Follow Through

I'm over this
I'm tired of living in the dark
Can anyone see me down here
The feeling's gone
There's nothing left to lift me up
Back into the world I've known

'Cause now again I've found myself
So far down, away from the sun
That shines into the darkest place
I'm so far down, away from the sun
That shines the life away from me
To find my way back into the arms
That care about the ones like me
I'm so far down, away from the sun again

"Away from the Sun" Three Doors Down

**

"Hey, Hermione, where have you been?" reporter Christian Highfield inquired warily. He leaned against her desk while she deposited her bag and robes in their proper position alongside her desk.

"Finishing up some work," Hermione told him. She glanced up at the wall clock and saw to her relief that the large hand was pointed directly at 'still plenty of time to make the deadline.' She rifled through her satchel to extract the article. "I was just going to take it to the press now." Christian was still giving her an odd look, and she paused uncomfortably. "What?"

Christian jerked his head toward the back of the crowded newsroom. "Higgins wants to see you." He wagged his eyebrows with sympathetic suspicion. "Reckon he wants to know why you were so late."

Hermione just stared for a moment in startled surprise. Sheldon Higgins was not the sort of boss who requested meetings with his reporters very often. Assignments were delegated by owl post, and as long as the stories reached the press on time, he usually didn't give a damn where and how his employees finished their stories. She glanced at her watch and saw that she was only an hour later than normal. It was a bit of a shock that he had even noticed she was late.

"I'm not that late," Hermione said defensively. She had never gotten along particularly well with Christian; she found him a bit stuck-up and extremely immature, and he thought she was a prissy tightwad, so she didn't appreciate him rubbing her face in her slight mistake. "But thank you for telling me." Without another word, Hermione whirled on her heel and weaved her way through zooming owls, hastily scratching quills, and frenzied reporters fighting to make a deadline and knocked on her boss' door.

"Come in!" he barked cheerfully. Hermione slipped inside, shutting the door behind her. Sheldon Higgins was filing away the last of a stack of paperwork, and since he could never split his attention, he didn't say anything for a moment. He was a rather stocky man, built similar to Harry's uncle whom she had seen a few times at King's Cross, but his face was not hidden by the heavy mustache that Harry's uncle wore. It was pity--Sheldon Higgins was not an attractive man. Perhaps he had been in his youth, but he was pushing eighty years old, and Hermione knew it was only a matter of time before he would be forced to retire. He was affable enough, but his ideas, principles, and opinions were so firmly rooted in the traditional thoughts of his era that it was impossible for him to understand Hermione's liberal opinions on house-elf rights or other social problems. He always ran her work, however, and Hermione knew that he was pleased with her progress at the Prophet. He could be more than a little annoying at times, however, especially since he still regarded her as a child. Hermione was one of the youngest reporters on the staff, yes, but she was a damn fine one. Because she was a young woman, Higgins considered her to be too delicate for really tough assignments--the ones covering gritty, difficult material. Hermione hoped to disprove that nasty assumption one day, but she was waiting for the opportune moment to arrive.

He finally glanced up from the paper he was struggling to find a spot for in the overloaded, disorganized chest. He gave her a curt nod before finally finding a perfect spot in the jumbled madness for the file. He slammed the heavy door shut and dusted his hands off with a weary sigh before turning back to Hermione.

"So, Granger, a bit late coming in this morning, eh?" he inquired as he hefted himself down into his plush desk chair. He gestured to the seat on the other side of his desk and Hermione dropped down in the slightly uncomfortable wooden seat. "Want to tell me why?"

"Because I was finishing a deadline," Hermione said vaguely. It wasn't like her boss to take such a personal interest in her whereabouts, and she squirmed slightly in discomfort. He was staring at her as though he knew she had been up to something. Her tone sharpened defensively. "Sir, this is the first time I've been late in three years--I don't understand how you can't overlook this one little incident--"

"Because you weren't finishing your deadline," he interrupted. "You were off in Lincolnshire. Snooping around Grantham with some Muggle, from what I understand." He paused to allow her to defend herself, but Hermione was once again rendered speechless. How on earth could he have known? "Weren't you?"

"How-how did you know?" Hermione got out. She didn't fancy the idea that someone had been watching her without her knowledge. She would have hoped that Harry and D.A. had prepared her better; you'd think that after three years in a war, she should be able to figure out when she was being watched.

"Devons is from the area," Mr. Higgins explained disinterestedly, referring to a middle-aged columnist that Hermione planned on having a few choice words with following this meeting. He folded his arms over his bulging chest. "That's right near the Malfoy Manor, isn't it?" Mr. Higgins accused, and Hermione sighed in resigned acceptance. Now she knew why she had been called in. She had requested to cover the Malfoy's involvement in Voldemort's rise to power her first week on the job, and of course her request had been denied. Her boss had never forgotten how fervently Hermione had tried to convince him to let her take the story; it was clear she'd do just about anything to get the Malfoys in Azkaban, even if it meant investigating the family on her own. "Granger, we've discussed this before; you can't investigate the Malfoys. You can't be objective--"

Hermione wasn't normally the sort of woman who interrupted others--well, perhaps she was, but not when the person who controlled her paycheck was reprimanding her--but she sat up straight as a fresh, wonderful idea occurred to her. This was her opportune moment. "But I can," she said fervently. "And when I asked to cover the Malfoys previously I didn't have a case, but I do now."

She scooted forward avidly in her chair. "The caretaker at Hogwarts is named Argus Filch--he was notorious for always being in a foul mood. He hated being around the hundreds of students at Hogwarts who were so adept at magic, when he couldn't perform any himself. He was a Squib, you see."

Higgins looked incredibly bored, so Hermione quickly got to the point. "He's suddenly gained magical ability, and no one can explain why. I asked him about it, and he was clearly hiding something. All Filch said was that a friend helped him out. Filch is a bit of a loner amongst the Hogwarts faculty, so I thought that he must have had outside help. I looked in the Hogwarts records for that day, and it turns out that he acquired his newfound abilities the same day that Draco Malfoy visited the school. There were no other odd occurrences that day, so there is a possibility that he could have had something to do with it.

"Malfoy and Filch were never particularly close, but Filch would always let Malfoy get by with anything, so it's plausible that Malfoy could want to repay him. But there could be something else," she added mysteriously. Higgins perked up a bit, and Hermione quickly pushed the little luck she had. "Filch was looking awfully unhealthy, and I found records indicating that he's be in the hospital a fair bit over the past year, but a colleague mentioned that when it first happened, he had never seen Filch happier. Something must have changed in that time."

"But why would Malfoy want to hurt Filch if he had helped him out as a kid?" Higgins pointed out suspiciously. Hermione wasn't worried, however. Her boss' question proved that he was at least a bit taken in by her story.

"I don't know," Hermione admitted. "It doesn't make much sense right now, but I know that there's something funny going on, and I'd be willing to bet Malfoy's behind it. And if this is a typical Malfoy plot, there's a possibility that other Death Eaters are involved, which always means that there is something fascinating going on that readers everywhere will want to read about." Mr. Higgins perked up considerably at that last comment. The potential profit that could be reaped from a story of this nature would be a very important factor in getting this assignment. If Mr. Higgins thought they could sell more papers by selling his lungs to goblins, he would do it in a second.

He considered this for a long moment before he was stricken with an abrupt stroke of brilliance. "Wait, I know what this is really about," Mr. Higgins exclaimed with satisfaction. "It's not about this Filch, is it?" He gave her a slightly lewd wink. "You want to see that husband of yours, don't you? Hope to find him wandering around Grantham, do you?"

"This is not about Ron," Hermione denied vehemently. Well, perhaps, this was a little about Ron, since part of her wanted to see him and make sure that he wasn't doing anything stupid, but her boss didn't need to know that. She paused slightly before remembering that she needed to make a very important correction. "And we are not married."

His floppy jowls twisted downward in a surprised frown. "Really? Is that a mutual choice, or has he just not popped--"

"That is none of your business," Hermione interrupted, her cheeks growing hot. She knew that everyone who worked at the Prophet was naturally curious and inquisitive--she certainly was. His honest question really shouldn't have her all worked up. It was just that marriage was a sensitive issue for her these days, and besides, it wasn't her boss' place to ask her questions about her personal life. "And I didn't come in here to talk about Ron."

She hastily brought the conversation back to the original subject. "Look, it may not be anything useful, but I really do think that something is going on that merits further investigation, and I wouldn't feel right about not following it through. I just finished that piece on the anniversary feast for the Minister of Magic, so my schedule is completely clear. I know you may be disinclined to give this story to someone as young as myself, but I think I'm ready for an assignment of this nature, and I am prepared to give it all of my best effort. So with your approval, of course, I would like to investigate this further."

Hermione sank back into the chair, a feeling of weary satisfaction knocking against her stomach. That was the fastest she had ever concocted a plausible explanation for her actions, aside from when she had convinced Umbridge that Dumbledore really did have a secret weapon in the Forest. Now she just had to pray that he bought it and approved her case. She let out a little breath when she finished the prepared speech and waited expectantly, her hands folded nervously on her lap. Hopefully, that had gone well.

Sheldon Higgins, however, had no idea that Hermione was a rather impatient person, so he took his sweet time mulling over the possibility before grimacing. "Wouldn't you rather stick to those editorials?" he offered hopefully. Hermione was rapidly earning a reputation as a scathingly insightful commentator on the pressing social issues plaguing their society. Many were often offended or even outraged by her proposed solutions to these problems, but her work never failed to provoke lively debates and fervent attempts for social reform, and many, many copies of the Daily Prophet had been sold because of it. "You did damn fine work with that werewolf one," he praised with raised, proud eyebrows.

Hermione opted not to remind the absent-minded editor that he had already praised her for that piece countless times. After all, she had written it well over six months ago. "Thank you," she said as sincerely as she had the first time he had commended her for her work. "But I think I'm ready to try something new and a bit more challenging." She hesitated slightly because she had a gut feeling that she knew the answer to the question she was about to voice. "Don't you?"

Mr. Higgins didn't look very confident with her abilities, much to Hermione's infinite disappointment. He struggled to find tactful words and tugged on his collar. "Look, Granger, I don't want you to take offense to what I'm about to say." Mr. Higgins coughed once and readjusted his robes, which were uncomfortably squished tightly around his stout belly. "You're a damned fine writer, you work harder than anyone here, and you got great instincts, but honestly, you just don't have the heart of a journalist."

Hermione's stomach twitched. She had expected to be outraged by his answer, but this was certainly not the answer she was anticipating. "Excuse me?"

"You care," Higgins explained with annoying gentleness. "You care far too much about the world and the people in it to be completely objective. Your work is very impassioned and brilliant, which is why you should stick to editorials, that sort of thing, where they want to hear your opinion." His plump finger stabbed at the photograph of the burning building, and Hermione's eyes instantly dived downward; she couldn't stare at the photograph for too long without becoming either very upset or very angry. "But an investigative reporter has to be tough, Granger. They have to have grit to them. They have to be able to see everything going around them, even if it isn't very pretty--like this." he jabbed at the photo again, and Hermione knew he had caught her empathetic reaction to the horrible sight. "They have to be able take a step back and write coherently and objectively about their observations without letting their emotions cloud their judgment and words." He leaned back in his chair and limply raised his hand toward her. "You care," he concluded. "And that, in journalism, will be your downfall."

Hermione just stared at a fixed point on his desk, trying to collect her rapidly churning thoughts. She knew there were benefits to receiving constructive criticism, but it still hurt to hear nonetheless. He was actually saying that because she felt sympathy for the victims, she would never be a very good journalist. She supposed she had assumed that because she had been handpicked by Mr. Higgins to work here, he had thought she could be an investigative reporter. It was what she wanted to do, but if her boss didn't believe in her--

"Are you saying I'm in the wrong line of business?" Hermione kept her voice very light and even. It wouldn't help her case if she became too emotional about this.

"Great Merlin, no!" Higgins protested, spluttering a little on the coffee he had been sipping. A light hot spray spewed across Hermione's arm, and she discreetly tried to wipe away the unwanted moisture without attracting his attention. "All I'm saying is that you're young--you'll learn to distance yourself in time. Give yourself a few more years. But for now," he tossed the paper back toward her, "I need you to stick to what you're best at."

"The editorials," Hermione answered for him.

He nodded. "You did damn fine work with that werewolf one."

"Yes, I know," she agreed a tad testily. "But I think I'm ready to move on--I really do." She stared at him appealingly. "All I'm asking for is a chance. If I fail, then I go back to the editorials and you won't hear another peep out of me until you feel I'm ready."

But her earnest, pleading eyes would not sway Mr. Higgins today. "It's not just about you being ready," the editor tried to explain to his stubborn journalist once again. "You can't possibly be objective about anything to do with Death Eaters, Hermione. You were involved." He shook his head sympathetically. "I can't have you do a piece on the Malfoys." His voice grew curiously sharp as he studied Hermione carefully. "Besides, from what I understand, you have quite a bit of history with the Malfoy boy."

Her chest jumped at his words, but Hermione's face remained unrevealingly blank. "What of it?" she asked tightly. Her stay with the Malfoys' had been kept out of the paper. The only thing that had been revealed was that a student assumed dead had miraculously been found alive after a clone of some sort had been buried in her name. No one knew the truth, but many still suspected Malfoy's involvement in her bizarre disappearance.

She hadn't denied his comment, and Sheldon Higgins leaned forward avidly, his journalistic instincts overriding his sympathetic concern. "Is that true?" her boss asked seriously.

Hermione considered him for a moment before fighting back a small grin. She had just discovered a very powerful bargaining point. "Let me write the story and you'll find out."

His stumpy eyebrows shot up in consideration. Many people would leap at the chance to learn about yet another horrendous, atrocious crime the Malfoys had inflicted upon the world. Not to mention if the victim in question was the bright, talented Muggle-born witch with a well-established reputation in the wizarding world as a notable journalist, best friend of Harry Potter, and girlfriend of the Minister of Magic's youngest, personable and extremely likable son. The public revered anyone connected to either Harry Potter or the Weasleys, and the fact that Hermione was closely connected to both meant that she was doubly adored. An exciting story about her perilous return from the grave, despite the dastardly efforts of a notoriously evil wizarding family, would sell very well. It was awful that stories of hate, pain, and terror were such a selling point, but if it sold papers--

He had to admit that it was very tempting. And Granger was a damned fine writer, even if her heart was as big as a Graphorn. If she couldn't handle herself, she could always pull out of the story, and she did have that boyfriend of hers. Sheldon had met Ron once, and he could tell that the lad would be willing to dive off a broomstick a thousand feet in the air to save that girl. If she was in trouble, he could always save her. And if the boyfriend couldn't, there was always the famous Harry Potter to save the damsel in distress, Sheldon mused. Yes, it could work. It could work, and millions of papers would sell in the process.

If that didn't convince the editor entirely, a dry waspish voice from the doorway of his office pushed him over the edge. "Come on, Sheldon," Rita Skeeter barked as she leaned against the frame, glaring at her boss over her monstrously horn-rimmed glasses. "Cut Little Miss Perfect a break." She walked across the office to drop off her latest holiday request form. "She can handle herself."

Rita gave Hermione a disgusted look, which Hermione promptly returned. Just because Skeeter was actually backing her up didn't mean that she was going to play nice to that foul woman. Rita had actually gotten her old job back after going on "sabbatical" during Hermione's fifth year. She hadn't yet attempted to sabotage Hermione's post, since Hermione could still spill the beans about her being an unregistered Animagus, but Hermione wouldn't put it past her. The animosity between the two had not waned over the six years they had known each other. Rita still called Hermione "Little Miss Perfect" at every opportunity--which, by the way, Mr. Higgins thought was an affectionate nickname--and Hermione was still ready to turn the malicious columnist in to the authorities in a heartbeat. It was only the respect they had for the Prophet and their jobs that forced them to be stiffly civil to each other.

For some bizarre, inexplicable reason, Mr. Higgins had always had a bit of a crush on the insidious columnist, so Rita's goading finalized his decision. "All right, Granger," he agreed. "You got it. Let me know in a week what you've been able to find."

Hermione nodded, and with a terse but earnest thank you, hurried out to get straight to work. He watched his youngest reporter go with an expression of fatherly concern. Although he knew that Granger could handle herself, he was still worried. He didn't show affection for his employees very often, but he had to admit that he'd had a bit of a soft spot for Hermione Granger ever since he had read her intelligent, impassioned plea to free the house-elves she'd written at the young age of fifteen.

He sighed wearily. Witnessing such raw energy and vigor made him feel so old sometimes. "She cares too much," he repeated absently to Rita. He mopped a beefy hand over his face. "She thinks she knows, but she doesn't--she has no idea what those Malfoys have done. The war was nothing compared to what their ancestors did to Muggles." He paused as he continued to contemplate the young woman he was privileged to know. It was very difficult not to become fond of someone as clever and good-hearted as Hermione Granger--only people as stubborn as Rita Skeeter could manage that feat. "But even if she finds out about their history, she'll still do the story," he realized glumly. He took another long drink of his now lukewarm coffee, still mulling over the Malfoys' history of Muggle abuse. "She's going to get herself killed," he predicted under his breath.

Rita was standing near the door, her eyes narrowed as she, too, watched the bushy head of hair bob over to her small desk in the back of the cluttered newsroom. "You think?" she asked with flippant lightness. She shifted her position ever so slightly, concealing her wide, self-satisfied smirk. "Pity."

**

"Wow!" Ginny said with delight. She set down her glass of pumpkin juice and clapped her hands with glee. "You finally got your story! Congratulations!"

"Thanks," Hermione said gratefully, leaning wearily into the cushions of her friend's sofa. She had to admit that although she was incredibly excited about this opportunity, she was equally as nervous. Getting the story had been the easy part of her assignment--now she actually had to ferret it out on her own.

"So what are you going to do next?" Ginny asked curiously, tucking her legs underneath her. "I assume you already have a plan all laid out?"

"Of course," Hermione replied with a smile. "I'm either going to start out researching the methods Filch could have used to gain his magical talent, or I'm going to just go straight after Malfoy. If I decide on that approach, since I can't get into the manor, I'm going to track down Crabbe or Goyle, or someone who may know their whereabouts."

"Crabbe and Goyle? Dumb and Dumber?" Ginny arched her eyebrows uncertainly. "Malfoy wasn't too terribly fond of those idiots--do you really think that they would be good sources of information?"

Hermione propped her head up with her hand, her elbow resting against the back of the sofa. "Ron told me once," she explained, "that one of the things he learned in training was that if you can't get to a suspect directly, the best course of action is to get to him through his friends. Even if his friends don't know anything, they'll certainly be talking about their visit from the Auror squad, and it'll start making the suspect antsy. And when a suspect gets antsy, he gets sloppy and there's a better chance he'll slip up." It was one of the few choice bits of wisdom Ron had divulged, and Hermione knew that for that reason, she was going to remember that bit of advice for a long time, if not her entire life.

Ginny nodded slowly; it made perfect sense to her, even if the so-called friend of the suspect was as thick as one of Hagrid's massive legs. "Speak of the git," Ginny changed the subject, "when are you going to tell Ron about your story?"

"Whenever he comes back," Hermione replied gloomily. "I was actually going to try to stop by the Aurors' headquarters tomorrow. It's ridiculous that they've been gone for over two weeks now without any word. Even if they can't tell us what they're doing, we can at least find out if they're all right."

"Sounds like a plan," Ginny said with a nod. "I may go with you to headquarters," she added offhandedly, although Hermione knew that her intentions were anything but casual; she was going for the same reason as Hermione. She was going to try to find out what was keeping their boys from coming home. Ginny shifted her position in order to face Hermione directly. "Do you think Ron will be angry that you're trying to find Malfoy too?"

"He shouldn't be," Hermione answered logically. "I'm just doing my job. It's not my fault that his assignment and my career overlap, especially when he doesn't tell me what he's up to."

"When he doesn't tell you what he's up to?" Ginny repeated with a deep frown.

Hermione gave her friend a quizzical look. "Well, yes," Hermione replied, "Ron doesn't tell me anyth--"

She broke off at the mortified realization on Ginny's face, and that was when she had a mortified realization of her own. It felt as though a Bludger had ripped through her stomach, but she managed to not let her hurt show on her face. Ginny knew. Ginny knew things about Harry and Ron's cases, and she didn't. Ginny was trusted with this extremely confidential information, but she wasn't. Perhaps it was silly and petty, but it hurt Hermione all the same. "But Harry tells you everything," she finished quietly. "You knew all along that they were looking for Malfoy."

It was one of the few times that Ginny was at a complete loss for words. She had never considered that Ron would actually follow through on the secrecy clause. He was horrible at secrets, especially if they were kept from Hermione. Since Harry had finally bitten the bullet and spilled his guts to her, Ginny had just assumed Ron had done the same. Remembering how hurt she had been when Harry would come home without telling her a word about where he had been, Ginny could only look at her friend with pity. She had been down this awful road before, yet she had no idea what to say to make this better.

Ginny's pitying glance, however, made the situation all the more awful. Hermione didn't want pity; she wanted answers. Hermione heaved a steadying breath and tried to think this through rationally. This was the solution Harry and Ginny had settled on to solve their problems; Harry had given in to Ginny's request to be involved with his work life. He had obviously wanted her to be separated from trials of his dangerous job, but he had conceded upon realizing just how much Ginny worried about him. Secrets could never benefit a relationship, so Harry had ended the lies and deceit. He had broken the chain of command by doing so, but Ginny was more important to him then the silly Auror secrecy code. He had made his choice. And apparently, so had Ron.

Ordinarily, Hermione would have jumped for joy when she learned that Ron had finally learned to obey the rules; he certainly never had at school. He was adhering to the specific requests of his job by remaining silent about the secrets of his profession, and she should respect that. Harry, on the other hand, had never subjected to authority; it made sense that he would opt to recklessly divulge secret information to his girlfriend. He may be endangering Ginny's life by confiding in her, and Hermione knew that she should be pleased that Ron wasn't taking that chance with her safety. Rationally, she should be very proud that her boyfriend was the one who obeyed the law.

But she wasn't. All she wanted to do was find Ron and demand to know why he insisted on keeping her left in the dark, why he subjected her to endless hours of anxiety, and why he was making her miserable with his lies. Hermione bit her lip and glanced hopelessly toward the door. Damn it, Ron, where are you?

"Hermione." Ginny finally found coherent speech and rested her hand reassuringly on Hermione's arm. "I'm sorry--I thought you knew. I mean, I know you were talking about how surprised you were that Harry and Ron were at the Malfoys, but I just assumed that you knew the reason why they were there, and--" Ginny broke off as she realized that this was not doing anything to placate her friend, so she swiftly changed tactics. "It doesn't mean anything. It took Harry a whole year before he could tell me about what he does. I don't know why they think it's better for us to be left in the dark, but for some stupid reason they think that it's better for us to be completely ignorant and protected."

"I don't want to be protected like I'm completely helpless," Hermione argued. "I want to be his partner. Whatever he goes through, I go through--"

"I know, I know," Ginny agreed comfortingly. "Believe me, I know. I've had this same argument with Harry many, many times, but they just don't get it." She squeezed her friend's arm. "Just give it time--Ron'll come around, you'll see. My brother may be a complete prat, but you know he always comes through in the end."

"Yeah," Hermione agreed heavily. Ron did always have a knack for never ever letting her down. It was one of the reasons she loved him so bloody much. Perhaps he didn't realize how upset she became every time he left. She had never wanted to hamper him with her worries when he had plenty of his own to concern himself with. If she just talked to him about it, maybe he would come around to her way of seeing things and let her in on at least some aspects of his job. She didn't have to know every little thing he did--ok, maybe she did want to know everything about him, but she didn't have to. She just had to know something. Hermione Granger had to have answers to everything, and right now there was so much mystery clouding her life that she was having trouble thinking rationally.

Ginny was still gazing at her with pitying concern, so Hermione felt it necessary to elaborate. "I just wish he realized how I was feeling," Hermione explained. "After all, he is an empath and he's known me for ten years; you'd think he'd understand by this point that I hate not knowing things, especially if they concern his safety."

"Yes, well, that would be true if not for one little thing." Ginny glanced around anxiously once again to make sure they weren't overheard. "I'm going to let you in on a little secret," Ginny explained mysteriously. After one more careful look over her shoulder, Ginny leaned in even closer and lowered her voice to reveal one of the deepest secrets of the universe. "All men are gits," Ginny stated profoundly in a low, serious voice.

Hermione chuckled. "That's not a secret," she said wryly before considering it for a moment. "You know," Hermione pointed out thoughtfully, "if you think about it rationally, we'd be better off without them. For one thing, we wouldn't be sitting here, talking and thinking about Ron and Harry incessantly when we could be having some sort of fascinating conversation or be out at some party having the time of our lives; it's a bit pathetic, really."

Ginny arched her eyebrow, a trick she had learned from her older brothers. "Is this when we swear off men forever, paint each other's toenails, and eat loads of chocolate?"

"No," Hermione answered with a small smile. She found it difficult to be head over heels in love at times, but honestly, she wouldn't trade what she and Ron had for all of the books in the world. "We both know we could never do that."

"Right," Ginny agreed pensively. She leaned back in her chair, one finger absently wrapping around a strand of her magically straightened hair. "They may be gits, but that's why we love them."

"Theoretically, we shouldn't, but realistically, we can't help ourselves," Hermione added somberly.

"So it's settled then," Ginny concluded. "We're never going to fall out of love."

"Afraid not," Hermione replied.

"Well, then," Ginny waved her hand toward Hermione, miming the motion of clinking glasses in a solemn oath. "To our gits."

Hermione mirrored the gesture in complete agreement. "To our gits."

Ginny got to her feet and brushed off her skirt with an air of finality. "I think we need some wine to seal our pledge," she said in a deep, serious voice. Hermione laughed in agreement and followed Ginny into the kitchen. She leaned against the doorframe as she waited for a moment or two before asking another question that had crossed her mind. "Since Harry talks to you about this sort of thing, does he owl you too?"

"Sometimes," Ginny replied glumly. "But not recently." She stared at the wine glasses she had just retrieved without really seeing them. "You know, he's never been gone this long," she said under her breath.

"Never?" Hermione said sharply. She had already been worried, of course, but she thought it was normal for Harry and Ron to be away for so long. Now her concern was escalating to dizzying heights. Harry had been doing this for over two years now, and had been through all sorts of sticky situations; Hermione had had to visit him in St. Mungo's more than once. She had hoped that Ron could avoid that mess.

Ginny glanced over at Hermione, and the hollow anxiety she saw in her eyes mirrored her own. "Never."

She didn't want to worry her friend even more, so Hermione tried to sound unconcerned. "Well, you know those two, always getting caught up in their work." She forced a little laugh. "And especially if they're trying to get Malfoy--I know Ron has been waiting for ages to give Malfoy his comeuppance."

"But usually Harry gives me some sort of warning if he's going to be gone over a week--I haven't heard from him since he left," Ginny explained in a rush. "He said he was going to try to make it to the ball for Dad, but that was way over a week ago. What has he been up to?"

"So he did talk to you?" Hermione asked, trying to keep the jealousy out of her voice. She wished that her boyfriend had been considerate enough to send her an owl letting her know that he was safe.

"Well, yeah, he did," Ginny conceded. "But it was really short--all he said was that he would try to be home for the ball and that he and Ron were doing fine," Ginny relayed. She turned to face Hermione directly. "Hermione, it really wasn't a big deal. It doesn't mean anything that Ron didn't tell you."

"But you knew about Malfoy," Hermione pointed out. "Harry talks to you about work when he comes home, doesn't he?" Ginny reluctantly conceded with a nod. "Ron doesn't say a word--he either reminds me that he can't, or he says he's so tired that he doesn't want to talk about it and just wants to focus on us being together."

"Oh, and that sounds so horrible," Ginny said sarcastically. "You know, it could be worse--some people are so obsessed with their jobs that they can't talk about anything else. At least when your boyfriend is home, he wants to spend all of his time with you."

Hermione wondered if Ginny was speaking from personal experience, but she didn't push it. "I just don't like that he's keeping things from me again," Hermione explained dejectedly. She distractedly ran her fingers through her hair as his face flashed through her mind yet again. "And I really miss him."

Her voice was so desolately honest that Ginny's bitterness passed swiftly and she nodded briskly. "Right then. Here's what we'll do. We'll go to the Auror headquarters first thing tomorrow, and we're not going to leave until we find out where the hell those two prats are." Hermione agreed with a nod, her mind still clearly on Ron. Ginny cleared her throat in order to pull her friend's attention back to the moment. "And until then," she crossed the kitchen, "we'll have to use the strongest magic there is." She pulled out a carton of chocolate ice cream expectantly. "Sound good?"

It did sound very good, but Hermione knew it wasn't going to solve her problems. However, she just smiled, nodded, and dug into the rich recesses of chocolate, praying that the ice cream would somehow numb her mind to the questions and concerns that were threatening to drive her mad.