Hermione Granger

Books! And cleverness! There are more important things - friendship and bravery!

[madampince-rph]

W I X : noun. term for a magical person.       plural :  wix  or  wixes       adj :  wixen

Tired of the gender-binary imposed by witch and wizard and looking for a gender-neutral term to use instead? Consider wix. Plus substitute “the Wixen World” for all uses of the Wizarding World and defy both the gender-binary and sexist presumptions of masculine superiority!  

e.g. “The furious wix grabbed their wand and cast a jinx, and the next thing George knew he was dancing a frantic jig while his twin laughed uproariously.”

*Due to tumblr’s new “posts with links don’t show in the tags” policy, the link to the credit source has been added in a reblog. Please reblog that post instead!

[bucktoothedbushyhaired]

dggrys​:

IT’S ALL SO MUCH TO TAKE IN. And part of him regrets speaking up at all. Not because it’s her, but because it’s HIM. He’s never been much good at small talk , but he’s far worse off now at it than he’s ever been. When he talks to his mother, they talk of what has happened. When he talks to his father , they talk of what could have happened. There is no area where Cedric has been allowed to exist in peace , and while he’s certain Hermione has a much greater claim to the fear of friendly conversation , it’s Cedric who feels UNWORTHY of it now. 

Still , he’s never been rude a day in his life , and he isn’t about to start now.

❛ Oh , I - well , so long as I’m not inconveniencing you , I’d - I’d love to. ❜ Though he can admit , aftr the fact , that this is not entirely true. He’s certainly been rude before , been angry , been VINDICTIVE even. And while it doesn’t matter now , it’s … well , it’s amazing how many dark holes one small thought can drag you down in the wake of a war. For that alone , he wants to laugh. Or cry. But in lieu of doing either , he simply obliges her , wanting nothing more than to have a distraction that soothes the ache. Even for a little while. 

As they wait in line , he feels as though he should say something , and he searches the miniscule keepsakes of his mind for any information that may help him. Silence has always been fine with him. Awkward silence on the other hand is something he is intent to avoid. ❛ So , you - you , uh , you’re working at the ministry too then ? ❜ 

It’s hearsay and gossip at this point really , seeing as Cedric rarely leaves the comfort of his own department. More often than that , he’s out in the field —the field meaning some other country entirely and yet still all too close to Amos— so he rarely gets to fraternize with anyone else who may be in the building. ❛ Something exciting ? ❜

One might have thought that surviving a war would mean that smaller fears and anxieties would have evaporated in the aftermath -- how could they compare to facing death and torture, after all? -- but Hermione had learned quickly that such was not the case. She still struggled to talk to people in casual settings, still struggled to make friends -- that was one thing you couldn’t learn from books (no matter how much one tried) and it was one thing that Hermione had never really mastered. She hadn’t needed to, fortunately; she had ended up with Harry and Ron almost by happenstance, and they’d brought others with them -- Ginny first and foremost of course -- and then the war itself had brought more. Maybe some of the members of Dumbledore’s Army and the Order of the Phoenix felt most like comrades in arms than friends...but what the line that marked the difference between the first and the latter, anyway? Friendships were all about shared experiences and similar outlooks, and being on the same side of a war accounted for both easily. Cedric, though...he’d always been a little bit apart from the others, somehow. It was odd, because he’d been there at the point where the war began in earnest, and yet...

And yet, Hermione still struggled to know how to talk to him almost as though he were a stranger -- only worse than that, because he wasn’t a stranger. She felt like they should have been closer, and that was far worse than not being close at all; she didn’t know how to deal with it. She wished Ron were here with her; he never had a problem talking to people (even when he put his foot in his mouth), putting everyone at ease...Hermione could use some at ease.

So when Cedric spoke, she said “Oh no,” perhaps a little too quickly. “Not inconveniencing me at all, no!” She’d been intending to read through some papers on her lunch break, but really there was no reason why those couldn’t wait until she returned to the office; in fact, she could think of several people off the top of her head (Ron included) who would have told her that it was a much healthier idea to actually take a break on her lunch break. She might as well be honest about that; it was the sort of thing normal people would make small talk about, wasn’t it? “Yes, I’m in the Being Divison right now, technically, but I end up doing most of my work through the Minister’s office.” That sounded like bragging, which wasn’t what she meant to do at all and wasn’t even accurate -- it was just paperwork on her end -- so she winced and rushed to add, “It’s not anything exciting though, no. Honestly it’s nice to have an excuse to put my work aside for a little. Mostly researching old laws and cases and slogging through piles of precedents and contradictions to get them re-written or rescinded. Absolutely piles of paperwork!”

Hermione thought it was all quite fascinating (and sometimes infuriating) actually, but she knew from the reactions of her friends whenever she tried to talk about that nobody else did. “I’m sure you must be doing much more exciting things than I am,” she added, and meant that -- Cedric had always been something of a star at Hogwarts. Hermione had no doubt that the same was true at the Ministry now.

[loquaciousliterature]

Here’s a quick painting I did last week of Hermione brewing up a potion! :) 

(If you’d like to see a time-lapse video of the process for this, or want to have the Photoshop file to see how I work, they’re up on my Patreon!  ｡.｡:+*)

[dggrys]

Discomfort Zone

@nickyrp​ | cedric & hermione.

If he’s being honest , he still does not feel comfortable in his own skin. His body , yes. That isn’t the problem. The problem is that , after all this time and all he’s done , he’s still nothing more —nor less— than his father’s son , and it is TIRING. Tiring because despite being called by his name , he knows what it means , hears the connotation. And he’s fed up with it. Working at the ministry was always meant to be a temporary thing. He loves his father , but he does not love becoming him. Nor will he resign himself to doing so. And while Cedric has accepted that , Amos seems to STRUGGLE , and so the two of them haven’t been able to have a progressive conversation since … well , maybe since he was born now that he thinks about it. Amos had never minded having a son. He only minded having a mediocre son , a son that could be QUESTIONED. 

So Cedric’s kept to himself for months now , existing in the shadows of the ministry to the best of his ability. He’d been trapped in his father’s department for over a month before he’d managed to convince Kingsley to reassign him , and now , although he’s still trapped in Amos’s shadow , he does everything in his power to elude the elder Diggory , if only because Cedric isn’t prepared to LIE. 

But today has been trying enough without the bussle of the ministry. Because today , Cedric had successfully —albeit not all too peacefully— moved out of his parents’ house. It was the first time in a long time that Amos had thrown an actual tantrum , and the ringing in Cedric’s ears invoked by his shrieking still hadn’t faded. He’s trying to drown it out amidst the crowds of muggle London , searching for furniture and - whatever else he’s meant to have in his own space. It takes his mind off the hostility he no doubt shares with his father. Who would have thought that coming out to his Dominican father would be easier than moving out of his house? 

He’s in his own head when he enters the cafe for lunch , taking his place in line as he rubs his eyes. He hadn’t needed a cane today , able to walk just fine without the reminder of the last battle wreaking havoc upon his hip the way it tended to on rainy days. Not that he’ll ever recover , not really. He still carries the graveyard with him like a box under his arm , and it’s just something he’s had to adjust to. He’s just about to give thanks to the universe for it all when his eyes come into focus on the head of hair before him. It takes him a moment to draw the memory and yet another to assure himself he was correct. Although even as he speaks, he isn’t entirely sure. ❛ Hermione Granger ? Is that - is that you ? ❜

[bucktoothedbushyhaired]

Another busy day -- like all the rest of them. Hermione hasn’t even been out of Hogwarts for half a year yet, and she’s already become so absorbed by her work for the Ministry of Magic that it sometimes feels like she’s been doing it all her life. (That’s not true, of course; the memories of the war are fresh and sharp enough that she can never truly pretend that her life now is the way it’s always been.) It certainly feels like she will be doing it all her life: there’s always more paperwork to file, another old case whose precedent needs eviscerated, yet another injustice enshrined into wizarding law that needs overturned. It’s a struggle, a slog...and Hermione is happy.

Oh, things aren’t all sunshine and rainbows (as Ginny would say), not at work certainly and not even at home -- No. 12 Grimmauld Place again, but a Grimmauld Place transformed -- and she argues with her housemates as often as she ever did when they were in school (maybe more often; there’s no school curfew to tell two grown Aurors that they really do need to go home and go to bed before they fall asleep on their feet and with everyone else in the department in awe of the “heroes of the war,” their colleagues are all too shy to tell two very junior Aurors when they’re pushing themselves too hard -- leaving it up to Hermione to scold Ron and Harry about it after the fact). But that’s nice, too. There were days -- several long, frozen winter weeks in particular -- when Hermione doubted that the three of them would live long enough to be able to argue about ordinary grown-up things that weren’t part of fighting a war.

Things with her parents are...strained. But Hermione knew that was a risk when she wiped their memories in the first place -- knew, in fact, that that was the best case scenario. So she forces smiles, feigns meek contrition, goes to dinner when they ask and gives them space when they don’t, and lets her parents set the pace of their healing. It’s a new sensation for her, who had grown accustomed to doing as she saw best and leaving her parents in the dark about it. But it’s...nice, in a way. Sometimes.

At any rate, it’s not nearly as important as this bill for werewolf rights she’s trying to get passed, and it’s on that which her thoughts are dwelling (not on her parents, not on Ron and Harry and their mad quest to work themselves to death) when she’s jolted guiltily from her reverie by the sound of her name in a half-familiar voice behind her. She’s not used to being recognized, not out here in the Muggle world that so many of her peers view as foreign or frightening, and it takes her a moment to make the shift in perspective necessary to recognize the wizard speaking to her, having not expected to find a wizard here.

“I -- yes, it’s -- Cedric? Goodness me, Cedric Diggory. Hello, I didn’t -- I didn’t see you there, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t trying to be rude.” How long had she been ignoring him? Hermione could feel her cheeks flushing with embarrassment, and she didn’t even have the excuse of having had her nose in a book for once. “Do you -- are you getting lunch, too? We could -- would you like to -- share a table, if you like?” she offered, a bit desperate to make up for the potential slight.

[bucktoothedbushyhaired]

if anyone knows the original source for this brilliance please let me know; it was sent to me by a friend who found it in a facebook post without a source link but I would like to give credit and if possible reblog from whatever beautiful genius created it first.

[madampince-rph]

This roleplay / player supports, includes, and values TRANS PEOPLE and characters.

REBLOG if you do too and spread some trans-positive MAGIC in our fandom!

[recanteddeatheater]

                         “ Think  my  name’s  F U N N Y  do  you ? ”

[bucktoothedbushyhaired]

A Toast!

@teaspoonofginger​

Hermione had two fizzing glasses in her hand as she approached the spindly little table, but she slowed as she drew near, brow furrowing as it occurred to her that she might have wanted to forgo manners, and only bring one for herself. It was possible that Ron had already had enough tonight -- but, she reminded herself, it was a wedding; a celebration. His brother’s wedding, no less; Ron could indulge (maybe even over-indulge) if he wished. There was no call for her to scold him. Still...

“Are you...singing?” she asked uncertainly.

[elains]

url edit for @hermionejean

“Honestly, am I the only person who’s ever bothered to read Hogwarts, A History?”

[bucktoothedbushyhaired]

carriesdeath‌:

speckledgingermug‌:

It was winter, but Ron couldn’t tell if the bitter chill in the air came from the weather or the looks on his friends’ faces. He cast his gaze between them, just once, and they needn’t have said a word. His stomach dropped, just as it had a moment before - he almost forgot he wasn’t wearing the locket. Harry’s words were sharp, unnecessarily commanding, and Ron’s brow crinkled. He looked sideways at Hermione, who shook her head at him like he should have understood…And he didn’t, necessarily. He didn’t know what they were talking about before he interrupted, but the pieces slid together as he followed them both inside (he wasn’t going to say he minded spending the night indoors anyhow). 

His brows went from knitted to lifted, and something quite like fear flashed across his face; he could safely say he hadn’t expected Hermione to be the first to snap, and he certainly wasn’t expecting it to be as…terrifying as it was. That fear, however, wasted no time morphing into anger, and he was surprised to find it directed at Harry. He might not have known the exact details of what they’d discussed outside, but Hermione took the words right out of his mouth and out of his mind, buried deep but seemingly powerless against her. They’d been getting enough snippets of news for him to know his family was safe - or at least as safe as a blood-traitor family could be in such a climate - but two years of no details and two years of constantly fraying nerves was not a recipe for confidence. Ron moved forward, slower than the fire in his belly urged him. He wondered why he wasn’t angrier, but it was a slow burn; he felt it growing, spreading across the stomach that had been down to his ankles not a second before.  

“Tell him what, Hermione?” It was almost a groan. He knew he was bound to break at some point, but he didn’t expect it to be tonight. He also knew what she meant, at least mostly, and he swallowed hard. “Mate, two years is a long time, and we’re not even close to finding the rest of the horcruxes. You know it.”

@carriesdeath​

They both followed him inside as they knew he would, but there was part of Harry that wished he had just walked into the blizzard and been sucked up by the wind. He didn’t want to be around them right now - he didn’t want to be around anyone right now - but that was the problem with the tent… you were only alone when you were washing or keeping watch. There was no in-between. And, for a bloke who had spent the first eleven years of his life in a cupboard, it was too much most of the time. He needed space from them to think.

Harry stopped briefly, touching the locket that was off all their necks for a while gently. His fingers twitch, readying to snatch up the chain and fling it around his neck, when Hermione kept speaking and Harry’s hand closed into a fist. Another hour - maybe two - then he’d put it on first. The other two could have a longer break. Hermione, of course, didn’t want to be done with her insane idea of turning themselves into Death Eaters. Harry didn’t want to hear it. He’d heard it already - he wasn’t about to go there! Couldn’t she see what would happen to him (to all of them!) if they did?

He turned around to level her in the eye, his hand still in it’s fist down by his side, the other clutching at his wand like always these days. She reminded him of how long and Ron agreed instantly. It made Harry want to roll his eyes - of course Ron agreed with her! As though Harry hadn’t seen the way they sometimes got too close, their fingers brushing against one another. As if Harry hadn’t noticed how they often looked at him worriedly or talked to one another in hushed whispered, falling asleep together peacefully. They were leaving him behind in a different sort of way. After the war, they could figure this out, if they already hadn’t and were just keeping it a secret from him. After the war… Harry couldn’t even see beyond it.

“You don’t think I know that?” he said through gritted teeth, but Hermione continued as though she didn’t hear him. And what she said had Harry’s heart dropping into his stomach, his anger growing. The insecurity, the idea that people were out there dying by Voldemort because he, Harry, could not find the final way to defeat him. There was knowledge that much of the world thought Harry had abandoned them - it was all over the wireless and even Fred and George’s constant optimism couldn’t convince people that Harry was alive and trying.

He’d thought he had Ron and Hermione on his side, at the very least. He thought they knew he was doing his best. “I KNOW, HERMIONE!” And he got loud, despite the fear that they might be caught one day. He forced himself to lower his voice, though it didn’t stop the anger from coming through - didn’t stop the dangerous lilt that was proof he couldn’t delve into the Dark Arts. “I know people are dying because of me, you don’t have to remind me that! And if you two are so tired of doing this, then just go! I can’t leave - it’s me or him. You knew what you were signing up for but, if two years is too long for you and you’re done fighting, then go! I’m not becoming a dark wizard just because you don’t think there’s another way! I’m not doing that!”

@bucktoothedbushyhaired​

“Two years is too long for any of us, Harry! Too long for everybody, not just the three of us but our friends, our families--” Hermione’s voice broke; yes, her mum and dad were out of danger, as far away as she could think to send them -- but two years was so much longer than she’d ever thought her spell would have to last. What if started to wear-off? What if they got bored with Australia and decided to come back to England?

What if they decided to get another daughter?

Hermione knew that she was treading on thin ice -- learn Dark magic? On purpose? -- but weren’t they, already? No, they weren’t; they were drowning. Drowning with no life vest, no rope to shore, no friendly hands to tug them into the shallows; drowning with nothing but more water beneath, as cold and insatiable as the worst riptide. “What are we accomplishing right now, Harry?” She didn’t ask; she demanded. She’d always been a bossy girl, but this was different. The know-it-all was gone, swallowed by the desperation of one who knew nothing and couldn’t bear the hollow hole where the answers should have been. “What are we even trying to accomplish -- can you tell me that? If you can answer me that, I’ll stop. If you can think up even an inkling of a hint of another plan for how to kill this Horcrux, I’ll stop and I’ll never bring the subject of Dark Magic up again. But if you can’t...if you don’t have anything else we can try...” She hesitated, knowing what she was on the brink of; feeling the cliff of no way back from the line she was about to cross; then she took a deep breath and jumped.

“Harry, what have we got to lose?” she pleaded finally. Her eyes darted to Ron, face still handsome despite the strain of the last two years, still strong and stalwart -- but oh, there were cracks even there, cracks in all of them; she could see it, feel it. “Because we are losing. Not just the war; us. We can’t keep this up. We can’t.” Her voice cracked but her certainty did not. “None of us, not you either. We’ll wear ourselves to nothing with You-Know-Who even having to lift a finger, and then what?” The howling of the wind outside had raised to a fevered pitch, almost as though some lonely animal were searching around their tent, looking for its lost pack. Hermione found herself taking a step closer to Ron, her fingers stretching out instinctively for comfort -- for his strength.

Her words were spoken to Harry but it was Ron her eyes sought, hoping that he would have an answer that would save them all from hers. “Then what?”

@speckledgingermug​

[scodelariokaya]

every female character i love | hermione granger (harry potter) Books! And cleverness! There are more important things — friendship and bravery.

[bucktoothedbushyhaired]

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[bucktoothedbushyhaired]

speckledgingermug‌:

Hermione’s smile, watery and limp though it was, sent a wave of warmth through Ron. It cascaded down into his stomach and pooled there, a molten reservoir of something like hope; it felt odd and wrong to feel any kind of warmth at a time like this, but he couldn’t apologize for it, not when it cut through his anger, fear, and heartbreak like a knife through butter. Still, he couldn’t mirror her. His mouth twitched, but even her praise did little to coax it into a smile. He shrugged, focusing much too intently on the fang in his grasp as he said, “I had to keep one. Didn’t know if any opportunities might present themselves.” 

Truthfully, he’d been a bit worried about it poking his arse during the battle and poisoning him; he might have said as much, perhaps with a smirk and a chuckle, but instead he just frowned. Hermione started to ask another question, and he glanced up at her. Was he all right? His eyes left hers a bit too quickly, looking down at the fang as he stuffed it back into his trousers. 

No. Absolutely not. 

The hole in his heart was raw and gaping, its edges messy ribbons of flesh that still ached. She didn’t finish the question, of course, but it echoed in his head, nearly eclipsing the one she used to cover her tracks. It wasn’t a better question - he didn’t know the answer, truthfully - but he drew in a shuddering breath before answering. 

“We…regroup. We see who’s left.” 

(Who’s still alive.)  

Hermione nodded, more impressed than she was surprised; of course Ron would have thought to keep a fang. Of course he would have been waiting for an opportunity -- he was good at that. Waiting, being ready. Hermione could prepare, could plan ahead; Ron was so much more adaptable, ready for what he wasn’t ready for. This last year, more even than the six years of shared schooling before, had taught Hermione that -- and had taught her to appreciate that, rather than to discount it as less valuable than actually planning. What good were plans when everything had gone so wrong?

They should never have been here, not like this...but they were, and the world was, and they would just have to deal with it, no matter how ill-prepared Hermione felt for the prospect.

“Good thinking,” was all she said aloud. Even to Ron, even now, it was hard for her to admit how out of her depth she felt...but he had to know. Didn’t he? Sometimes it felt like Ron understood her even better than she did herself; sometimes it felt like they did nothing but disagree and misinterpret and clash. They couldn’t afford that, now -- now that there was no Harry here to mediate; now that the weight of his destiny rested on them.

Hermione forced herself to take a deep breath and say, “This is all a bit beyond me, I have to admit. I’m not...sure, really, what we do next. Regroup, yes, of course -- but how?” Her brain whirred, trying to process the possibilities. “Maybe the D.A. coins? That’s how Neville called people back to Hogwarts--” People like Fred. The thought silenced Hermione as abruptly as a spell. And Remus and Tonks. And so many others who had died there. They didn’t even know all the losses they were mourning, yet.

She tugged at the knots of her more-disheveled-than-usual mass of hair, as much to have something else to focus on beside her words and thoughts as to actually begin the work of detangling the awful mess. Her voice, when she mustered it again, was small: “Do you...” She had to swallow a wave of grief before she could continue. “Do you think they’ll print a list of the causalities in the Daily Prophet? At least then we’d...we’d know.”

[meiselr]

Harry Potter A-Z challenge: ozzzymandius vs. ibuzoo

S - Spells

[bucktoothedbushyhaired]

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[bucktoothedbushyhaired]

speckledgingermug‌:

Hermione backed away from him, and for one mad second he considered tightening his grip, refusing to let her go. But, she slid out of his arms and he begrudgingly allowed her to do so, nevermind that he wanted nothing more than for her to hold him, just for a smidge longer. Perhaps he should have been embarrassed for thinking that, for wanting that, but he didn’t know what to feel and he was too numb to give it much thought. 

She was right though, as usual. Ron followed her lead, swiping his palms over his wet, blotchy face. Right…His mind stalled, puttering slowly into action. They couldn’t stop now, not when they were so bloody close, but he couldn’t forget their losses so easily. Every time he blinked he saw Fred, saw Harry, and he tried to physically shake the images out of his head, only exacerbating the pounding that lingered there. Hermione’s words were strung together, and it was only when her tone lifted - a question - that Ron started picking them apart.    

“The fangs? Uh…” 

He heard them clattering to the floor somewhere in his muddled memory, and he swallowed. No, no, he couldn’t think about that now; he shoved his hands in his pockets, first the front and then the back. His fingers tightened around the severed root of a fang and he brandished it, wishing he felt prouder. When she inquired about the sword, though - about Neville - a crease appeared between his brows. 

“No, I…Did he come here with us? I can’t…I can’t remember…”  

His words trailed off, voice lowering into silence as he swung around the door frame. He couldn’t decide if this frenzied inventory was helping or hurting, but he heard Neville’s voice echoing from downstairs and had to stem his own relief. 

“He’s downstairs,” he answered, “but I dunno if he’s got the sword.”

When Ron pulled the fang out Hermione couldn’t help but smile at him, ugly thing that it was; even through her tears her heart did a quick little skip and she couldn’t stop the heat flushing across her cheeks -- but with her face already pink from crying, she doubted the blush would show. “Oh good, well done,” she said, biting hard on the inside of her lip to banish the smile -- and the memory. (Who would have ever thought that something like a giant snake tooth would ever strike anyone as romantic?) Hermione shook the thought away ruthlessly; they had more important things to think about right now -- and anyway, what kind of a person was she to be distracted with fancies like that when people were dead? Never mind that she wanted nothing more than to throw herself back into Ron’s arms, back into the warmth and comfort and illusion of safety that they offered...

But they had things to do. Neville was downstairs, and that was one relief, at least; if Neville was here, the Sword was within reach -- if he had either it or the Hat, it would come to his hand again, Hermione had no doubt there -- one of the only things she didn’t doubt, right now. For herself, she had never felt less brave -- less like a Gryffindor. But Neville...the Sword would come to him, one way or another. She knew it. Not a logical thought, not the kind of thought she would usually entertain for even a moment, but at this moment? The whole world felt wrong, felt illogical, felt impossible. Harry was dead; nothing made sense. Why question the proclivities of magical medieval weaponry, under such a circumstance?

At any rate, that was less crucial a concern than it would have been had Ron not been so bloody capable. If they had a fang, they didn’t necessarily need the Sword. It was easier, certainly; more versatile -- but not crucial. Not...well, not life or death.

The phrase made Hermione swallow, even sounding as it did only inside her own head, and she scrubbed at her eyes furiously in a losing battle to keep them dry. “Right,” she said, “right. Okay. That’s great, that’s all great.” She realized she wasn’t making sense; wasn’t giving her words enough context for Ron to follow along, and forced herself to take a deep breath and say, with an effort angled heavily in favor of coherency, “Neville being here, and you having one of the fangs still, I mean. Both of that’s great news.” She managed another smile, this one meant for Ron rather than summoned from her memories, watery and limp thought it was. “It’s brilliant you managed to keep hold of one of those. That should...that should be handy. Yes.”

God. Where would she be without Ron? Aside from dead, of course...Hermione was no longer under any illusion of which of them was better able to adapt to a crisis, for all that she liked to consider herself generally well prepared -- but when her preparations failed, she was lost. Thank goodness she had Ron... Hermione’s eyes searched across his face and the question started before she could stop it: “Are you all--” But he wasn’t of course; none of them were all right. Stupid question. She swallowed it and turned away. “So...we can kill a Horcrux, if we can get it. But what do we do now?”

[carriesdeath]

speckledgingermug‌:

@bucktoothedbushyhaired  @carriesdeath

A fire crackled to life inside the cast-iron stove, fueled by wood Ron had insisted on collecting without magic. Sure, it would have been easier to levitate firewood around the forest, but “easy” wasn’t a word any of them were familiar with - not anymore. Ron sighed, leaning forward to prod a wayward log with his wand. This wasn’t supposed to take so long; he could tell by Harry’s grim expression, by the helplessness hanging over the tent like a fog. Harry was lost - they all were - and it didn’t have to be said aloud that this journey wasn’t meant to last two bloody years. 

Ron closed the stove door and scooted backward on the rug. He rested at the foot of an armchair, twirling his wand between his fingers and rubbing at the ginger stubble on his jaw. It was no secret that he was frustrated, but he didn’t know how not to be. He wasn’t frustrated with anyone in particular - except for Dumbledore, maybe - but that made it worse. If he was mad at Harry, he could say so, but he couldn’t very well yell at the situation and straighten it out, could he? The feeling gnawed at him, devouring him from the inside out, and most of the time he fought it by keeping himself busy. He’d become an expert at making fires, and he even cooked meals from time to time, but sitting idly by wasn’t agreeing with him and it showed. 

With a grunt he heaved himself to his feet, stumping past the table toward the tent flap. He could hear voices - Harry and Hermione were just outside - but he paused, something having caught his eye. Slytherin’s locket lay there upon the rough wooden tabletop, glinting in the light cast by the surrounding oil lamps. Ron usually tried to stay as far away from the thing as possible, and tonight was no different, but it seemed especially menacing, drawing his attention and dropping his heart into his stomach. He blinked quickly, shaking his head. It was a horcrux, of course it was menacing, and he pushed the thought out of his mind before he ducked outside. 

Hermione had come outside nearly half an hour ago to take over watch and Harry wished she hadn’t. It wasn’t necessarily that he wanted to be alone - they’d all been doing this so long that doing rounds like this had started to feel like second nature long ago… but it was the conversation she’d brought with her. 

It had started out small, like it always did with her. A forced casualness to her tone. She was smart enough that she should’ve known how fake it sounded to Harry’s ears. This was a witch who was never casual - she came with an idea, a plan, research evidence to support. But - no. Doing the imperius when absolute necessary was different than this. What Hermione was proposing was heading down a path that Harry thought he might never be able to come back from.

He’d almost got put in Slytherin for a reason, after all. A fact he’d never told anyone, including Ron and Hermione. He was afraid of himself in this way - afraid of how things festered in his mind. For two years, he’d been thinking of the Hallows, the desire to have them eating away. He couldn’t delve into Dark Magic the way she wanted him to. He was already so close to dying.

It had begun to snow while she was out here, the wind blowing so hard that it was almost hard to hear her. They’d hard on the wireless there might be a blizzard in this area tonight. Harry was chilled despite his gloved hands and bundled robes. “I said no, Hermione, we’re not - “ The tent flapped swished and Harry immediately closed his mouth to see Ron coming out. 

“No reason for you to come out here, we’re going back in.” It was a decision - Harry didn’t ask for their opinions on the matter. “In an hour, we won’t even be able to see five feet away from us, there’s no reason to keep watch. The wards will keep up for tonight - no one’s going to risk the weather right now.” He moved past Ron, ducking inside without waiting for an answer. 

@bucktoothedbushyhaired​

[bucktoothedbushyhaired]

Hermione’s mouth dropped open and she stared after Harry’s vanishing form in outraged indignation. She turned to Ron, looking for support -- but of course, he hadn’t been outside for the conversation, so he would have no idea how unreasonable Harry was being. How dare he just decide they were going in? How dare he just decide they didn’t need to keep watch? The part that rankled the most was that he was right; there was no sense in any of them sitting miserably through a blizzard when the weather itself would work better than any ward at keeping unwanted visitors away -- but he wasn’t right about the rest of it, and this conversation wasn’t over.

She shook her head furiously at Ron -- not furious at him but rather with Harry, although expecting Ron to commiserate when he as yet had no idea what was going on might be demanding a bit much -- and stomped into the tent in Harry’s wake. The icy flakes that had collected in her hair started to soften and melt when they hit the heat from Ron’s fire and in a few minutes, Hermione knew, her usual unruly mane would be a nightmare mixture of dry static and damp strands, but her hair was low on her list of frustrations right now.

At the top of the list was Harry, and Hermione lost no time in making that clear: “This conversation isn’t over, Harry! You can’t just keep brushing-off reality just because it’s unpleasant. I don’t like the idea either, you know -- it’s not as though learning the most revolting secrets of Dark Magic was ever on my to-do list!” The only reason her voice didn’t grow shrill as she spoke was because it started that way. The argument with Harry outside had been heated but soft, neither of them perhaps wanting to discuss such topics loudly -- but now Hermione’s temper overrode any squeamishness -- or sent of tact.

“We’ve been at this for two years -- two years!” It still seemed unfathomable; how could they possibly be coming up on their second miserable Christmas out here? Sometimes it felt like only a few weeks had passed since that lovely dance with Ron at his brother’s wedding; sometimes it felt like a lifetime. But they couldn’t go on like this; they were fraying, physically and mentally, and they weren’t the only ones. The news they got was scattershot, suspect; but things were bad. Two years of a magical world ruled by You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters? Sometimes Hermione was glad that they were as out-of-touch as they were; she has come to realize that there were some things even she didn’t always want to know.

Others, she didn’t want to know but she was coming to understand they needed to learn. “It’s time to get off your high-horse and accept that we need to do whatever it takes to end this! You’re leaving everybody in danger by being so -- so self-righteous, so selfish!“ Hermione could feel her eyes filling with frustrated tears and jerked away before Harry could see them. She turned to Ron instead and said, perhaps more insistently than she should have, “Go on Ron, tell him!”

@speckledgingermug

[bucktoothedbushyhaired]

BACK to GRIMMAULD

[bucktoothedbushyhaired]

the-roaring-weasley‌:

Ron wanted to flinch at the sound of his own voice, cracked and hoarse. He wanted to be strong, to be steady, to be everything they needed to get through this, but the lump in his throat was growing larger by the second and he couldn’t stop his chin from wobbling. He blinked, and a few tears spilled over; he swallowed hard, reaching up to wipe them away with the back of his hand. It was a stupid and fruitless thing to do, especially when Hermione was crumbling before him, but it was an instinct he was too exhausted to fight. The desperation and despair in Hermione’s voice dropped a boulder into the pit of stomach, impossibly heavy. He forced his bleary gaze to fix on hers, but words failed him, lodged behind the lump of emotion threatening to cut off his windpipe. 

Her question hadn’t been one that demanded an immediate answer, and that was just as well considering Ron didn’t have one. But, even if he had, she left him no time to respond. She launched toward him and he caught her, nevermind how unsteady he might have felt. His jaw clenched, and there was a pressure in his chest that he could only explain as heartbreak. She wailed into his sweater and he swayed, first forward and then backward, stumbling until his back hit one of the drawing room walls. He needed support in a number of ways, but the solid, tangible one that kept him upright was the one he needed most.

He couldn’t breathe. Inhales were difficult, and every exhale came out broken and shaky. His grip on Hermione was probably much too tight, but it was like clinging to a life preserver; he pressed his face into her hair, feeling only slightly bad about the tears he left there. 

Was he supposed to tell her he didn’t know? Was he supposed to admit that he felt completely helpless? Was he supposed to tell her he’d lost not one, but two brothers in one night and he didn’t know how much of his heart was left? He settled for silence - well, save for the muffled, anguished gasps he tried to hide in Hermione’s hair.      

Ron caught her -- of course he caught her; one thing Hermione had never doubted except those bleak months in the tent without him don’t think about that don’t think about that was that Ron would always catch her. He caught her, and she clung to him, fingers tangling like leeches in his jumper as she wept into his shoulder. Ron was weeping too -- she could hear him, softly, over the sound of her own tears, even if the mane of her hair was too thick for her to feel his tears -- and for several long seconds that felt, simultaneously, like forever and never she just stood there, trying to somehow take comfort from someone who was every bit as miserable and lost as her.

But she couldn’t just stay there, leaning into Ron leaning into the wall, both of them relying on the moldering skeleton of the dwindling House of Black to hold them up against the weight of Harry’s loss. Much as she wanted to, Hermione couldn’t just sink down and let the grief swallow her in the comforting black bleakness of sorrow and oblivion.

She forced herself to unclench her fingers and push herself away, stepping out of Ron’s warmth and back onto her own feet. “Right,” Hermione said, as much to herself as to him, and scrubbed her hands across her raw, damp cheeks. “Right.” She took a breath deep enough to make her lungs ache (ignoring the way it rattled against the tears still locked in her throat) and shook her head vigorously. “So...next. We should figure out...what we need to do next.”

The breadth of that question loomed like a bottomless hole in the world unfolding over her head; Hermione tried to ignore it. If she could boil the world down to a list, maybe it would start making sense again. “We should start by seeing what we do have, by figuring out what’s already...already done.” Done like Harry... Hermione pushed the thought aside. “Do you have any of the fangs left? I might have one in my bag...” She looked around the room; where had she put that? “And the sword...Neville had the sword, did you see...what happened to him?”

[twiggymcbones]

I think the least believable part of the Harry Potter novels is the idea that all these feathery quills and pet cats are getting along in perfect harmony. Let me tell you, J.K. Rowling, not a thing would get done at Hogwarts!

[petermorwood]

From personal experience of pencils, ballpoints, erasers and anything else which can be pinched from or knocked off a desk, then played with until it can’t be reached any more, the first spells learned must have been for Detection Of Things Hidden Behind Furniture, or the Levitation of Sofas And Chairs To See What’s Under Them.

I’ll leave the bad Latin versions of those for someone else.