly and watched her working without interference. He had held her differently from any other man. Not as if he'd wanted something from her - but as if... as if he'd known her. She remembered the pressure of standing against him - the strange, immediate relief of it. She stopped in the corridor for a moment and shut her eyes, forgetting where she was. Yes... he had been British. And he might be in London; it wasn't impossible, was it?

Of course, it was equally as likely that he had lost his life in the war. Fleur flinched at the thought. She didn't want to think about that.

Shaking off all ideas of that nature, therefore, Fleur returned to her desk and sat. She pulled out her wand and organized her papers briefly, realizing as she did so that she wouldn't miss this office in the slightest. London, in September? Well, good. Perhaps, at the very least, it wouldn't be horribly dull.

~*~

The day was a bit cool and cloudy for early August, with some light drizzle misting everything. Perfect, thought Hermione, as if this weren't hard enough to deal with already. She spent some time trying to control her hair, which was bushier than usual due to the weather. After about fifteen minutes, she threw down the clip that she was using to try and pull some of the curls off of her face and murmured in frustration, "What's the use! They're not going to notice anyway."

"I think you look lovely dear," answered her mirror. Hermione managed a weak smile, before grabbing a ribbon, securing what she could of her hair at the bottom of her neck, and heading downstairs.

In the kitchen of the Burrow, Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Ron were already seated at the table. Penelope must be sleeping in, thought Hermione, and she couldn't really blame her - it must be exhausting to carry all of that extra weight around. She had stayed up quite late the night before talking with Penelope about the Imprisonment Charm that Percy and Penelope had begun work on earlier in the year. Mr. Weasley was pressing Penelope to come up with something soon, so that they would have options available to alleviate the situation at Azkaban and Culparrat. Working on it without Percy seemed difficult for Penelope, and she was very frustrated. Hermione wondered if it was the type of thing that a Thinker could help with and found herself feeling even more excited about the prospect of leaving in September.

Mrs. Weasley Summoned a cup of tea and let it land gently in front of Hermione on the table. She smiled gratefully and sat down next to Ron, cradling the cup of tea in her hands, feeling its warmth, but not drinking. While everyone else ate, Hermione stared off into space, trying to prepare herself for the day ahead. As her mind wandered, her eyes rested on Bill Weasley's hair, which was not yet pulled into its customary ponytail. It was fascinating. When worn loose as it was this morning, it fell to his shoulders and reminded Hermione of a soft, full paintbrush soaked in red color. It was equally as pretty as Ginny's hair, but as she watched him eat his eggs while reading the Daily Prophet, she decided that it didn't make him look feminine at all. In the two years that she had been coming regularly to the Burrow, she had never heard him mention a girlfriend, although she supposed that it wasn't so odd seeing as he'd been fighting in the war. And anyway, she didn't know him very well. Perhaps he was the type to go out with lots of different girls.

Taking another sip of tea and trying to wake up, Hermione cast a somewhat bothered look at Ron, who was also eating eggs and sitting in a posture similar to his brother's. She narrowed her eyes, wondering briefly if he ever thought about other girls, and then tried to imagine what he would look like with long hair like his brother Bill. George had seemed to be growing his hair when she'd seen him at Harry's birthday party. She smirked a little. No, she definitely couldn't see it. Ron was a short-haired type of boy. The expression on her face must have been odd, as she stared, because Ron stopped mid-chew and demanded, "What?"

"Don't talk with your mouth full, Ron," admonished Mrs. Weasley, rising and dusting off her robes. "It's bad manners."

Ron rolled his eyes and Hermione cracked a smile. Bill looked up from the newspaper and said with a deadpan face, "Yeah Ron, hasn't Hermione ever told you that?"

Hermione felt movement as Ron kicked Bill under the table, the tips of his ears quickly turning pink. Mrs. Weasley hadn't seemed to hear what Bill had said and a burning sensation crossed Hermione's face as she realized the meaning of Bill's joke. She really was part of the family now. Bill obviously had no problem including her in the jokes aimed at his siblings.

Ignoring Ron, Bill piped up, "Hermione, you'll need to work at controlling your boyfriend. He's a bit useless right now, but you've caught him young so I'm sure he'll improve under your influence. " Bill winked at her and Hermione gave him a weak smile, unsure of what to say. She wasn't used to having brothers.

Ron was just about to respond, though - Hermione could feel his whole body grow tense - when Mrs. Weasley walked around behind Bill, poked him in the ribs with her wand, and said gently to Hermione, "Aren't you hungry, Hermione?"

Hermione shook her head. "No."

"Come on now," Mrs. Weasley pressed, placing a plate on the table in front of her. "Best not to go on an empty stomach."

Nodding, Hermione slowly began to pick at a piece of toast. Ron's mum was always watching out for her, just like Ron did, and she was grateful for Mrs. Weasley's support, but she couldn't help but be reminded that her own mother was currently unable to act in that capacity.

Ron and Hermione had always spent the night at the Burrow before visiting St. Mungo's - somehow it made things easier to leave from there. In the beginning, Ron had purposely planned their visits to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries on days when Harry was somehow unavailable. They both knew that he'd want to come with them, and both of them thought it better that he stay as far removed from places like St. Mungo's as possible. Also, selfish as she felt about it, Hermione didn't really want Harry there. Visiting her parents was always extremely difficult for her, and she didn't want the extra worry of watching Harry withdraw further into himself. She knew that somehow he blamed himself for her parent's situation and seeing that blank look in his face in addition to seeing her parents was too much to handle for one day.

Besides, Ron had been the one to visit with her every week since the beginning. It had all happened the day before the Christmas holidays in her sixth year.

After their last class, they had all ventured outside with Ginny for a snowball fight. It seemed for a moment that they were just ordinary students, enjoying ordinary lives, in a time of peace and not of war. Hagrid had come outside to join them, along with his new assistant, Meg Castellwild, a recent Hogwarts graduate who was exceptionally good with animals.

Hermione had returned to the castle just before dinner flushed, wet, tired, and strangely happy. Twice, Ron had crept up behind her and, instead of shoving a snowball in her face, had surprised her with quick kisses while Ginny and Harry weren't looking. That had been enough to make her warm and content for the rest of the evening, although she had wished that they had more time for that sort of thing. Mrs. Weasley and Professor McGonagall were waiting for them in the otherwise empty common room. Mrs. Weasley's eyes were rimmed with red, and Professor McGonagall's throat seemed to catch as she said quietly, "Miss Granger, might we have a word with you in my office?"

Hermione remembered freezing. She remembered everything about that day with unusual clarity. She had just stood there, and felt some relief as Ron instantly reached out and grabbed her hand. She had looked from Professor McGonagall to Mrs. Weasley, with a terrible, terrible sinking feeling in her stomach, and it had been Ron who spoke first.

"Whatever you have to tell her, you can tell all of us - here."

Professor McGonagall had nodded, and had begun to speak again, slowly and distinctly.

"Miss Granger - I'm sorry to inform you - I have to tell you that - " Professor McGonagall had seemed to be searching for the right words and not finding them, "your parents - "

Hermione had breathed a barely audible wail of grief, and her legs grew weak. Ron caught her before she fell and immediately helped her onto one of the sofas.

"Not - dead?" she had asked finally, looking her teacher in the eyes, grateful for Ron's hands on her shoulders. Mrs. Weasley came over and sat down next to her, placing a hand on her arm.

Professor McGonagall had shaken her head, her gaze not leaving Hermione's. Hermione had known that the professor had delivered news like this to many other students, but had noted that her voice was uncharacteristically unsteady as she spoke about the Grangers.

"They are alive, but barely. They've been taken to a Muggle hospital. They were - tortured. Death Eaters. They performed the Cruciatus Curse on them repeatedly, from what we can gather."

Hermione had been about to ask, "Why? Why them?" when she heard Ron's voice, strained and dangerously low, ask it for her.

"Why?" he had demanded. "Why would they target Hermione's parents?" She felt his hands tense on her shoulders as he spoke.

Mrs. Weasley had looked at her son and answered resignedly, "Ron," she began, "they're crazy, aren't they? Who knows why they do anything? The Grangers aren't the first Muggle family that they've gone after, and they probably won't be the last..."

"But they - they killed the others," Hermione had said, her voice sounding feeble, "at least most of the time. They used Avada Kedavra and those people died instantly. Why would they want to torture my parents? Why not come after me? My parents never did anything to anyone." Tears had started to fall from her eyes and down her cheeks. "They're dentists." The last statement had sounded almost silly and she had almost wanted to laugh as she said it. Death Eaters versus Dentists. It sounded like the title to a bad novel.

"I should have gone home early," she had muttered to herself more than to anyone else. "I could have been there. I would have known what was going on. I would have had my wand at least."

"You would have been no match for seven Death Eaters, my dear, and you would have been tortured as well."

Hermione had shot up out of the chair, feeling suddenly very angry.

"They were tortured because of me!" she had shouted. "Because of what I am! That's the only reason!" She hadn't known who she was shouting at - certainly not Professor McGonagall, or Mrs. Weasley, or Harry, Ron, or Ginny.

It had been Harry who had come up to her and pulled her into an embrace. Harry - who rarely showed any emotion anymore. Harry was the one who understood what it was like to feel responsible for someone else's pain and suffering and, finally, Hermione had understood for a brief moment, what it must really be like to be Harry Potter.

She had started to cry in earnest at that point. Ron had soon joined in the embrace, as had Ginny, and she clung to all of them, crying until the tears wouldn't come anymore. Professor McGonagall sat down on one of the armchairs and waited for her to finish. Hermione straightened, and addressed Professor McGonagall in a strained, but even voice, "Are they going to die? Can I see them?"

Professor McGonagall and Mrs. Weasley had exchanged worried glances. Mrs. Weasley said gently, "They will live, and you can see them as soon as you'd like. That's why I'm here - to take you if you want. But - oh, Hermione, dear, I'm not sure - that is, I don't think that they'll be very responsive."

Hermione nodded slowly, comprehension dawning on her and Professor McGonagall continued. "You are familiar with the situation of the Longbottoms?"

Head snapping upwards, Hermione felt a flood of sorrow wash over her body. Hermione had known about the Longbottoms - their son Neville had revealed the story to them earlier in the year. The Longbottoms had been tortured by Death Eaters fourteen years earlier - and they were still in St. Mungo's, still unresponsive, and still unable to recognize their own son.

"Your parents appear to be in a similar condition. They are alive and physically, appear to be well. Their minds, however..."

"Take me to them," Hermione had said. With that, she'd departed with Mrs. Weasley, Ron, Harry, and Ginny at her side.

The sound of a cat squealing and a rustle of feathers jolted Hermione back into the reality of the Burrow. Looking up, she saw Ron's small owl, Pigwidgeon, fluttering above the kitchen table. Crookshanks, her cat, who had joined them for their overnight visit, had his back arched and was growling noisily at the bird, who twittered and hooted as if he were the happiest creature on the planet. Ron groaned, reached out a long arm, and caught the tiny owl firmly in his grasp. Pigwidgeon cooed.

"He's right to growl at you, you silly owl," Ron scolded, not hiding his fondness for his pet very well. "You're very annoying." Turning to Hermione, he said, "I'm going to put Pig in his cage. When I get back downstairs, we can go, all right?"

She nodded, pulling Crookshanks onto her lap and stroking his orange hair absentmindedly.

~*~

Ron sat in a not-very-comfortable chair outside of the Grangers' room in St. Mungo's, trying not to think angry thoughts. It wasn't easy. Every time he came here, he felt anger and frustration, and he knew that Hermione knew it and that it upset her.

He'd come here with her every time since the beginning. During the final semester of their sixth year, they'd come every Sunday. Initially, Harry and Ginny came as well, but it seemed to upset Harry as much as it did Hermione, and, in a private consultation with his sister, Ron had worked out a way to keep Harry from accompanying them. That summer, Hermione had stayed with them at the Burrow, and they'd continued their Sunday visits, and in the evenings, he'd held Hermione as she cried - which she did every time.

"Hello Ron!" said a familiar voice. Ron looked up and saw Barton, one of the orderlies, ambling down the hallway towards him. His light blue and white striped uniform robes were so crisply cleaned and starched that the sleeves stood out at angles, making him resemble some sort of roly-poly human star. Ron was well known to the staff in this ward of St. Mungo's. He rarely went inside the room to visit with the Grangers - Hermione thought it might be confusing for them to see anyone but herself and she usually had some sort of new plan or treatment that she'd looked up to try to experiment with. They both knew that the trained medi-wizards at the hospital had tried just about everything already, and knew from their experience with the Longbottoms that nothing was working, but Hermione felt useless if she didn't at least try, and all Ron could do was to sit back patiently and let her do it.

Ron waved to Barton, "Hi," he said. "Anything new and exciting happening in these parts?"

"Nope," answered Barton cheerfully. "You just missed your friend Longbottom. He was down the hall visiting his parents about an hour ago. Says he's going to be working at Hogwarts - learning how to teach before they open up next year. That's great news, isn't it? He wanted to tell his parents."

Ron nodded, although he knew, as Barton did, that the Longbottoms most likely had no idea that Neville visited them, or, if they did, they had no way of acknowledging it. As he watched Barton amble down the hallway, pushing his trolley of supplies, Ron clenched his fists together. The first time he'd seen Barton had been the evening that they'd all accompanied Hermione to see her parents. Professor McGonagall and Barton had escorted Hermione into the room, while he, Harry, and Ginny waited outside in the hallway with Mrs. Weasley. It had been then that Ron had turned to his mother and demanded, "Who was it, Mum?"

Mrs. Weasley had looked almost frightened as she looked up at her son. In her most soothing voice, she had reached out to put a hand on his arm and said, "Ron, there was a group of them - they always work together, don't they?"

But he wasn't having any of it. He could tell from the way that his mother was acting that she was hiding something. Feeling his face grow very red, he had repeated, very firmly, "Who. Was. It? Tell me now, because I'll just find out from Bill or Dad later."

"We don't know!" Mrs. Weasley had cried, wringing her hands. "But we think - your father thinks - that is, there's evidence that Lucius Malfoy was the ringleader."

Malfoy. Ron hated that name more than anything else. The Malfoys had caused him and those that he loved nothing but trouble, suffering and annoyance. At the news of Malfoy's involvement, Harry had instinctively pulled out his wand, muttering, "I'll kill him, I'll kill him," over and over again.

As for himself, well, his mother's statement had only confirmed what he had already suspected - that Lucius Malfoy had led the attack and that his son Draco had probably made the suggestion. He had only been surprised that the Death Eaters hadn't waited until the next day, when Hermione would have been at home. He had shivered and then turned to Harry and they had both exchanged significant glances at each other. Ron drew out his wand as well and both of them made as if to head for the nearest fireplace. Mrs. Weasley reached out to grab her son's robes, and Ginny had repeated the action towards Harry. But Ron had been ready to fight and he pulled away. Just as he did so, he heard a small voice behind him.

"Ron? Where are you going? What's going on? Don't go - " and he'd turned to see Hermione standing in the doorway being supported by the orderly. He had stopped, and a moment later, taken two long strides towards Hermione and pulled her into a tight embrace. Ginny had quietly led Harry to a nearby seat and somehow coerced him to sit down.

Later, when he'd told Hermione about Malfoy's involvement, she'd been very, very calm. Ron had admired her restraint, but knew that he could never forgive that family. And now Malfoy had dared to show up right across the street from them and tried to ruin their summer. Although he had promised Hermione that he would not take any action against Draco, despite his great desire to send a fist flying right towards his thin, stuck up nose, Ron had a strange, sick feeling that something would happen between himself and Draco before the summer was over.

Agitated, he stood up to stretch his legs and decided to take a stroll down the hall and perhaps look in on Neville's parents.

"Ron? Where are you going?" Hermione was once again asking him from the doorway. He swiveled on his heel and turned to face her. She looked, as usual during such visits, worn out.

"I was just stretching my legs. Do you want to go home?"

She shook her head, "I'd like to stay here for a few minutes and just sit before we go back."

Ron nodded, and then, an idea, silly perhaps, but worth a try, entered his head.

"Hermione - do you think - would you mind if I went in to see them for a few minutes?" he asked tentatively. He had never visited the Granger's room by himself and only rarely did he enter with Hermione, usually because she had devised some sort of charm or spell that required two people to execute. She looked at him curiously for a moment, and then fell into a nearby chair and gave him a small smile. "If you like."

"Right," answered Ron, leaning forward to give her a kiss on the forehead, and then, bracing himself, turned and entered the Granger's suite.

The room was disconcertingly quiet and clean. Mr. and Mrs. Granger lay side by side in a large four-poster bed, their arms neatly resting on top of the crisp bedding. Both looked as though they had experienced the biggest shock of their lives. Their faces were passive and unreadable, as though asleep, but their eyes were wide open and fearful. This was the only indication in two years that they were awake. They did, apparently sleep, and when the room grew dark, their eyes would close.

Hermione had filled the room with items of significance from their home. Fresh flowers stood on the night tables on either side of the bed and a neat tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush in a cup were sitting next to them. Hermione had been almost irrationally worried that her parent's teeth might fall into decay while in St. Mungo's. Ron had helped her cast a Bacteria-repelling Charm on their mouths early on, but she wanted them to be comforted by the toothbrushes when they were awake. Muggle photos of the Grangers were sprinkled throughout the room, and even to the canopy of the bed, so that they were right in the Grangers' line of vision. Ron paused to admire a picture of Hermione, aged five, with two bushy pigtails sticking out unevenly on either side of her head and a box of Scrabble clutched in her hand and reflected that, in some ways, she hadn't changed much since childhood.

Finally, he pulled up a chair next to Mr. Granger and sat there a moment, not sure why he had wanted to come in here. Finally, he cleared his throat and began, "Hullo Mr. Granger - Mrs. Granger - " Ron leaned forward across Mr. Granger and waved a hand in front of Mrs. Granger's face. "I expect you've just had a nice visit with Hermione, have you?"

No response. Ron felt disappointed, but then again, what had he expected? This was one of the reasons that it took Hermione days to recover from her visits. There was a heavy sense of defeat that overtook a person upon entering this room. Taking a deep breath, Ron continued, "I expect you both know that she's very concerned about you, but you needn't worry. She's smart - the smartest person that I know, and she's trying to work out a way to wake you up. She'll do it too, I know she will. She just hasn't found the right book yet, ha ha." Ron laughed at his own ridiculous joke and nudged Mr. Granger in the ribs with his elbow.

Ignoring the silence, Ron stumbled on. "And I just want you to know that I'm, er, I'm there for her and she's got loads of people who care about her and are looking out for her - not that she needs it, because she's strong, but still - we all love her - I love her especially, and well, I just thought you should know that...." Ron's voice trailed off and he looked exasperatedly at his companions, who were showing no signs of response whatsoever.

"Bugger," he muttered to himself and stood up heavily. Before he opened the door to join Hermione in the hallway, he said to himself, "I will get Malfoy." Immediately, he felt ashamed. He had promised Hermione that he would stay away from Malfoy and he knew the promise was important to her. Wiping away all signs of anger from his face, therefore, he stepped out into the hallway to collect Hermione and to take her home.

She looked up at him expectantly.

"We had a nice conversation," he said softly. "Rather one-sided, you know, but..."

Hermione stood up and cut him off with a brief kiss. "Thank you," she said.

"Do you want to go home?" he asked, trying to calm his mind enough to Apparate.

"Yes. Let's go to the Burrow and collect Crookshanks and Pig. Then we can go home. Maybe Harry will be back from Quidditch tryouts. I'd love to hear how they're going."

"Quidditch? You? Really?" Ron didn't try to hide the astonishment in his voice.

Hermione shrugged her shoulders. "I'd rather talk about anything other than my parents right now."

"Quidditch it is, then," said Ron, giving her another kiss. "Harry'll die of shock. And then you're coming to the Snout's Fair to keep me company. All right?"

Hermione smiled a little, and nodded. "All right."

And with that, they left the hospital.

~*~

Harry's heart was lighter than it had been in months - years, even, he reflected, as a Bludger whizzed dangerously close to his ear. He dove quickly out of reach, pivoted the Firebolt to his left, and shot off toward the edge of the field, grinning. There was nothing in the world like a good Quidditch scrimmage - except maybe telling his friends every detail of it, afterwards.

Harry felt his stomach drop slightly and it had nothing to do with the dive he'd just taken through the air. The thought of going home from practice tonight gave him a very pleasant case of nerves. Ever since his birthday, Ginny had happened to be at home quite often after the tryouts, and she still wasn't tired of listening to him go on about Quidditch drills. She'd also been up rather early for breakfast a few times this week - she wasn't much of a talker at six in the morning, but Harry didn't mind. This morning, she'd fallen asleep at the table and knocked over her cup of coffee, and Harry smiled to himself now, at the memory of her freckled face, squashed against the place-mat. He had got rid of the spill and woken her; she'd mumbled vaguely at him to catch the Snitch and then gone back to sleep right where she was.

He couldn't deny it anymore. Something about the way she did things was really making him -

"Potter, you're out of bounds!" hissed someone directly behind him.

Harry felt a lurch of panic. He had to get his head in the game. He flew forward slightly and checked over his shoulder to see who had given him the warning, realizing as he did so that he hadn't been out of bounds at all. Maureen Knight hovered at his tail, an enormous grin on her face.

"Got you," she chortled, and sped off, her eyes scanning the grass for a flicker of silver and gold. Harry watched dumbly for a moment, then laughed, shook his head, and concentrated hard on the field. The two of them were neck and neck now for the position of Seeker for the Chudley Cannons. Knight was giving him a run for his money, no question - but he could damn well give her one right back. She seemed to share his sixth sense where the Snitch was concerned, and Harry had learned early not to wait until it was spotted to race with her. The thing to do, really, was distract her until he'd slowed down her reaction time.

He flew toward his team's end of the pitch very slowly, veering sharply twice to avoid obstructing his own Chasers and flying rapidly infield once to confuse an opposing Chaser before the man could make a decent shot on the goal hoops. As the action headed down to the other end, Harry rose upward and hovered. He searched the grass, the players' broomtails, the sleeves of their practice robes, the bases of the goal hoops - all places where a Golden Snitch was apt to hide in an attempt to camouflage itself. Snitches were so tricky that it was hard to believe they didn't have brains; Harry knew that the little golden orbs were controlled by very specific, tamper-proof Sporting Spells, yet he had never quite been able to get rid of the suspicion that every Snitch had a mind of its own.

But wherever the Snitch was hiding at the moment, it had no intention of showing itself. Harry shrugged. That didn't necessarily matter. He peered across at Knight, who had one eye on the field and one on him, and knew that she was too clever to follow him if he feinted right now. It would take a bit more strategy than that. Luckily, Ron had given him an excellent tactical idea at the pub last night, using two shot glasses and a dancing peanut as his props. Harry had promised to try it out as soon as possible, and now seemed the perfect time to test if it worked.

He flew up behind one of his team's Beaters, Marty Gudgeon, who had been a Seeker all his life until Oliver had taken a look at him on the first day of tryouts. Harry had to agree with Oliver's assessment, too - Marty had massive arms, was a naturally gifted Beater, and seemed to be having the time of his life in his new position. He was following close behind Chaser Firoza Newland at present, batting the Bludgers away from her with incredible ease, not missing a single one.

"Marty," Harry said, in as low a voice as could still be heard over the wind, "Do me a favor - every time you get a chance, aim those things at Knight."

"Why, hasn't the Snitch come out yet?" Marty grunted, smacking another Bludger off into the sky.

Harry ducked the follow through of Marty's swing. "No, but she's not easily distracted and I want to make sure I have a head start. Help me keep her busy."

Marty glanced at Knight and nodded, and Harry swerved away toward Knight's end of the field. Keeping his distance by about ten meters, he came to a hover parallel with hers.

"Going to sit there watching, and let me do the work?" Knight bantered, not taking her eyes off the field.

"That's right," Harry answered evenly, glancing quickly at Marty. A Bludger was headed toward Firoza, and Harry knew that in a moment, it would be aimed toward Knight, who, Harry was happy to observe, was deeply concentrated on the other end of the field. Harry pulled back another meter, flexed his gloved hands, and gripped the Firebolt once more, tilting its nose down just a fraction in preparation.

He heard a crack! from the center of the pitch. A moment later, a Bludger hurtled past, just inches from Knight's ear, catching her off-guard and sending her spiraling. Harry waited for her to recover, every muscle at the ready, and just as it seemed she'd begun to regain her balance, he dove.

He cut steeply through space, the wind sleeking his hair and stinging his eyes, even behind his glasses. He feinted as though the World Cup depended on it, aiming for a perfectly innocent spot on the ground. He knew that if Knight had been undistracted, she never would have followed him, but as it was, he knew she wouldn't dare take a chance. For all she knew, the Snitch had appeared while she'd been busy with the Bludger, and sure enough, Harry heard the familiar noise of a Nimbus Two Thousand and One close behind him. He knew the sound of that broom by heart; years of playing against a Slytherin team full of them had trained his ear. As mercilessly as if it were Malfoy flying behind him now, Harry came within an inch of the pitch and pulled sharply upward on the Firebolt's handle, sparing himself a painful collision with the dirt.

Not a second later he heard a frantic, "Damn it!" from Knight as she struggled not to hit the ground herself. Harry climbed into the air, satisfied that she'd been thrown off her game, and nodded at Marty, who grinned. "Another one," Harry mouthed, jerking his head in Knight's direction. Marty nodded and turned back to guarding Firoza. Harry glanced downward to see his opponent shooting away from him in the air toward the other edge of the field, her face determined.

Harry followed. When he'd come within twenty feet of her, she dove out of his way. He followed again, and Knight made a sound of frustration - this was precisely what Ron had predicted. She was too paranoid of him now to concentrate entirely on finding the Snitch.

"Sorry," Harry called out cheerfully. "Thought I saw it for a second there. Guess not."

"Oh, shut your pie hole, Potter," Knight retorted, zooming away from him as fast as she could and heading for her team's goal hoops. Harry trailed behind her, feeling a surge of excitement as he watched Marty's bat come into contact with another Bludger, which sailed straight toward Knight's broom. She swore, pivoted, and dropped out of the way, at which moment, Harry feinted for the second time.

He dove at high speed, with real purpose - his feinting had improved unbelievably in the past two weeks. This time, however, he heard no telltale Nimbus noise behind him, and so, before he could go too far and lose the advantage of spotting the Snitch himself, he pulled out of the dive and circled back up into the sky.

"Nice try," Knight hollered, smirking. "I'm not a total idiot, you know."

"I never said you were a total idiot," Harry yelled back, and laughed when she responded with a very rude hand gesture.

"KNIGHT!" The voice was Oliver Wood's. Both Seekers' heads whipped downward, and Harry saw Oliver standing below them with his whistle in his hand and a furious look on his face. "WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE PLAYING AT?"

Harry cringed and glanced at Knight, who had gone pale. She didn't answer. Down the field, Firoza had just scored, and Harry was glad for his fellow Seeker's sake that the rest of the players weren't listening to Oliver just now, as he began to rail. "IT IS EVERY PLAYER'S RESPONSIBILITY TO TREAT THIS GAME AS A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH!" he shouted, going red in the face. "ARE YOU A PROFESSIONAL OR NOT?"

Knight opened her mouth as if to say something sarcastic, then shut it, clenched her jaw angrily, and nodded.

"THEN BEHAVE LIKE ONE!" Oliver shook his head in disgust, turned on his heel, and headed toward the far end of the pitch.

Knight muttered a few choice words under her breath as she sailed off in the opposite direction, but Harry also heard a noise from her that sounded suspiciously like a sniffle. He sighed. Knight was great fun to compete with and it was never comfortable to hear a teammate get shouted at like that. It was with a strong feeling of guilt, therefore, that he suddenly dove.

He had spotted the Snitch.

It was the barest glint of light next to Oliver's head, but Oliver didn't even seem to hear its silver wings fluttering in his ear. He stood there, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, staring up into the sky, apparently unaware that Harry was tearing towards him at breakneck speed. Harry concentrated his vision entirely on the tiny gold ball, but it wasn't until he heard Knight's broom streaking close behind him that he felt the competitive thrill that made Quidditch so enjoyable. He was half-tempted to slow down and let her catch it, but Oliver's long ago words about gentlemanly behavior on the field had never left him. And getting to play Seeker on the Chudley Cannons was far too important to him to sabotage his chance in any way.

He swooped so close to Oliver that his captain was sent sprawling to the ground in surprise. Harry stretched out his fingers, and had barely touched one shining wing when the Snitch fluttered rapidly upward, behind his head. He whirled to follow it, lunged up to catch it, and closed his fist around it just as Knight caught up with him.

"Oh, bloody -"

"Oof!"

He had forgotten that she was right behind him. The Firebolt and the Nimbus Two Thousand and One collided in midair with a crash and Harry was thrown from his broom. He dropped into the muddy grass with a painful thud, and, seconds later, heard a thump right beside him.

"Are you alive?" Knight croaked.

"No," Harry answered, squinting up into the weak sun and feeling no desire whatsoever to get to his feet and find out that he'd broken some bone or another. "You?"

"I doubt it."

A face came into view above them, blocking the sun. When Harry's eyes had adjusted he saw Oliver, his hair askew and his robes covered with mud on one side, looking down at him approvingly. Harry released the Snitch and saw it flicker its wings near Oliver's nose for a brief moment, before it disappeared again.

"That's the kind of dedication I'm talking about," Oliver said gruffly.

Harry was glad for the notice, but felt it wasn't quite fair that he should get the nod entirely to himself, when Knight had taken an equal fall. However, he wasn't quite sure what to say.

"Well, we both -" he began, but Oliver cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"Seekers dismissed." He stalked off, and Harry pushed himself onto his elbows, looking around dazedly. His eyes fell on Knight, who was watching Oliver walk away with an unreadable look on her face.

"Hey," Harry said after a moment, "I'm sorry he... you know. But I played with him in school and it doesn't really mean anything. He's just -"

"Yeah." Knight sighed and got to her feet, wincing with pain. "He's just a -" she stopped short, seeming to think better of her comment. "Well," she concluded, "at least you knocked him over." She grinned. "Hey, didn't you say you have a friend that runs a pub or something?"

Harry got to his feet gingerly, feeling for broken bones. He was relieved not to find any.

"Ron Weasley. He works at the Snout's Fair. Why?"

Knight's eyes widened slightly when Harry said Ron's full name, and he was pleased to realize that his friends must be publicly recognizable now, too.

"Just thinking I could use a drink, that's all," Knight replied, bending down to rub her kneecaps, then shaking out her legs one at a time. "Or maybe five. Does he work tonight?"

"Yeah," Harry answered, remembering for the first time all day that Ron had mentioned he'd be going to the pub tonight, after visiting Hermione's parents at St. Mungo's. He felt slightly guilty for not having thought about Hermione earlier, and realized it would probably be a good idea to meet up with his friends at the Snout's Fair before heading home. "Stagsden's not far," he told Knight. "We can stop by the pub for a few minutes."

"Just a few minutes?" Knight stopped pulling off her Quidditch gloves and raised an eyebrow at him. "Who are you in a hurry to get home to?"

Harry's face burnt so hot that he thought he might disintegrate. "I - well," he mumbled. "You know. I just want to get home and take a shower." For some reason, those words made him blush even harder.

Knight was grinning. "Yeah. I know," she said wickedly. "Look, let me grab my bag and then you can give me the address of the pub, okay? You don't have to sit there with me if you've got places to be."

"I don't..." Harry started, but didn't finish. The truth was, he really did want to get back to Lupin Lodge.

"Thought so," Knight said, smiling as though she'd read his thoughts. "Be right back."

Harry picked the Firebolt out of the muck and trudged over to the bench where he'd left his own things, wondering if maybe Ginny would be at the pub, as well. He unclasped his muddied Quidditch robes and shoved them in his knapsack, then tried to shake some of the mud out of his hair. After getting a considerable amount of it on Firoza, who looked like she wasn't too happy about the situation, he apologized and stopped trying.

"Ready?" Knight came jogging up with her bag slung over her shoulder. "I'm dying for a butterbeer, and I wouldn't say no to a shot of Liquid Curse, either, after the day I've just had."

"Athletes don't drink."

Harry felt his stomach clench. He turned to see Oliver standing off to Knight's left, carrying his own knapsack and wand. He was glowering at both of them.

Knight stiffened. "I think I'm off the clock," she said evenly, meeting Oliver's glare. "Personal life and all that."

Harry sucked in a low breath. He wasn't sure Oliver knew what it meant to have a personal life apart from Quidditch, and he didn't think that Knight was earning herself any points by saying that she did.

"Er - we were just going to say hello to Ron Weasley, Oliver," he attempted. "It's not a holiday, or anything, it's just that Ron works there. You should come. Last night, George stopped by - he told me to say hello to you, by the way."

Oliver shifted his glare to Harry. "Tell him hello, from me," he said shortly. "And you'll both be here at five-thirty tomorrow." He Disapparated before either of them could protest.

"Ruddy man," Knight seethed, the moment Oliver was gone from sight. "I love Quidditch. Can't he see I love it? I'm out there, breaking my stupid neck, and damn this!"

Harry looked around worriedly. A couple of the other players were starting to listen. "Look, let's just go," he muttered.

"I've been playing since I was a first year," Knight continued, pacing back and forth as if she hadn't heard Harry at all. "A first year! Do you know how rare that was, at my school?"

Harry thought he probably did.

"And I've played bloody, bollocking professional Quidditch for two years," she continued. "Granted, I was reserve for the Bats and I never got to play, but still!"

"Right," said Harry quickly. "But can we - can we go, or something?"

Knight was standing right next to him, still muttering, but she managed to stop for a moment. "We can go, all right," she said testily. "Give me that address, would you?"

"Sure," Harry said, "but you really shouldn't Disapparate while you're so worked up. You could get splinched." Harry grimaced at his own words. He sounded like Professor McGonagall. It was frightening, the way Hermione had rubbed off on him over the years.

Knight sighed. "I know," she muttered, and pulled her wand. "I'm fine. Just... never mind. I'm fine." She took a deep breath. "May I please have the address?" she asked, in a tone of forced calm.

Harry smiled slightly. "Yeah." He opened his knapsack. "I don't know it by heart, I just know how to get there. Hold on, I have a map." He rifled through his bag, digging underneath his robes to find the old, faded parchment map of Britain that Remus had given him to use for Apparition purposes, until he was more comfortable with exact locations.

He had just got his fingers to it when he heard a high-pitched shriek from halfway down the field - and then another. One by one, it seemed that every player on the pitch was beginning to scream.

Harry froze without withdrawing the map. A sick sort of horror rose up in him. There was now a flood of screams, all of them mingling together in fright. It was an old sound, a familiar sound, a sound he'd heard a hundred times - and Harry knew that when he looked toward it, he'd see the Dark Mark hanging in the sky.

Echoes of the war began to play themselves back to him with vicious intensity, one after another. He heard not only the screams of the present, but ones from the past as well... from the war... from the very beginning... The sound of his mother's frightened pleading, which he hadn't heard in months, seemed as clear to him now as if her death had happened yesterday.

"Bloody hell," Knight whispered, her voice shaking. "I've never seen - Harry, turn - turn around - I don't -"

Harry's body went cold with dread at the obvious fear in her voice, and for one sickening moment he knew he would pass out on the spot. But before that could happen, he summoned his strength and whipped around, steeling his mind for battle with a Death Eater. He dropped his knapsack and Firebolt, pulled his wand, and gasped.

Not ten feet away there stood a Dementor.

Of course, he thought blindly, as the rotting stench of the Dementor threatened to make him ill. Of course... The cold in his body - the echoes of his mother - all of it became clear to him at once and before he'd even thought about it Harry heard himself cry, "Expecto Patronum!" The silver stag on which he had come to depend shot full-force from the end of Harry's wand, driving the Dementor toward the edge of the pitch.

Clearly taken by surprise by the force of the spell, the Dementor seemed keen to find another place to go - it drifted rapidly off toward the forested area beyond the Quidditch field. But Harry knew he couldn't let it disappear. The Dementors weren't obeying anybody - this one must somehow have slipped past Moody and his over-tired crew. Or perhaps it had never been corralled in the first place. If left unattended, Harry was well aware that it would only roam until it found someone unprotected to attack, and then it would administer the Kiss.

Knowing no other way to deal with the situation, Harry snatched up his bag, mounted his broom and shot after the Dementor, his wand in hand. He heard shouts behind him; Knight and Marty and the others were calling him back, but there was nothing else for it. He was going to have to drive this thing all the way back to Azkaban. It wouldn't go back of its own accord, that was certain - and it had to go back. That was also certain. Harry only hoped it hadn't met up already with any unsuspecting wizards and left them.... He shuddered. He couldn't bear to think of what had happened to that boy's mother, at the beginning of the summer.

"Expecto Patronum!" The Dementor fled before him. But it wasn't a victory, to Harry. The glow he'd found on the Quidditch field during the past few weeks - that wonderful sense of a return to something friendly and familiar - was wiped out of him. Getting this Dementor to Azkaban was going to take two full days, at least. He was going to have to drive it up the bloody coast through unpopulated areas, cast Memory Charms if anybody saw him, use up his energy on Patronus Charms and take no sleep...

It was just like the war.

"Expecto Patronum!" He drove the Dementor further into the wooded area, due north, and thought grimly to himself that it was a damned good thing he'd brought the map with him. He was going to need it for the next two days

Дата добавления: 2015-10-24