Two Aurors & A Bookworm

Chapter Three: War Zone: Battlefield of the Avenging

Chapter three, part I

Clay lies still, but blood's a rover;

Breath's a ware that will not keep.

Up, lad: when the journey's over

There'll be time enough to sleep.

"Reveille" - Alfred Edward Housman

When Ron woke up, he was dressed the same as he had the day before, and the day before that, and for many days to come, he reckoned. When he woke up it was always a dreary one. For many months now he didn't care, though, that he slept poorly, that he didn't eat well, that his eyes were sunken deep, or that the smell of sweat followed him everywhere he went.

It was the blood he cared for. The blood that had been shed. They had to pay. All of them, those bastards.

Harry was already up. As always he wasn't exactly there, in the present. Ron had enough mind to leave him to himself, so he sat up and reached for a pan to put on the small fire that hadn't been tended to during the night - Ron reckoned that Harry had started it again this morning upon waking up. Cracking some eggs and stirring them in the pan, he then gathered a handful of dried oatmeal into a small cracked pot and poured some water in it, displaying it atop a rock surrounding the pitiful fire. With the right spell, though, the meal would be ready in no time.

"I ate."

It was too late. Ron looked up as Harry spoke, and shrugged, muttering a fire starter charm.

"I ate."

"And I heard you." Silence. "Don't care. I could use the food."

The drop curtain fell sideways, letting in a ray of bleary morning sunshine - why did it have to be so dark these days? - and revealing Hermione.

"Hi. Can I come in?" she asked in her white robes - robes that were ample enough to allow elbow movement. "I heard you talking."

Ron looked at Harry's brooding figure and rolled his eyes, then gestured for her to sit before the fire with him. "Sure. Eaten yet? Was about to make some eggs and porridge."

"Umm, sure." She glanced uncertainly at Harry before smiling wanly at Ron. The War was making her skin too white and papery, with her hollow eyes and tired lines. Even her robes made her look dreary. And that was saying something.

Harry stood up hastily then looked at them as if he'd just registered his earlier behaviour. Now he looked at them apologetically. "Sorry. I'm just going to take a walk out there and see if I can help anyone." He walked out with a quick step.

When Harry was out of sight and earshot, Ron drew out a breath, but not because of Harry's departure. Hermione tried to smile, but it came out as a shy, tired one. "Everything all right? How's the infirmary holding up?"

Hermione poured herself some porridge and played with her spoon in the mushy substance. Her locks, now held back in a tight bun in comparison to when they had been in Hogwarts, were dull and dry. "I don't know, everything's so uncertain, and I knew it was going to be that way when I joined the MMMI (moving magimedical infirmary). But I never wanted to believe that I was going to see so much sufferance and so many deaths as I've seen in the last couple of months. It's insane, I know, I should be over it by now, but I'm not." She sighed, looking up at once into Ron's stormy eyes. Hugging herself she said, "I just wish this war could swallow itself whole and be gone."

"Hermione," Ron said straightforwardly, "you have got to see it the way most of us do."

"I know... it's the Final Battle. It's been prophesied. But you've seen Harry. Even he's dreary." She sighed. "And I know you've lost more than your share in this..." She trailed off at his sunken expression and looked down at her hands, suddenly not so hungry anymore. "I probably shouldn't have brought this up."

Ron shook his head indulgently. "No, no, it's all right." And then the silence reigned once more. Ron stared at the flapping drop that served as the door to his and Harry's tent, then looked at the fire. "And for what it's worth, I'm so glad you decided to come after all."

"They needed all the help they could get. I was there."

Ron's gaze held hers in an enthralling trance. "I needed someone who'd known all along."

Hermione knew he was talking about his empathy. "You needed someone who understood... someone who could help you along."

His expression held deep respect and devotion, something that usually scared Hermione to death. Truth be told, she was still a little uneasy when she met his eyes when he was like this. But she held his gaze nonetheless, determined to let show that she wasn't moved by him.

"How are you holding up?" she asked suddenly. "With the empathy, I mean."

Ron's eyes turned gloomy, always a bad sign." God, you know, it kills me. Every time I... I'm holding their gazes or just touching those cads, they're dying and it kills me. I see..." Interrupting himself, he looked up and swallowed around his dry throat. Hermione smiled indulgently and moved behind him to hook her arms around his waist and nuzzle her nose in the crook of his shoulder, the musk of war reaching her nostrils. "I see their fears, it's like being connected to their thoughts. It's so strange, and..." Trailing off, he interrupted himself again. No, he couldn't. Never could he tell her how it felt to be at the brink of death himself. And it wouldn't do to scare her now when he'd probed so much to have her understand that he needed to kill. If not for himself, then for...

"And?" she asked in a tense voice. She knew what was coming, hated to see him so crushed and torn. Without a thought she bit her lip, her fingers tightening on his shoulders as she watched his whole body stiffen beneath her fingertips.

Ron groaned miserably after a few beats, then leaned forward until his elbows could rest upon his knees. "I don't know, Hermione." Looking back over his shoulder at his kneeling friend, he tossed her a sketch of a smile, attempting to lighten the mood. "Well, now we have the proof that I am a wreck."

Seeing past his mask, Hermione scooted sideways and held his eyes. She smiled tentatively, then raised her hand to his unkempt, greasy hair. "No, I think I finally have the proof that you have feelings, you oaf."

That made him crack a real smile. "Wait till we get those bastards. I might start bawling a river when they die."

Hermione's smile faltered. He knew where she stood with the War and winced.

"Yeah, sorry. Didn't mean to sound like a craving bloodsucker."

She shook her head like she might a particularly dusty book. "No. It's all right. I hear it everyday. Became routine, I guess."

A moment of silence passed between them, during which Ron debated with his inner self whether or not he should ask Hermione to resume the daily exercises they'd discontinued a month or two ago. Finally his rational side took the reins, as she was about to filter outside. "Hang on." At her slight turn toward him, he felt more confidence in asking her. "I think I need those sessions again." And he trusted her more than anyone else he knew with that. Including Harry. Especially Harry.

Biting her lip at the happy tug in her heart, Hermione crawled back into the tent and sat down at the spot she'd just vacated. "Okay," she said, and Ron felt nothing but the comforting veil of trust that she'd been able to weave around them through the last three years. Facing her, he blanked out his mind, felt nothing, nothing at all but the humming of his heart and his fingertips twined in hers in a matter of intense connection - something they'd established long ago.

He heard her regular intake of breath, knew she was digging through her memories when he saw her eyes close, that little line on her forehead telling him she wasn't taking this task lightly - good, he thought, I need the practice anyway.

And then it was there. Her sharp hiss, her nails digging in his hands, her moans and whimpers as she remembered her most terrifying fears and communicated them to him.

Ron knew his task. Relieve yourself first, disconnect, disconnect. Break it before it consumes you.

The first few times, Ron had enjoyed the sharp stab of pain. A bit of a masochist? he'd then asked himself. But it wasn't that. It had been drunken discovery.

Now Ron didn't dwell and hang back for the show. Hermione's eyes opened, terrified. Her body trembled; a cold sweat had broken out all over her. Quick, quick, he had to act in a matter of seconds, no, now. Before he could be drawn into the illusion, however real it looked. Real situations couldn't be spared.

Block out, block out. Ron forced himself to put up the barrier. It was always harder to put it up than to break it, he conceded as he felt his own body shake and cover with sweat and as he felt the beginnings of a migraine at the intrusion.

"Come on, Ron," Hermione gritted out between sharp intakes of breath. "You can do it, I know you can." Squeezing his shoulders harder at the horrifying pictures playing in her head - the mangled bodies, the pain, the crying, the rotting smells, the blood, the cold, hard body, it was all so much, and yet there came more now - she willed him to pull her out. "Get me out, you know you can."

Ron felt the searing pain on his shoulder, but it was nothing next to hers. Pulling her to him - pushing her away was just too damn easy and he'd already mastered it to an art - he let her forehead touch his. He knew he'd deliberately taken the tough route, but damn it, he was going to get it down if it reduced him to nothing.

Hermione felt the tears coming now. "Come on, Ron. Get me out." I can't hold much longer.

Damn it.

Ron squeezed his eyes shut tight and, in a moment foul numbness, felt the connection give way finally.

When he opened his eyes, staring into Hermione's tear-stained face and smiling triumphantly, Hermione was smiling drunkenly as well.

"I did it."

"You're an idiot, Ronald Weasley." She pushed him away sharply at arm's length.

"I did it." Ron was too happy to care about anything else revolving around him. It had been weeks since he'd practised and it felt too good to be diminished so fast.

Hermione's heart warmed considerably as she looked at his reaction. Then her arms laced around him and she felt Ron's stubby cheek rub her smooth one. "You did it," she whispered softly.

Yes; quaint and curious war is!

You shoot a fellow down

You'd treat, if met where any bar is,

Or help to half-a-crown.

"The Man He Killed" - Thomas Hardy

"Harry! Harry!"

Looking up sharply - he'd been staring at his wand for a half hour now - Harry saw Luna, cape riding in the air as she ran to him, her ragged messenger bag shouldered - he suspected she'd been writing again - and her broomstick in one hand. Her wand was holstered at her ribcage, and her eyes were wild. As she approached still, Harry stood up from the little mound he'd been sitting on.

"Harry, we'd better round up everyone. We've got to move out of here, it's too dangerous," Luna wheezed out between sharp gulps of air.

Harry stared at her hard. "They're coming?"

She only nodded. "I saw the Dark Mark when I was... my article," she said, tugging at his arm as she started running again toward camp. "Seamus and everyone," she panted. "I think their camp was ravaged."

Harry's nerves made a flip. "Did you see anyone?"

She knew he was asking if there had been survivors, casualties, anyone alive. No one wanted to ask anymore. Silence as they ran, and she stared sidelong at Harry's stormy eyes. "I wasn't close enough." Panting, she strained to keep up with Harry's distressed run. "I don't know, Harry."

They reached camp and shook it out, as Harry barked out orders. When he saw Ron come out fully prepared, wand in holster, broomstick in hand and clasping his cape over his war outfit, he marched off toward him just as Hermione pushed over the curtain, a sheen of sweat on her face but powerful nonetheless.

"Hey there, mate. Feeling all right today?"

Ron nodded, looking back at Hermione as she edged toward the small group of Healers and nurses. "I'm feeling ace."

Harry was about to reply when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Luna.

"We should go, Harry. We have the advantage of the surprise."

Thirty-nine casualties, two dead. When the Death Eaters fled that day, Harry considered themselves in sweet advantage.

Vivian O'Sullivan paused in her footsteps, looking around at their... his bedroom. Splashes of rich reds and solid oak-tree furniture adorned the warm intimate space. Or, it could have been intimate. He'd come out from next to nothing, she realised not for the first time. They all had, all of his family. Come out from poverty with pride and even more pride in their past. She fingered the wool throw that was a vestige of his history. Molly had made it. And he'd kept it reverently even though he'd grumbled now and then about how it clashed with his belongings. He could have bought an expensive throw to replace the old with the new, but everything in the flat was a tribute to the old... mismatched with rich textures. She supposed the style reflected the person. But she didn't know.

She'd only slept in his bed to keep up the appearances and serve the principles that tied them, however loosely they were. Didn't regret a minute of it. Even though it had probably meant nothing to him. At least not really.

Breathing in the scents of her bearings, she folded her cashmere sweater and dropped it onto the rest in the trunk. This had been hers since the Hogwarts days. The letters 'VO' were a little faded in the leather but on the whole the trunk had kept its charm and touch. It had followed her in all of her new beginnings. This one was no exception. And, even though there were tears staining her cheeks, she was glad to leave the circus, strangely.

"You know, you can hurl a punch at my jaw if you feel like it."

The voice startled her, but she didn't recoil. If anything, she thought, him telling her the truth had finally made her feel infinitely better than if he had thrown her out or pretended a couple more nights or years. And the light humour his voice held now was a healing bandage to her wounds. "No," she said, smiling a bit over her shoulder, "imagining worse things is much more rewarding."

She was joking. Strange, he thought, he'd never heard her joking, much less paid attention to her when she did. "So you're leaving then?" he asked, leaning a shoulder lazily on the doorframe.

There was kindness in him, she'd always known. He wore his heart on his sleeve when he put his head to it. But she hadn't experienced it first-hand since the wedding. And even before that it had been strained. She made a flourish around the room with her hands. "As you can see." Then she turned around and smiled genuinely. "Thanks."

He jerked, surprised. "Whatever for?"

Her smile lightened. "I don't blame you, you know. I know I should, but I just can't." She shrugged. "I guess I've always known you were a good human being, so I never placed the blame on you."

Ron interrupted her with a raise of his hand, head bowed as if she'd struck hard. "Please, don't go there."

"No," she said eloquently. "I've seen you with your family. You try to act as detached as you are... were with me, but you're just too connected to them. And Harry, well, he's like a long lost brother to you, and your family includes him in anything even when he's all humble and refuses to take part in family activities. He's your rock, Ron. And me, well, everyone's proper with me, I guess, but there's just not enough to build a strong connection." She turned back, and was surprised to find she had had no jealous venom coursing through her veins like she'd thought she would.

Ron ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I guess you're right."

She chuckled. "What do you know, I'm always right," she drawled.

He finally cracked a full smile. Vivian O'Sullivan was just so full of surprises today. "So I guess you've been watching. You should have made Slytherin."

"You bet I have," she said before heaving her trunk off the bed. As she passed him, she magicked her trunk to have it follow her, but she stood next to him. Then she looked up, studying his face and biting her lips. "Truth?" she said finally. Ron nodded. "You hurt me, and I think that'll leave wounds. But," and here she bit her lip again, "I think it's better that we stop fooling ourselves - that I stop fooling myself. You're a great man, Ron, and I'll be glad to just... be there if you ever need someone."

Ron was speechless; if he'd tried to talk right then idiocies would have fallen out of it instead of the 'thank you' he wanted to say. But his throat was just too damn constricted.

Vivian shifted once, nervously, then muttered, "I guess I should go now. I'll come and get the rest when I can."

Ron was still frozen to the spot when he heard the front door shut gently.

The door slammed shut behind Hermione. Shaking the rain off her hair and robes, she stared at her reflection in the small round mirror shaped in a sun and moon and wrung the rain from her hair - she could have used the spell, but felt like being cosy tonight. Then she hung her robes and looked toward the drawing room, all alight despite no one being there. But she looked down at the rug on the entrance floor, and there were his boots, thrown carelessly and scattered over it.

He's back awfully early...

Hermione carefully creeped toward the drawing room, where a few giggles could be heard over the din of the television. When she reached the drawing room, she very nearly collided with the TV set that was on and playing a rerun of Bob and Margaret. The image was just too much, and she hadn't been prepared for the show that was instead playing before her very eyes.

Ted slid off the couch and to the floor, fits of giggles racking his body and the bottle of Thumbsucker from the Magic Hat Brewing Company swaying in his hand and making a right mess on the carpet. "Hi there, didn't hear yeh come in... I'd love to kick Margaret's arse. But she's so funny. Bob's even better... Do you know how sexy you look in a teddy? I been thinkin' about it," he slurred, wriggling his eyebrows suggestively. "What say you, Her... Herme... Herni... Herminy... you?"

Hermione yanked him up by the shirt lapel and slugged him across the face with not a little strength.

"OW! Ferk, Jesus, what'sa for?"

Hermione stared Ted hard in the eye even as he squinted through his foggy sight. "You deserved every sting of this. I'm not even going to ask why I'm coming home to a drunk flatmate, but I am going to ask you to leave this instant," she breathed dangerously in his face.

She saw him struggle with his train of thought. "Wha'? But I live here! What the hell crapped in your arse today?"

Hermione shot Ted a warning look before he could get any smarter. "First," she growled, "I come home and expect you to be at work still ("- I got sacked."). Second, I see you in this state, and to make matters worse the carpet is ruined. Last, I don't see anything funny in this bloody cartoon."

He raised his head limply and attempted a grin. "It's the noses, you know... really large." He laughed a bit to himself, the quietened out, though giggles still shook him from time to time. "I'm sorry for the mess. I'll clean up."

She raised her hand to stop him a moment. "Hang on."

He sighed with annoyance, thinking she was sure to start lecturing him. "What?"

"Don't get smart with me, Wentworth. Alcohol-induced imbecility disgusts me..."

He snorted a bit. "Everyone says that. I even say that... Your point?"

Hermione wasn't sure if it was the alcohol that was making him so cross, but she frowned and her voice raised as she advanced on him. "My point? Just how bloody gone are you, Ted? You're a Ministry employee - or was one anyway - for God's sake. Just how wrong does the picture look to you: your breath smells, you're giggling madly to yourself about a stupid cartoon show, and you're completely screwed up?" She heaved in a full breath and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Get out, Ted, just get out. I thought you were better than that."

Ted shot up suddenly, all ebriety at least gone for the moment. "Why the ruddy hell are you like this? Why the hell am I such a bad person all of a sudden?" He looked a little less out of it anyway, and Hermione was afraid he was going to lash at her.

Hermione had to admit that this was a tough one to answer quite as directly as it had been asked. "Because... dammit, Ted, I've seen what it can do to people."

Ted chortled derisively in her face. "What, during the War?"

Hermione frowned and jutted out her chin. This was something she could defend and quite well. "As a matter of fact, yes, during the War to Voldemort." She felt satisfaction in seeing that Ted shuddered at the name of the ancient nemesis.

Ted shook his head, swirling the beer in his bottle to keep his hands from shaking before drinking from it. "Yes, tell me about your problems with the War, dearie..." he said before taking another swig.

Hermione was this close to being tempted to strike again. "Look," she breathed heavily, letting all the venom she'd held in check before out of her system, "just because you were too bloody scared to join, doesn't mean you can be insolent to the rest of us who helped defend your cause, Ted. It's your cause as well as mine and Harry's and everyone else's."

Ted dutifully kept his eyes trained on a lone beauty spot hidden in Hermione's eyebrows. "Yeah, yeah, yacketa, yacketyick. Get over it," he grunted, his voice just barely cracking at the last syllable.

Hermione felt the venom boil in her veins. She'd have loved to hex him into a teapot to put on the fire. "The least you could do is be fucking grateful that you're still alive." Storming away to pace the middle of the drawing room, she lashed out finally. "The War was so awful I think you'd still be retching or at the very least in St-Mungo's mental department after seeing all the horrors that I've seen. The alcohol made us all forget, but someone actually went to their death after having had too much to drink. Ran away to find the Death Eaters who took away his little sister, and came back dead on a stretcher... Do you know how that feels? To feel responsible somehow? Because someone just wanted to forget? No, I guess you don't. Just... get the hell out of here," she finished weakly.

Ted laughed maniacally. "Won't you feel responsible for me?"

Hermione shook her head slowly, groaning, then pulled him up roughly and pushed him out of the drawing room. Stopping at the entrance, she yanked his bottle out of his hands. "No, I won't, because you're prat. You lost your job, Merlin knows how or why, and you're here feeling sorry for yourself," she said with finality before throwing him out. She heaved in a huge breath, slamming the door in his face, and slid to the floor as images from the War played before her eyes. "People drank during the War, to forget. To forget that they'd lost someone close to them."

Luna barged in, and Hermione knew immediately that the night wasn't over by a mile. Already Luna was raging, pushing away the maginurses trying desperately to restrain her. "Where is he, Hermione?" she cried, wriggling away sharply and coming to Hermione in the middle of the room full of sleeping or brooding casualties. "Where is he?" she implored again.

Hermione wasn't sure at first whom it was she was talking about. And then a face loomed from her memories. She found right then that she was uncomfortable before this passionate woman. "Bran?" she asked a tiny mouse voice, hating herself already for the woman's pain.

Luna stopped fighting the nurses who'd come forth and grabbed her again, and looked at Hermione in her white smock, suddenly powerless but for this rage tearing at her heart. Looking into her eyes, Luna saw the pity, and it was enough to know... She broke down and her eyes were welling up, she couldn't help it. It had been so long since she'd last cried, she was surprised she remembered how to. And this wasn't helping. "Please, please tell me he's alive," she said, hugging herself in her sodden combat clothes.

Hermione sighed to herself then - how many more dead? she wondered - and gathered her friend in her arms. "I'm sorry."

Luna's tears were soaking Hermione's clothes, but the next instant she started pounding her fists all over Hermione's body and Hermione knew there would be bruises in the morning.

Hermione stopped the nurses from pulling Luna away.

"Bring him back!" she was crying as something cracked greatly in the distance - battlegrounds. "You can bring him back! ... Bran was the best goddamn man on this stupid planet. You didn't do enough. Damn you, damn you!" Her sobs shook her then, and she pounded again, stronger still though she was weakening.

"Doctor? Should we -"

Hermione shook her head. "Go away. Number three's waking up."

Finally tired, Luna cried and cried, until Hermione lay her down on a cot and made her drink a Sleeping potion. The next morning early, Luna was drinking her loss by the dying fire.

Out of strength finally, Hermione Disapparated, leaving a mess in her wake.

Hermione wiped the tears from her eyes and pushed into Rosenbaurf's welcoming warmth and scents. She had to change her thoughts. She thought she'd come to the right place. For weeks now she'd been working non-stop on the same case. Ismaelah... she thought as she sat down at one of the long tables. She hadn't actually brought the folder with her, but she remembered every single important detail.

"Why does it affect men?" she whispered to herself in the near-empty library.

It was a known fact within the magical community that men generally had an equal amount of magic in them - with few exceptions of course.

Hermione had grown up in the muggle world, where magic was non-existent and 'invented' by storytellers to teach morals or children's tales. Witches existed for All Hallows Eve, and in the History of Britain the pagans and wise women as well as the true witches of the world she learned about at the age of eleven were persecuted and burned at the stake for practising witchcraft in some, and healing in others.

Wizards were omitted for the simple reason that they did not exist in muggle stories. Tales were told, but they were very rare. The famous Merlin had used a lot of ink, but the stories told about him in the muggle world paled in comparison to what Hermione had learned in History of Magic and Charms at Hogwarts.

These famous wizards were often famous in Celtic myths and legends because they'd had the Mx-gene... the mage gene. Hermione knew a lot more about that gene since seventh year, before the world as she knew it then turned over its axis...

Hermione had to shake her head to come back on track.

There was so little that she knew about the Ismaelah. She knew when it had been invented and why, and how it had all begun. But who knew if the disease hadn't been wiping other people from the face of the earth since or if it had been vanquished for good the first time around. Who knew if the recipe hadn't been waiting somewhere for someone truly twisted to make use of it?

The most important to know, though, was 'Who had done it this time?' and, of course, 'How did it travel?'

Hermione suddenly blinked, staring at someone a few ways away pour themselves a glass and bring it to their lips.

It's the ocean.

Apparating home to her Oxford flat, Hermione was a wreck of glee. She paused in her bedroom, then, having noticed a change... a huge change: Ted's things were gone.

Hermione slowly circled the room, shocked still. It had been months now since she'd been truly alone by herself. Well, you did bring it upon yourself, Granger. Not like you held him back. Not like you cared, really.

Still a bit astonished, she directed herself toward the adjoining bathroom and stepped into the shower bath.

When she arrived at the Ministry of Magic a good hour later, Hermione was fresh and felt fresh. Folder under the armpit, she quickly stepped into the lift after depositing her wand to the Ministry's front desk. It merely shook and rattled on its way to the second level, her destination.

"Harry Potter," she panted to the Auror Headquarters' desk lady, who looked up and boredly pointed a freshly filed thumb to the left. "Harry!" Hermione cried when she spotted him heading to a giant filing cabinet.

Harry jumped and turned around, a bit surprised to find his old friend flitting past the islands formed by the scattered desks. He dazedly lifted the folder he was holding in his hand when Hermione finally caught up. "I was just about to file these..." he said a bit lamely, then frowned. "Er, what are you doing here? - not that it isn't appreciated or anything..."

Hermione beamed up at him and grabbed him by the sleeve of his robes. As they walked and she dragged him, "See, I was at the library when it just clicked. It's been literally years since this has happened to me - I usually go by the protocol and provide proofs and whatnot before actually deciding that I know what I have to do - so at first I didn't believe it, but it just made sense, you know?"

They arrived at Harry's office. He whirled around, frowning still. "Wait, are you talking about the Ismaelah case?" At her excited nod, he stared incredulously at her. "Have you had any sleep?"

Hermione was silent, then soberly shrugged. "That's not the point, Harry. I found -"

"Like hell it isn't," Harry said. He dropped into his chair, squinted into Hermione's eyes with a bit of a dangerous edge. "Sit."

Hermione sighed. "Look, Harry, I -"

When Harry raised an adamant eyebrow, she complied, groaning a bit. This was the Auror in him speaking, she realised a bit too late. "I've been working here long enough to recognise what a person's facial traits tell. Actually, I excelled at Interrogation, Deception & Honesty at the Academy... Everyone thinks that Auror work is all about excelling at defensive magic and locking up the bad guys, but... it's just like the muggle stuff; we're just like the muggle police, but strangely enough we work our doughnuts a little harder." Harry leaned forward to spy Hermione's reaction. Her eye twitched. "Look, Hermione," he said, softening, "I know when something's wrong... especially when it's my best friends... even thought we've been out of touch for so long." He sighed, then leaned back into his chair and crossed his hands behind his head. "I'm good, Hermione, so tell me why you were up all night working this out when you should have been home and asleep like the sanest of us."

Hermione swallowed the dryness in her throat away. She hadn't known he was that good. The little bit of Auror lessons he'd got from Tonks and Shacklebolt just before the War had been just enough to teach him the rudiments of advanced defensive spells and defensive fighting à la muggle way. She now had to remind herself that he'd learned much more at Auror Academy, that he was a junior now, and that he was probably headed toward a very successful career considering his leadership during the War.

Hermione didn't want to look at him, knew he was going to make her lose her face. She chewed her cheek, then chanced a glance... and she couldn't hold the tears in any longer. "I'm such a mess... and I never even loved him."

Harry pushed his way inside his Chief's office. He knew he was probably looking at making a very long double shift later, but damn it he wasn't about to get interrupted when his friend needed him right now.

"Potter," Chief Hardtman acknowledged him stiffly from behind his massive desk.

Harry quickly explained the situation to Hardtman, left his office with an agreement and took Hermione to his flat ("You're not leaving until you tell me everything.").

Harry sat Hermione down on the couch, cleaned the dirty tea table of the curry meal from the night before, and pace the drawing room's grubby floor, scattered Old Ogden's everywhere, when Hermione was done with her story.

"You met him at a charity party?" he asked neutrally.

Hermione nodded cautiously. "For St-Mungo's Children Care wing. I'd just done a research on the Chalimera virus and I was a guest; his department had donated money for the children infected with shapeshifting and he was a guest of honour. Naturally, we met, discussed each other's subject, and kept in contact."

"Keep in contact..." Harry mulled that over in his mind. "So you didn't date."

"No, we never did."

Harry paused in his footsteps, frowning doubtfully. "Then how did he end up moving into your flat? And you -"

Hermione threw up her hands, feeling foolish herself now that someone else was telling her. "Yes, I know, but it just happened. I mean, one day I called him to congratulate him on something the papers said, and he just Apparated to my flat, and... you know, it happened. I questioned it myself, but it didn't feel right nor wrong, so I just left it alone and one day he moved in and that was that."

Harry's face was distorted in sheer incredulity. "What the hell... what the hell were you thinking?"

"I don't know, Harry! All I know is that when I came back home last night, I was cheerful. I'd walked in the snow instead of Apparating straight home, it felt great because I love long walks in the snow."

Harry grinned. "I know."

Hermione smiled back, remembering long walks around the lake, and then it faded. "So I came in and Ted was drunk. I just lost it - I went barmy. I kicked him out and felt much better having finally done that, and that's when I realised it didn't matter... I didn't care that I'd done that."

Harry snorted then laughed and gathered his friend in his arms. "I should hope so. Do you know that you may just have lost two months of precious happiness?"

Hermione bit her lip anxiously. "Didn't think of it that way... Do you think I'm stupid for all that?"

Harry chuckled merrily. "And more." He soundly kissed her temple. "I'm only jesting. You're the brightest witch of your age, or didn't you know? ... You're just confused, I guess." He rolled his eyes, thinking of his other best friend. God knew... "Happens to the best of us."

Hermione smiled on Harry's chest and then pushed away at arm's length. "Thank you. I feel much better having told someone."

Harry grinned and then trotted to the small kitchenette. "I'm making up for lost time, I guess." He shrugged before coming back with a beer. At her slightly uneasy glance, he raised the bottle and cocked an eyebrow. "Making you nervous?" he asked with a twinge of concern.

Hermione quickly shrugged and felt foolish all over again. "No, no. It just reminds me of the War. Nothing bad, really. I guess I was only irritated at Ted because I knew he didn't give a damn about it."

Harry sighed and sat on the couch, poking her arm. "Plus, you know I'm not a drunk fool." He patted the space next to him and set the bottle down on the tea table, reaching for the Ismaelah folder. "Okay, so tell me what you learned."

"Everything." Harry frowned up at her. It had taken Ron and himself so long that they'd given up; surely it couldn't have taken her less than two weeks' work. "Really," she assured him. "I don't know for a fact that the bacterium was completely vanquished the first time around, but this time I know why our victims caught the disease, or rather where. It's the water cleansing establishments in that area. See, there must be a small dosage still left in the ocean from the first time around, but it's such a small percentage that no one's caught it and disappeared in centuries before now. Someone must have either got hold of the original recipe, or some unsuspecting muggle chemist or cracked potion-maker re-created it after studying the remains from the ocean."

Harry scratched his temples. This was getting way too complicated. "Do you this it could be linked to the fraud affair with the French Ministry? as a means to get whatever done?"

Hermione sighed thoughtfully. "If your baron vampire decided to pour more acid in the already bleeding wounds, then it's entirely plausible."

Harry stood up instantly. "I've to call Ron."

Ron was a total mess. The worst really was that he knew it. He knew it even before grabbing his wand off his unmade bed, before Disapparating and before knocking on Harry's painted door.

It wasn't even that Vi'd left. Well, a part of him still allowed for him to feel like shite about the whole thing... who could blame her, really? He was to blame and he bloody sodding well knew it.

It wasn't that. It was that she'd made him re-think the meaning of his secrecy.

He knew it had been wrong from the beginning to keep hiding out in his office, but he also knew that he was doing her a huge favour by doing so. This way, he wasn't constantly lying to her or channelling anything that might have deceived her in the end.

What's more, he had completely fucked up their lives by lying to both of them instead. But he'd kept himself from hurting her even more than he did when he finally came out of his hiding.

There were rolls and rolls of parchments stacked amongst thick volumes and various instruments in the large library that took up the whole of one wall. He liked to think of his office as a timeless space. The place smelled of dust, time, and, strangely, of pears, all of them very familiar fragrances.

He liked to go there to think, to plan detailed Auror ambushes and missions, to read. Harry had come in with him on more than one occasion, and had called Ron's office a "hermit's haven". He couldn't really disagree; one could have lived in there with everything he or she needed. There was plenty of food stored in a small muggle-made fridge, a small-adjoined bathroom, and the cosy stuffed recliner where he usually read was comfortable enough to sleep in.

His most prized possessions, however, were the translated manuscripts written in Hermione's clean handwriting and the Pensieve stacked away on one of the lower shelves in his library, a gift from his father before he... after becoming Minister for Magic.

Ron knocked away again when no one answered. Strange. Harry was quick to charm the door open when he knew it was Ron. Then he heard someone's quick footsteps in the hall, the door unlock, and suddenly he was face to face with Hermione.

She immediately startled. "We weren't expecting you quite so fast. Harry said you might have to pick up some things at the Ministry."

Ron held up the Auror files. "I was working on them at home just now."

Hermione frowned, bewildered. "You weren't at work?" she asked inquisitively.

Ron pushed past her, past the door, trying to ignore her question, but he couldn't; instead he evaded. "Let's just say some things came up yesterday."

Hermione sighed, still at the doorway, though she had closed the door. "You don't look too good for wear either," she said wistfully.

Ron softened at her expression. She was smiling a bit, so he smiled back. "I won't ask if you don't, but I'll reserve the right to ask later."

She chuckled, obviously past her torment. Good, he thought. He could deal with all of it later. "Where's Harry? He said it was some urgent matter." Then he did a double take. "Hang on, what are you doing here?"

Hermione laughed and shook her head briskly. "Oh boy, obviously Harry forgot to tell you the basics... I found some interesting things about the Ismaelah."

Harry came in at that precise moment, setting a large brown paper bag on the tea table and producing curry dishes. "Owl delivery. Takeout. Eat," he commanded, immediately plunging to stuff his mouth.

Hermione and Ron soon followed, but not before giving each other a very gobsmacked look. And then the explanations and deliberations began.

"But how do we know it's the same disease?" Ron asked around a mouthful. "Isn't there some sort of formula or recipe that we could lie back on?"

Hermione coughed and carefully dug out a sheaf of papers after licking the food off her fingers. "Maybe," she said elusively. "While I was at the library last night I called one of my friends at Auldenberk's labs. He ran some tests on the samples you gave me from the water cleansing establishments in Nice and the neighbouring cities, and we're waiting for the results. I also called a potion maker there, and he's contacting people around the continent to ask about the original formula, although, if my lab friend's hypothesis is correct, we might be able to get a percentage of the remains and run tests and figure out the formula ourselves."

Ron was screwing up his face so much he thought his skin might crack from the effort. Then he turned to Harry. "Did any of this gibberish make any sense to you?"

Harry sipped a bit of water. "Actually, I think I understand that we're close to getting somewhere."

Ron snorted. "I got that! It was the part about the samples and tests and formulas that got me all screwed up. And I mean that in the nicest possible way, of course."

Hermione rolled her eyes amiably, keeping her usually snarky remarks to herself. "So. What do we do now?" she asked, watching the men intently.

Harry sighed, glancing at Ron, who mirrored his action just then. "We go back to where it all began."

Hermione frowned, her confusion showing through. "What do you mean?" And then it dawned on her, crystal clear. "You're going back to France," she said, and the two Aurors nodded grimly, their eyes turning dull all of a sudden. There was a heavy silence then, so thick and palpable that the three of them believed they would suffocate from it. "You know," Hermione said finally, "I could go with you. I can call my boss and tell him -"

"No." Hermione raised her eyes sharply to Ron's, which were hard and stormy.

Harry whirled on him, adamant as well. "Are you insane? She knows more about this disease than we probably ever will!"

Hermione chimed in: "It's not like it has the potential of affecting me. You're both more at risk than me," she said imploringly. "I can run the tests while you worry about finding this vampire lord of yours."

Ron stood up as if a bee had stung him hard. "Do you have any idea how dangerous it is down there?" He whirled around on Harry. "Give me a hand here. We both know she has absolutely no business lurking around there."

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, like he was about to get a headache. "I think you're right, Ron, but..." He paused to give Hermione a warning glance before she could cut him off. "I also believe that Hermione has every right in the world to follow us. She's the reason we've picked up again on this case, remember? Without her, we're likely to hit a dead end again and lose more people down the road."

Ron closed his eyes, deliberating this, and finally threw up his hands in defeat. His mate was right, he had to admit, but it didn't mean he liked the idea of bringing Hermione along any more than he did before. "Okay, okay! You win, but you're going to have to find a way to have her protected while we're gone, because I don't really trust the ministry guys they flanked us with last time. Some translators they were, too." He huffed and crossed him arms defiantly over his chest, staring pointedly at Harry and Hermione, alternatively.

Even Rémi hadn't liked them, and that's telling something,

Ron thought gloomily.

Hermione was bright-eyed when he raised his eyes again to hers. And he felt her gratefulness hitting him full-force without his even being able to prepare himself for the shock. Thank you, he could almost hear her say. And Ron, right then, felt weak, because he knew he never was able to hold her back when she was this hard- and hot-headed. Boy, did he know...

Ron still didn't like the idea. Hell, he'd even started writing dozens of owls to Harry to tell him to convince Hermione not to come, but he knew damnedly well that there was no stopping her now that she'd been given the green light.

At the very least, he expected her to ask for them to send her back home within two days. He knew from personal experience how one's mind could react to such a world of uncertainty. It was like the War all over again, but a little bit more uncertain and completely unplanned as a whole. He just didn't think she could take facing a different world than she'd visited as a young innocent girl.

Ron sighed as he packed his luggage. Perfect. Happy. Prim. Joie de vivre. France just wasn't that anymore.

He looked up, looking around his bedroom to make sure he hadn't forgot anything, and jumped, startled, when he saw Hermione in the doorway, wringing her hands nervously next to her trunk. Setting his trunk aside, Ron stood up and faced her. "What are you doing here?"

Hermione smiled a bit foolishly. If her hair had been longer, Ron knew she would have played with it right then. "I sort of - well, your password... I reckoned it might be 'Cannons'." She shrugged awkwardly.

Ron chuckled. Of course, how easy could it be, when all he'd ever talked about at Hogwarts was how the Chuddley Cannons were the best thing besides Honeydukes?

Hermione surveyed the room and the extra luggage stacked in one corner. Then her eyes came upon the small vanity on Vi's side, and she blushed. "I probably shouldn't have come," she said.

"Wha-" And Ron followed her line of sight. "Oh, no, Hermione, it's over between us." He felt his cheeks burn: it was silly to be ashamed of something like that.

But Hermione prodded further as she entered the room to fold Ron's clothes in his trunk for him. "What happened?"

Ron watched her for a moment. What was there to say about his and Vi's relationship, which never had really been one to begin with anyway? "Nothing, I'm afraid," he finally sighed.

Hermione paused, looking up at him. "What? Why?"

Ron shrugged and picked up a bottle of shaving cream and his razor. "I don't kn - she fell in love with me, it was so strong and I wasn't ready for the big blow, you know? I guess I just channelled it all and sent it right back to her - like a fool."

Hermione bit her lip, resuming her task of folding Ron's clothes properly. "And later you realised this and kept your guard up with her," she offered, spying his reaction closely.

"Yeah," Ron replied a bit weakly, feeling like he shouldn't be here. "Yeah, and I kept hurting her."

Hermione sent him a sympathetic smile. "What did you tell her then?"

"I -" Ron sighed heavily. "I told her the truth. Amazingly she was okay about it."

Hermione shook her head slowly to herself. "I hope you realise that she still loves you..."

Ron disappeared for a moment, and Hermione heard him rustle about before he reappeared with his deodorant in hand. He purposefully studied the label. "I know..." he said, "but I don't and I hurt her by pretending that everything was all right when it was not." Finally he looked up into Hermione's soft and compassionate eyes. "It isn't and I'm sick of pretending." He chuckled then, throwing what he'd been holding into his trunk. "You know, it's my mum who made me realise this. 'You've been lying to yourself far too long, Ron.' It makes sense, too, dammit."

Hermione chuckled along, feeling the lightness of the moment in her heart and mind. All of this made sense to her, too. She'd been lying to herself, too, and Mrs Weasley's words definitely hit home. Reaching out to him, she sought comfort in the warmth of his chest and snaked her hands up his back, threading her fingers in his hair.

Ron closed his eyes for a moment and relaxed into her feather-light touch and realised right then and there that he'd missed his best friend all this time. Suddenly he was hit with a wave of misery that he was pretty sure didn't come from himself. Ron pulled away and frowned concernedly at Hermione's discomfit face. "What's wrong?" he asked softly, pulling her chin up so he could see her face clearly.

Hermione bit her lip, shrugged limply and sank down on Ron's bed.

"Hey, hey," Ron said, kneeling down before her and playing with her short locks, finally settling his hand on her cheek. "What's wrong?" he repeated quietly.

Hermione smiled a bit at his worried expression. "I just realised that I'm not the only complete idiot in here..." she said lamely.

Ron shook his head solemnly. "You are not an idiot, Hermione. Whoever thinks that is the idiot himself and deserves a good kick right where it matters most."

Hermione silenced him with a finger. "Ron, please... It's all right, really. I made a mistake, just like you. I lived with a man I didn't love, and I didn't see it was wrong until it was already too late... I think that only proves we're both human."

Ron gazed up at her, still feeling her misery, but he saw it ease off her face very slowly as she smiled just that little bit. He saw her as she was and knew she was all right, and then he heaved a small breath of relief. For her. Then he looked back up and was moved by how strong a woman she had become... had always been. And he knew right then that she'd be all right, as she'd said. It took some time to heal from self-inflicted wounds. Boy, did he know...

Ron stood up, still staring up at Hermione, and charmed his trunk closed. "Let's go."

Ron clapped Harry on his back. Wouldn't the lad ever get used to Portkey travelling? Of course, he wasn't green in the face like in Auror training, when they'd had to travel through several portals, but still... Ron looked back at Hermione and immediately wished he hadn't. She was doubled over and retching the contents of the little snack they'd had before Apparating to their Portkey.

"Hey there, you okay?" Harry asked her after she was done, giving her and himself a Pepper-Up mint to freshen their breaths and take away the dizziness.

"I think so, yes," Hermione replied in a weak voice. Then she surveyed her bearings. "Where exactly are we?"

Ron took out a wizard's map of France and searched for the only dots which would bear their three names. "There," he said finally, pointing at three small dots in "Bourges." He frowned and looked up at Harry. "That's a bit far from Nice. I don't want to chance Apparating, we might land somewhere and get ambushed. We should probably rent a room somewhere close-by." He looked up toward the skies. "'Cause it's starting to get dark."

Harry nodded. "Right," he said. "Do you see any cheap bed & breakfasts around here?" he asked over Ron's shoulder, squinting his eyes to see the map.

Ron shrugged. "No clue. Oi there," he prodded the map, "zoom in please." The map focussed on the small part of Bourgogne et Franche-Comté. "Zoom in on Bourges," Ron said again.

Hermione cried out triumphantly and pointed to a small "B&B" banner closest to their own dots. "There's one right there. I reckon it's pretty close," she said before grabbing hold of her trunk and marching out of the back street with a swift and sure footing.

Ron swore and ran after her, his trunk forgotten. "Hermione!" he cried, tightly grasping her elbow. "Don't - don't ever walk out in the open like that. You don't know there's no one out there waiting to bake you alive."

"But - but your map -" Hermione faltered.

"Only shows us," he replied tightly, urging her back toward one of the stone walls. "Us and establishments... This is not a Marauder's Map." He nudged Harry along.

Harry sighed and wearily took his wand out of its holster, charming Ron's luggage along behind him.

Ron left Hermione's arm alone. "Let's go," he said to Harry, who grabbed hold of his trunk. To Hermione he said: "Follow us."

Quietly the band of three left the back street, surveying their bearings. To their right an old woman was walking with the help of a stick and her son. Music was drifting from an open window; Hermione recognised a song that had played during her last visit in France - "...Non, je ne regrette rien, ni le bien, ni le mal, tout ça m'est bien égal". A young woman was laying out her lessive to dry, and next to her a young man was idly drinking a glass a red wine and watching her with a little smile. Further along, they saw a café filled with several customers. A young child was giddily jumping in his seat and eating Oreos dipped in his tall glass of milk.

Hermione saw her two friends keep a constantly wary eye on their surroundings. So far, though, Hermione was pretty confident that this was the France she'd learned to love in her childhood. Nothing was very much different. No one had attacked them yet. She privately raised an amused eyebrow at her "protectors", but thought it wise to keep her comments to herself.

Harry looked sidelong at her at one point during their trek, then reached the map in Ron's hand. "How far along are we?" he muttered.

"We have to cross here, then we should be there. Pretty soon."

"You know," Hermione said suddenly, "I don't see what all the worrying was about. I don't see anyone jumping out of nowhere and attacking us."

Neither Ron nor Harry replied, both preferring to keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary. It was true, the worst of the disaster was in Paris, but they'd been around and about, and had seen some of the horrors outside of the City of Lights.

It was only when they'd rented a room that Ron started rubbing his temples, heaving a huge breath. "Listen, Hermione. When we get to Nice tomorrow, you will see what we mean, but -"

Ron's eyes suddenly widened and he launched himself on Hermione, who'd been standing near the open window with her hands on her hips and tutting. Mere seconds later, a spell rebounded on the inside wall and back outside without touching any of its targets.

Fingers crisped around Ron's arm, Hermione shuddered. "I'm so sorry," she whispered widly, then glanced toward Harry's form hidden next to the window, wand ready.

"Two blokes, " he was describing lowly. "The oldest is probably seventeen. Dressed as muggles, both of them. The younger one's arm is injured. They're running away just now," he muttered gravely to Ron, in an almost everyday monotone. "Don't think they're very dangerous... that looked to be a beginner's disarming spell."

Ron nodded sharply, still staring wildly at Hermione, who was frozen next to him. "Okay," he replied to Harry, swallowing the dryness in his throat. "We'll have to put up a Protective Shield around the room. Close the window, it's getting colder anyway... Hermione," he called gently, easing her fingers off of him. "Hermione, it's all right, no one was hurt. You're okay, Hermione..." he soothed, feeling the pang of her ache lift some at his words.

"I'm so sorry..." the petite witch repeated weakly, finally focussing in on Ron's kind face. "I was so rude to you."

Ron bit his lip, glancing up at Harry as though privately stumped. Harry merely shrugged, lifting his eyebrows at Hermione before raising the hand that wasn't holding his wand and putting up a Protective Shield from the accumulated molecules in his system.

"It's okay," Ron repeated a bit awkwardly after some time. "Let's get to bed, then," he added after another gauche moment. He eased her off him and promptly rose to his feet and grabbed his pyjamas from his open trunk before locking himself in the bathroom.

Hermione stared after the door and bit her lip, didn't want to meet Harry's eyes as she said, "Will it protect us from everything?"

Harry hated these awkward moments between his friends and him... always had. But when it was caused by Ron or Hermione, it was much worse. They had a special gift for making their own lives nearly impossible, and he never knew how to clean up after them afterward.

"Er, well, not enough to hold back the worst spells, but if you wake me up every five hours, it should hold back a good portion..." he replied, taking out his pyjamas.

He paused suddenly, staring at his trousers. Ron wasn't smart, Harry realised just then. They should have sent Hermione in the bathroom while they changed in here. And he's supposed to be practical, coming from a huge family... But Harry wasn't so stupid as to not know what was going on.

Hermione was silent, just sitting cross-legged on the bed and glancing back and forth from the now-closed window to the bathroom door.

When Ron finally came out, freckles standing out in his face where he'd most probably leaned too long on his temples while sitting on the toilet, Hermione immediately rushed in after him.

Harry understood he was in for a long night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I found some trixydolmanate with dioxedose... mmhmm... Yeah, sure, hang on..." Hermione busily rummaged through her quickly-growing sheaf of papers and emerged with the one she was looking for. "Er, well, it seems it's really spread out... No, see, no one knows until they... Yeah, exactly, they disappear. Hang on a second."

Hermione let Ron in her little makeshift office with a flick of her wand and raised her index finger to her lips as he let himself in, sitting down opposite her. She studied his expression as her laboratory friend launched into her numerous theories. Hermione quickly jotted them down, then leaned backward in her seat. "You're positive it's not the ocean water? ... I'll send the samples from the cleansing buildings, then... No problem... Five days max? That would be brill... Thanks bunches, Hilda, you're an angel."

Hermione set the phone down in its cradle and folded her hands.

"Getting comfortable?" Ron immediately asked with a little smirk.

Hermione raised a cynical eyebrow. "It's a crime?" Then she closed her notebook and looked up with a more serious expression. "How was the meeting?"

"With the French Aurors? Dismal. I was sure I'd never be able to lift my jaw off the floor. They haven't covered anything in more than a year, and their general laziness stinks." He shrugged and sighed. "We managed to get an apprentice, though, like last time, almost Rémi was a little more competent and optimistic. This one's convinced it's the apocalypse and everyone's out to kill him. Working for the Ministry doesn't help either, I guess, but Harry and I're convinced he'll mistake his reflection for the enemy one of these days." He silenced himself suddenly and shook his head with a light chuckle at Hermione's stumped face, reddening slightly in the face himself. "Did I just talk like a mill?"

Hermione blinked a few times, trying to assimilate everything he'd just said. "You know, strangely, I was following you there." She shook her head to herself and smiled. "Change of subjects: When are you leaving?"

"Hopefully tonight," Ron replied, lounging back on the small chair, "so early tomorrow we can cover some ground." He paused, frowning at her meaningfully. "Don't forget to cast the Shield every two to three hours... Harry won't be here so the magic won't work as long..."

"Ron, Ron..." Hermione cut his thoughts short, shaking her head at him. "I know."

Ron stared at her, studying her as she softly spoke, and his heart went out to her, although he was scared she might be taking her staying alone without him nor Harry a little too lightly. He softened. "God, Hermione," he said with a certain tenderness as he cradled her cheek with one hand. "It's dangerous here, I'm just scared something might happen... we need you here, Hermione."

Hermione bit her lip to refrain from leaning right over and telling him just how much she was scared for them: they'd be out in the open and trying to find an ancient Russian vampire lord while she'd only be sheltered in the French Ministry searching for clues in books, or outside in the countryside sampling the water from specific cleansing establishments. How dangerous could that prove to be?

"I'll be just fine, Ron. Don't you worry about me."

Ron burrowed his face in her short curls as she curled her fingers around him. He hadn't really been aware that he had pulled her close, but he didn't much care. She had the right touch to lead him to make complete peace with himself, and he hadn't realised that he had missed just that until she pulled away.

"I'll be right here."

She'd always been.

Ron sensed Hermione's frantic tension even though he knew his empathy didn't have any running chance of helping her to heal his wound. And by the look in her eyes, it seemed it was a pretty bad one.

"What happened?" she asked, trying to calm herself as she rolled a gauze around his leg - incidentally, it was the same one that Sirius had busted in his haste to take him and Scabbers... Peter to the Shrieking Shack.

Ron looked up and hissed as another mediwitch made him drink a potion that tasted nothing like apple pie. "A Death Eater struck me with his staff."

"You were fighting on ground?"

Ron nodded as the same mediwitch poured a bubbling goo over the gauze. It seeped past it and a wave of burning fire shook him again as his eyelids filled with exploding stars. "Yeah. Apparently they've learned rudimentary fighting skills as well, or something. There were five of them onto me, so I fought back, but this bastard planted his staff right into my shin and oh my fuck it hurt like shite."

Hermione tried to smile, but she was so tired her lines were only slightly stretched. Then she placed her hand over his forehead, feeling for a drop in temperature. "I disinfected your wound," she informed him as professionally as she could muster. "Mirella just put a potion on it to quicken the healing process."

"When will I be able to go back out?" Ron pressed, trying to sit up.

Hermione's voice wavered at her next phrase. "As soon as you'll be able to walk." But Ron sensed her discomfort and knew she'd rather he stayed out of the war, for several reasons.

Ron groaned out loud. Harry needed him. It was lucky Ron had survived, sure, but he didn't feel like lingering around in a place he felt uncomfortable in. He turned to Hermione, saw her white robes drenched with some of his blood, saw that it clashed horribly against her pallid skin - it would have been alabaster in other circumstances - and saw that she was exhausted but didn't want to show that she had no strength left in her. Ron knew she was working solely on adrenaline now.

"Hermione, you look tired. Go get some sleep..."

Hermione cut him off with a tinge of distress. "I'll be just fine," she ground out. "You need to rest. I'll be right here if you need me." And then she stormed off. Her abruptness didn't fool him, though.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry wasn't sure how long they'd been searching, but he knew one thing: this was quickly getting nowhere. Scrying for the vampire had proved a futile attempt, and searching the large castle-like mansion had proved just as fruitless so far. Duke Carmerana was nowhere to be found.

"Hang on, I think I've got something," Ron said from inside the adjacent room Harry was looking in. Harry heard a rumble and objects fall as Ron scrambled to get to Harry in the next room. "Here," he said as Harry looked up when Ron appeared at the doorway, handing him a small note that had obviously been jotted down in a hurry. "Found this in his desk. Locked, too."

Harry lowered his eyes to the note in question, frowned.

"Rencontrer au Château des Piquets. 200609". (Meet at Château des Piquets. 200609)

Harry guffawed and pocketed the note. "Anything else?" he inquired.

"Other similar letters, but this was the topmost one. Let's assume the numbers mean something, and assume it's the most recent letter, eh?" Ron said sarcastically.

Harry laughed and picked up his robes from the king-sized four poster before exiting the boiling castle with Ron. "Let's."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There had always been something keenly terrifying about the War. Hermione had been moved from one place to another, wherever the War took her team and her. Everywhere had been dreary. She'd travelled from forest to back street to suburban city with the MMMI with the flick of her wand, and had avoided more curses than she'd ever thought possible to fire. She'd thought herself brave, now she knew it had been dumb luck.

The air was chilly, though she hadn't been able to leave the office the whole day. She could only hold for account the darkening trees outside, that were bending dangerously to the wind's every caprice. She'd been inside nearly the entire day, her nose pushed into books and her portable computer - a muggle fancy she couldn't possibly have passed - that now rested neatly on her makeshift office desk, made with several carton boxes pressed together and Spell-o-taped.

One Ministry employee frowned as he passed by the old broom cupboard which obviously hadn't been used since the Floo network had connected the giant fireplaces in the Ministry's huge entrance hall - nearly a century ago. "Vous êtes nouvelle?" (You're new?)

Hermione, startled, looked up at the flushed man with the air of someone caught red-handed. "Oh, er, non," she said, grasping desperately for her French. "Je suis... euh, britannique." (I am British.)

The man seemed lost, then his face illuminated. "Ah, oui, on m'avait dit que trois anglais ré-ouvraient une vieille investigation." (Ah, yes, I was told that three Brits were re-opening an old investigation.) He entered the small room and thrust out his hand. Hermione was able to make out that the man must have been in his forties, and his welcoming smile hid an anxiety that she'd have missed from far. Behind him a loud bell suddenly sounded, and two nearby Aurors calmly walked over to the dozen of fireplaces and disappeared, mug of coffee in hand. Others were too slow or too tired, or injured already. "I - ah... I am very sorry for all of this... It is very inconfortable here. I am René Dumoucheron; I work at the Département de coopération magique internationale."

"Oh," Hermione said, enlightened. She had wondered who this man might be. "I - oh, I supposed you've come here to see that I was settled in all right." At René's nod, she smiled as widely as she could. "I'm settled in just fine, sir."

René nodded again to himself as though he was happy to hear it. "Bien. The ministère is going under a dark times. A lot of employees left, a lot is dead, and we are afraid it will end soon."

"Why?" Hermione asked, curiosity naturally piqued.

"Attacks. Bombs. Ennemis. Trahisons. Infiltrations."

Hermione's eyes widened with every word that René uttered. "I heard it was bad," she said, eyes as wide as Sickles now, "but I hadn't really considered it could be true."

René's light smile faded completely off his face. "Trust me, it is bad." He straightened, stared at her hard for a few seconds, and then turned to leave. "You have sleeping arrangements?" he asked at the door, pausing.

Hermione came out of her trance. "Yes. I am staying at the Lever de Lune."

"Protection?"

Hermione's throat constricted as she thought back on the War and realised for the first time that her favourite country was plunged in a similar predicament as that which her native country had undergone some ten years prior. A loud explosion sounded nearby, making Hermione jump, all nerves on edge, but René remained stoic, a statue in this confusion.

"I think I can survive another war by myself," she said, the old fear shaking her voice nonetheless.

"Prenez soin de vous," (Take care) she heard the tired old man mutter as he left in the direction of the cries in the hallway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry pulled himself upright, panting, feeling like his entire body might betray him and crack in two. It was unbearable; the twisting, sinewy pain, atrocious, and the encapsulated fear he'd denied for the past two years that he wouldn't succeed all tore at him now. One had to die, and he was afraid of only one thing: that the power might rest with the Dark after all.

Ron tore himself away from the hordes of fighting airborne allies and swept down to Harry's level. "Harry! Where -"

Harry's eyes widened at that precise moment - "Look out!" - as a blast missed his friend and second-in-command by an inch. "Go away! Go away!" he cried.

Harry whipped back around and quickly scanned the small village for a sign of the Dark Lord before trying each suspect house and shoppe.

The street itself was a straight line and ended in a sharp turn that created an "L" shape. It was cold and muddy on the ground, with pouring rain on top of it, and each step forward was harder than the last. He saw dark silhouettes drawn on his path and knew that the rest of the flying squad had flown in to help them. But there was no time to think about them. Harry tightened his robes around him and carefully opened a door that had been left ajar.

The sound of a baby crying reached his ears. Or was he turning insane after all? The sound reached him on a much higher plane, as though he recognised it but couldn't quite place it. The only babies he remembered ever seeing were cold in even colder houses. Dead. It couldn't be, then...

The rest was blur, too, too fast. There was a moment of recognition in Harry's mind that the baby's cries had in fact been the cries of a dying woman. It was only later that he let himself seep into the notion that he'd perhaps revisited his distant, unconscious past during these few seconds of blind confusion. And then there was silence and the skeletal figure, reeking of rotting death itself and staring him down with those blood-like irises. Harry knew at that point that tonight would be a fateful April thirty-first of the year two thousand. Because Voldemort simply did not stay so calmly and wait for Harry. He fought. Harry knew it all too well. The scars were evidence of this fact.

Whether or not he'd live to tell its tale, he didn't know, but Harry knew nothing else from that moment on than that he needed to let go. Completely.

All of the fury that he'd kept locked in for months, knowing that the time would eventually come when the blind chases would finally lead him to the mastermind behind all of the agony. It trickled excitedly in his veins, thickening with each passing moment, faster, thicker.

Voldemort slowly advanced toward Harry, a vision of cynical power and that of a true commandeer. "So you've found me," he said, and the words slithered out like a snake out of its hiding place.

Venom. Those brazen eyes held venom.

Harry said nothing, only crouched down to the gurgling woman's side whilst holding watch over the corpse-like man.

The last battle lasted only a second, then, and all remaining innocence was lost in that instant. The woman died, Voldemort was Killed, Harry had been cursed. And his wand hand burned from the intensity at which he'd shot the last Curse he ever wished to cast.

In the end silence had filled his day. Darkness, too.

Harry held the door open for Ron and entered after him, stepping cautiously over kitchen floor in the basement. There should have been cooks here, preparing a fine gourmet meal, but it was abandoned and nearly Unplottable - French wizard lords had owned the castle at some point and hidden it in the heart of a forest. Fortunately it was present on very few wizarding maps of France - Harry and Ron's included. Fortunately.

"You go to the east tower, I'll go to the main chambers," Harry whispered before starting toward the staircase leading to the main floor.

"No," Ron whispered back, clamping a hand over his mate's shoulder. "He's a vampire - he can't be somewhere with windows or natural light coming in the middle of the day."

Harry frowned, a bit miffed that they'd be losing precious time talking this over instead of catching their vampire. He groaned, "What are you -" Suddenly he cut himself off, watching Ron stare at the stone floors, and light dawned on him.

Ron nodded, smiling almost triumphantly. "The dungeons it is."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She suspected that a yellow flowered sundress, however charming it looked on her or any other woman, would never be quite enough to calm her nerves, now that she knew what real horrors lay in this country... She had already dodged a fireball on her way out of Ministry reach, hidden from suspicious-looking men around a bend, and had had to Petrify a young rebel who didn't quite have all of his head. Basically, her wartime instincts were back full force, even though she hadn't faced the War full frontal per se.

It was bad enough that she had to delve back into the memories now and again... Hermione was beginning to wonder why she had come to France after all. But then there was boredom at work, and there was so much to face back home.

"Qui va là?" (Who goes there?)

A tall, sturdy man with a gruff voice and arms like barrels suddenly planted himself between the small establishment's front desk and her.

Why had she let him surprise her?

Hermione's French was pretty much basic once again - there had been a time when she'd been able to hold a conversation rather well, even with locals. She struggled now to find her words after her presentation. "Je m'appelle Mary Calmel. On m'a... er, fait part de... de quelques problèmes que... avec votre eau." (My name is Mary Calmel. I have been informed that your water may have been infected.)

"Mon eau est très saine!" (My water is very clean!) the ageing man growled, his face quite red already.

Hermione's hands trembled, but she tightened her grip on her note pad. "Écoutez... ils m'ont demandé de... de regarder votre... votre équipement." (Look, they asked me to check your equipment.)

The man immediately became suspicious. Hermione watched a drop of sweat tumble from his nose as his eyebrows shot down. "Qui sont vos employeurs? Vous êtes anglaise; que diable faîtes-vous en France?" (Who are your employers? You're English; what the hell are you doing in France?)

Caught. "Euh, je viens du Centre de santé de Nice. Il y a eu des... des rapports venant de vos clients. Je viens pour... er, des vérifications... Vous avez ma parole." (Er, I'm from the Health Centre of Nice. There have been... complaints from your clients. I have to make verifications... You have my word.)

He stared at her hard for a long time before nodding with a mean, bulldog like expression, his nose creased with disdain, and then he pointed to a small door leading to the installations. "Faîtes votre boulot, mais sacrez pas le bordel." (Do it, but don't fuck anything up.)

Hermione let out a huge breath of relief and smiled triumphantly, making her way to her first water cleaning device and sampling the cleansed water as well as making notes of the temperature and whatnot. It could help.

Later she would send her samples to Hilda, her friend in the composites department at Auldenberk. In five days tops they would know the truth about how those poor wizards had vanished, and try to find a way to make them visible again, if ever possible.

Hermione really wished Ron and Harry were there right now, though.

The foliage rustled behind her. Hermione's movements froze, and she heard it again. In the distance there were the faraway cries of Harry's army. Most of them had been on foot, but she remembered leaving the infirmary to get more rosewood for a patient's quickly rotting ear and seeing the air squad kick off. Somewhere in there, Ron, Gin and Luna were going to meet with the Death Eaters.

Just like she was, probably, just now.

The foliage parted and Hermione cried out, backing into a tree and tripping on her own feet and oversized white robes.

She heard laughter, too. "I always liked nurse-playing. Didn't you?"

The voice ran ice-cold in Hermione's veins.

Parkinson.

"My father would pretend sick, you see, and I'd pretend I was the best goddamn Healer the world had ever seen."

Who cares what sorts of sick, perverted games you played, rushed through Hermione's mind as she scrambled on the ground to run, scraping her fingernails in the dirt and rocks and panting violently, feeling her heart rush in her throat. I will not vomit on my last hour...

Suddenly she was pulled back into the air by magic, and quickly bound. "You make it so easy. But then again, you're probably feeling really strong now because Potter's invincible in your daft, blind eyes." Pansy forced Hermione's head back by the hair, a fist so tight Hermione's head hurt and she saw stars. "Listen to my secret: Potter's about to bite the dust, Granger."

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut.

No.

"Yes," Parkinson sneered delightfully, "yes, he's facing the Dark Lord as we speak. And do you know what I'll do when my Lord has finally finished him off?" She smirked to herself. "I'll be dancing on all of your graves, mudblood bitch. I'll sing your death most of all. Oh, yes, sweet vengeance...

"I'll make this last. I'll make it worth all my while. I'll make you my slave first; perhaps I'll enjoy every moment of it. And then I'll draw your blood slowly, make sure that every last drop of you is spent. I'll watch you die, Granger. And I'll love every second of it."

The cold rain had made her robes cling to Hermione; now Pansy was watching ever heaving breath shake her body with hungry eyes. And then she closed the small distance between them.

Hermione was helpless against the binds tying her hands and mouth. She couldn't reach her wand in her side-pocket. Her eyes squeezed tightly shut once more; she willed herself to not feel so cold and, not feel Pansy's acrid breath on her neck or her hands roaming her body like a hungry wolf. It was so wrong, and Hermione's eyes filled as she realised her punishment for wandering too far from camp.

"You're scared," Pansy said before cupping Hermione's breasts and licking her collarbone, at last tearing the tears from Hermione's terrified eyes. "I like that."

The bark in Hermione's back was suddenly too sharp, her skin hurt so much and she felt violated and despoiled, and everything around her was black when she opened her eyes to find Pansy staring back at her with a wicked leer.

"How does it feel to be hated so much that it really fucking hurts?" Pansy snarled with her fist in Hermione's hair and her wand against Hermione's temple, ready to cast the curse that would send Hermione into tumbles of pain.

A huge blast sent her crashing into a nearby tree.

A warm, safe set of hands gently cupped Hermione's face, shaking terribly. A muddy cheek delicately rested on Hermione's head, and she felt cut from the rest of the world as heat surrounded her, comforting.

Hermione's tears fell free at last as she registered her saviour's face. "Ron," she choked out through a sob, falling to her knees with shock and, ultimately, bringing him down with her. "Oh, Ron," she whispered, "that was so scary... I thought I'd -"

"Shh..." Ron said as he buried her face in his shoulder, snuggling into, shaking with fear as well. They were a tangle of dirty limbs and fright.

What would have happened if I hadn't come when I did? "You're safe, Hermione."

Hermione tightened her hold on him, then sighed. "Thank you," she breathed out, "for saving me."

Ron smiled and brushed some stray hairs back, toying with her cheeks. "I'll always be there to keep you safe." He stood up, pulling her along slowly with him. "Come on, let's go back," he added, distantly, knowing full well that Harry was fighting his own demons.