14. Hurt
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Hermione ran, her footsteps echoing loudly across the stone. Feeling like this, she couldn’t possibly get to Gryffindor Tower any quicker. Eventually, she saw the stairs leading to the portrait hole and raced up them. When she reached the top, she crashed into someone else.

Harry jumped around and then smiled weakly at Hermione. She could tell his heart was not in it. “Hi,” he said softly. “I just got back. From Ron’s,” he added, as if it were not already clear enough to her.

Hermione stared back at him; the look on his face made it all too clear what he had been thinking about before she had disturbed him. Everything came rushing back to her and she promptly burst into fresh tears. Turning her face away from him, she told the Fat Lady the password through her sobs and climbed through the portrait hole. She half-ran through the common room, ignoring the puzzled looks thrown at her and dashed up the stairs leading to the girl’s dormitories, making sure to cast an extra strong locking spell on the door before she slammed it shut behind her.

Ron Weasley had never felt so strange in his life. He was numb. The last few days, he’d been sitting at home; listening to his mother crying and seeing his father trying to keep the family together, with the same confused and hurt expression in his eyes.

It had all been a blur; Hermione arriving in the arms of Snape, of all people, insisting that it was Charlie who’d taken her, Dumbledore sending him home with the rest of his family and breaking the news to them and now this.

Charlie had been sent to Azkaban. It was to be expected of course. He had been revealed as a Death-Eater, a follower of a Dark Lord past. No other punishment would be accepted in the wizarding world.

The main root of fear had always been the Dementors; unsettling, hooded unmasked creatures, hungry for the souls of the living. It had been long feared by most that Voldemort’s most volatile alliances were in control of the place that kept the magical society’s worst criminals in captivity.

Dumbledore had patiently repeated this warning to Fudge many a time, but went unheeded. One of Fudge’s worst mistakes was revealed in Ron’s fifth year- a mass breakout of Azkaban prison, allowing Death-Eaters to roam free.

Little more than a year later, the Dementors had revolted. Villagers in the vicinity of Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade had awoken horrified to find strange, animate shadows gliding ghost-like through their streets and homes, unrestrained and unchecked. Ministry wizards capable of producing corporeal and effective Patronuses were stationed in every area of alarm, but that did little. The Dark Lord had achieved his aim. Many were constricted by fear and ran from their homes to find safety.

After the war, Dementors were banished from Azkaban and placed somewhere they could do no harm any more. Where? The Ministry kept that a heavily guarded secret. Only the most tight-lipped of Unspeakables knew the answer.



Although he was glad the Dementors were nowhere to be seen, Ron shivered in the closeness to their successors.

The Erinyes, sometimes called the Furies, or the Three.

At the entrance of the wizard gaol, stood three figures, all bearing writhing pythons for hair, the facial features of a hound and the fluttering wings of the bat.

Sometimes he wondered if the Dementors would have had a more desirable appearance underneath their robes than these creatures. But still, he would have taken the Erinyes over the last guards. They did not fill him with chilling fear, just a strange sense of foreboding, with their black eyes examining him closely.

Most simply called them the Three, living by the old superstition that it was bad luck to call them by their real name. As Arthur Weasley led his family towards the great gates, he nodded to the one who stood nearest.

“Charlie Weasley,” he said clearly, attempting not to break eye contact. “Cell 14B.”

She surveyed them all, her obsidian eyes sliding from each one of the family, before stepping aside and allowing the gates to swing open. As they passed, the whip at her side curled slightly, but made no move to lash at their skin. Ron had no question as to what it was for. The Furies were created to pursue the guilty and punish them for their sins. It was their only purpose in life, and a purpose they served well.

Eventually, her sobs began to ease and Hermione simply sat rigid against her pillows, her knees pulled up to her chest. His words still stung. It was strange how much they’d affected her. Of course she’d expected him not to be overly friendly, but his behaviour, his…callousness had stunned her. Was she still just a silly schoolgirl to him? Was she a fool to think that he had changed his attitude towards her? After all, he had called her ‘yet another annoyance in his already tedious life.’ How was she expected to meet his eyes in Potions or anywhere else again after his harsh, cutting words?

She wasn’t hurt because of what he’d said exactly. Hermione just wondered what had happened to his promises of helping her? The support he was to try and provide? She sunk back, her eyes closed. With the chaos of the last few days, those memories had slid to the back of her mind. Now, they resurfaced, to plague her again.

Opening her eyes, she looked over to the letter on the small mahogany bureau under the windowsill. Out of the five Gryffindor seventh-years, she was the only one to have a little desk to herself. Callie’s and Erica’s was adorned with photos; mostly of past holidays (the two girls families were very close and spent many summers and Christmases together), letters and the odd quill, lip gloss or hairbrush. Parvati’s and Lavender’s naturally served as a dressing table rather than a desk and they had charmed the drawer space to hold more beauty and fashion magazines than was naturally possible.

Upon Hermione’s desktop however, was a neat stack of books and a single letter. Curious, as she hadn’t seen it arrive, she got up and crossed over to the table to pick it up. Her mother’s neat, precise handwriting was displayed on the envelope. Before, she would have groaned, knowing exactly some of the things her mother would have to say this time. Now though, she was just happy to see something familiar, something that reminded her of home. She was surprised at how much she missed it at times. Hermione tore open the envelope unceremoniously, letting it flutter to the floor, and sat back down on the bed to read it, gently stroking a purring Crookshanks at the foot of the bed as she did so.

Dear Hermione,

It’s been a while since we’ve heard from you, dear. I hope that our last letter got to you- I’ve always wondered about the reliability of your postal service. (Hermione rolled her eyes.)

We’re writing mostly to know in advance what your plans are for Christmas? We’d very much like to see you for the holidays as you’ll certainly be off at University next year, normal or wizarding, and we doubt you’ll visit home very often. Of course, we understand if you want to stay at Hogwarts with your friends Harry and Ronald.

Another reason we’d like you to come home is that we have invited Aunt Theresa and Uncle Jamie to come down from Cardiff to stay. Needless to say, your cousin is still missing, the investigation seems to be having no luck at all and we wouldn’t want them to have spent their first Christmas without her (as it looks most likely) all alone.

Please write soon. We miss you and we need to make some plans about your future after Hogwarts.

Love,

Mum and Dad.

Hermione sighed. Though she knew the holidays would most likely be filled with ‘meaningful’ discussions about her future and her parents less than subtle hints about attending a Muggle University, she wanted to go home.



But then there was the situation with Aunt Theresa and Uncle Jamie. It killed her to know that she had witnessed their small daughter die at the hands of Voldemort, which was, of course, something she could never reveal to them. She wished she could do something to ease their pain- they were under the terrible impression that their daughter had been abducted.

Adding to the sting was her reason for not telling her parents. Under no circumstances would Hermione reveal that she had been involved in a dark war with Voldemort and his followers, the Ministry and the Order. They would have been horrified and she wouldn’t have seen Hogwarts again, that was for sure.

But to tell them what had happened to Chloe…no matter what Snape had told her about it not being her fault…she felt a little selfish, but she didn’t think she could bear the questions, the concern, the aghast reactions of her mother and father. And to tell them why the Dark Lord had taken her tiny cousin for a deadly ultimatum…Hermione shook her head. She would just have to stay silent.

Crossing again over to the desk, she picked up a spare quill and scribbled an answer.

Dear Mum and Dad,

I’ll be glad to come home for Christmas. I hope Aunt and Uncle are coping as best they can and please give them my love when you speak to them next as Christmas is quite a way off yet.

Everything’s fine here and I’ll write as soon as I have any news. There’s a Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin coming up soon. I wouldn’t normally be excited, but as Harry and Ron put it, it’s our ‘last chance’ to win the House Cup again, so I’ll let myself be swayed. I’ll tell you how it goes.

Write soon,

Hermione.

Hermione rolled up the parchment, sealed it, and put it aside for later. She could take it to the Owlery the next morning. As she settled back onto her quilt, lying backwards to stare at the red canopy over her four-poster, thought swirling in her mind, there came a furtive knock at the door. Hermione remained silent, wordlessly urging them to go away.

“Hermione?” Callie’s muffled voice came though the door.

Parvati spoke next. “Are you okay? Harry and a couple of third years said you came upstairs looking a bit upset. You missed dinner too but we thought it’d be best to leave you alone...”

“He’d come upstairs himself but you know what always happens. Besides, he doesn’t look too good either.”

Loud footsteps clunked up the stairs, and Lavender, who obviously wasn’t clued in asked loudly, “What’s going on?” only to be immediately shushed by the other two.

There was another knock. “You have to tell us what happened at some point. Come on, Hermione, let us in!” The doorknob rattled uselessly.

Hermione turned on her side and closed her eyes, feigning sleep. She muttered the words to unlock the door and pretended not to stir when the three girls came in. They proceeded to talk in whispers about her, and covered her up with a blanket before heading to the common room to do some last minute homework.

By the time they’d gone, Hermione had actually dropped off by accident, and gently dozed until morning light finally awoke her, making graceful patterns as it’s calm glow danced across her pale skin.