Continuing Tales


A Harry Potter Story
by MsBinns

Part 22 of 45

<< Previous     Home     Next >>
Untitled Document

Hermione's French skills and Ron's wand-work would be the lynchpin of their plan to secure their passage to Bulgaria. The illegality of the plan didn't seem to bother Hermione nearly as much as Ron thought it might. They would essentially be stealing, after all. This was the kind of use of magic that she frowned upon and so did the rest of the magical community, including his dad. They'd be tricking Muggles to get a free train ride. If France had some version of the Improper Use of Magic Office in their Department of Magical Law Enforcement and they were discovered, Ron didn't even want to think about what would happen to them. Surely, they didn't send wizards to prison for this kind of offense, but he knew they would be punished somehow.

Hermione's ready acceptance of his relatively simplistic, but illegal and dangerous plan, was unsettling. He was accustomed to Hermione finding gaping holes and flaws in his ideas, contingencies he'd never considered that always made him feel quite foolish. Part of him wanted to believe he'd thought through everything and his plan was perfectly brilliant, but another part of him knew she was just desperate to continue on and they had no other options aside from what he'd suggested.

"We'll want high-speed rail as much as we can." She looked hard at the maps and departure tables, talking more to herself than to him. "And I think we'll want to try to avoid going up through Vienna and Budapest. Milan and Belgrade look like they'd be quicker."

"Right." Ron felt quite useless. He didn't feel like telling her he wasn't quite sure of the relative location of any of those cities to Dijon or Bulgaria. Standing in the Dijon rail station, he suddenly wished he had bothered to take note of how Muggles got their tickets and how the rail station at King's Cross actually worked. The journey to Bulgaria would be a bit more complex than simply boarding a train at Platform 9 ¾ and handing over a ticket.

"We can leave here at 7:30, take that one to Milan, and change trains there. Then we can go through to Belgrade and there's a direct train with no changes that will get us into Sofia at about…" She looked down at the timetable in her hand. "7 AM."

"So it's only a twelve hour trip then?" Ron brightened up considerably.

"7 AM on Thursday."

"But that's nearly two days on a train!"

"It's the best we can do. There's no direct line anywhere close to Sofia."

"How do Muggles live like this? Two days just to travel there?" He gaped at the map and pointed to Bulgaria, which didn't seem all that far away from where they were in France. He didn't bother pointing out the huge flaw in her plan, which was that if they just took a train to London they could potentially be in Australia in two days' time.

"It's the best we can do," Hermione replied defensively.

"What if he can't even help us? What if we get to Bulgaria and we're stuck just like we are here, only farther away from home?"

"Then we'll be closer to Australia," she replied. There was a fiercely determined look in her eye that made Ron feel a rush of affection for her even if he thought this was a terrible idea. She was stubborn enough that he knew there was no sense trying to argue with her. Whatever mental reason had her so driven on continuing on, whether it was because turning around meant admitting defeat or moving further away from her parent's somehow, Ron knew there was no convincing her otherwise.

They'd get to Australia, of that he had no doubt. And two days alone on a train with Hermione didn't exactly sound like the worst plan in the world. He wasn't about to argue with her. For the past eight days, she'd stood by him and just let him be sad. She let him escape when he wanted and hide from everything back at the Burrow. Ron wondered for the briefest of moment as he glanced over at her, chewing on her lip and studying the complicated web of train routes, if this was all part of an escape too. Perhaps this detour to Bulgaria was a way of somehow prolonging finding her parents. It didn't make any sense considering the tears she'd almost shed out on the bench by the bus stop. She'd complained about needing to find them now and wanting to be with them yesterday. Yet she seemed to be purposefully choosing a route that would delay such a reunion. It was all just completely mental. He wouldn't even try to reason her out. All he knew was she'd let him be sad; so he'd let her not make sense for once in her life.

He pretended to lean over and look at the timetable in her hand then, his eyes actually studying her furrowed brow and the nervous way she kept chewing on her lip. It honestly made him want to lean over and kiss her lip, which seemed to grow in size the more she chewed on it, but he doubted this was an appropriate time for such activities. They hadn't actually kissed since yesterday evening up in her bedroom in Henley, which he remembered all too well had ended with her shoving him off of her and him resting with a pillow in his lap. He had no idea what the seating on the train would be like, but he hoped they had private compartments. Weaving his fingers between hers, he looked toward the ticket window.

"Shall we?"

"No, let go." She shook his hand away. "You'll need your wand hand, remember?"

"And when do I do it again?"

"Wait until he's got everything in the computer."

"The what?"

"Never mind." Hermione dismissed. "When he asks for my credit card, that's when you do it. Remember the word credit card."

"And what is that again?"

"Never mind what it is. Just listen for him to say it."

"I still think we'd be safer using the Imperius - "

"No!" She shook her head before he could even finish. "I don't want us to have to use that ever again. Besides, if we got caught using it in another country, I don't even know what the repercussions might be."

"But I've never done a confundus charm before," he protested uncertainly.

"No, you've done ten times harder than that," she countered. "You're a great wizard. You'll be fine." Ron forgot his uncertainty and looked quite pleased at her flattery. "The trick isn't going to be the charm, it's going to be avoiding the cameras and not being seen by any Muggles."

"I wish Harry had given us his cloak," Ron grumbled.

"You'll be fine," she assured again, but he could see she was even looking a bit apprehensive. "Just remember, when he asks for my credit card."


"Are you nervous?" She chewed on her lip.

"Well, what did you say happens if we get caught by Muggles again?" Ron looked out to the long curved row of glass ticket windows that suddenly looked more foreboding than Gringott's. For some reason he wished he was dressed like Dragomir Despard again.

"We won't get caught," she spoke confidently, "just act natural. Let's go."

She took the hand she had just released and squeezed it tightly as she began the walk to the window.

"Hermione, I need my wand hand, remember?" he reminded.

"Right!" She released his hand, but not before he could give her his best attempt at a confident squeeze in reply. There were ten numbered windows, but only three of them had people working behind them. One was an elderly gentleman, one a middle-aged woman with thick wavy hair, and the last was a young man not much older than themselves. Hermione strode toward the young man on the far left.

"Bonjour mademoiselle," he greeted Hermione with a smile. He had blonde hair that curled around his ears, a charming smile, and an earring in one ear. Ron immediately felt a dislike for the way he smiled at Hermione. "Comment puis-je vous aider?"

"En Anglais, s'il vous plait," Hermione replied graciously and she offered a smile in return.

"Ah, but of course, mademoiselle. How can I help you today?" he replied in perfect English.

"We're traveling to Sofia," she informed, "and need to get there as soon as possible."

"Sofia? Ah, wonderful. You are…visiting family?"

"An old friend." Hermione's response made Ron bristle beside her. She cast him a remonstrating look. "We'd like to go through Milan to Belgrade, unless there is a faster route?"

"Eef you went and changed trains in Zurich, you would be on a faster rail line for more of zee trip," the young man spoke with the same smile Ron found too inviting. "You would have to change trains only three times. You and your…friend - " He eyed Ron, "- are in a hurry to get there, no?"

"Boyfriend," Ron butted in as he stepped closer to Hermione and moved a hand to her waist. "Her boyfriend."

Hermione blushed at his possessiveness, but Ron could tell she had enjoyed hearing it as much as he enjoyed saying it.

"Yes, well, zee line from Budapest eez the fastest and 'as couchettes available."

"But that's going north to go south, isn't it?" Ron stepped in again.

"I assure you, eet iz a much faster train," he shrugged. "And zere are only four stops on zee line from Dijon to Zurich."

"So it's not faster to go through Milan?" Hermione looked crestfallen. Ron wondered if perhaps she had been looking forward to traveling through the city, even if it only meant passing through the train station.

"I am afraid not."

"We'll take the faster line through Zurich then."

"And would you like couchettes or a sleeping car for the train to Sofia?"

"Sleeper cars, please."

"Yes, and 'ow ill you be paying for zis, mademoiselle?"

"By credit card." Hermione opened up her bag and nodded to Ron. He looked over both shoulders to scan the empty station. There was thankfully nobody behind them in line, but there was a mother and baby seated on a bench by the stairs and two young girls beside the maps and timetables where he and Hermione had just been. Both appeared preoccupied. Ron looked to the ticket window, awaiting the directions Hermione had given him for when to draw his wand. The young man kept his eyes trained on Ron like he was waiting for something, but he said nothing specific about her credit card.

Ron waited. He looked to Hermione uncertainly, whose eyes were darting back and forth between him and the ticket agent. She looked agitated and just widened her eyes like she was trying to speak to him.

"Eez zere a problem, mademoiselle?" he inquired. Hermione eyed Ron's wand hand tellingly and this time Ron caught on. He glanced behind him one last time before letting his wand drop from his sleeve and pointing it at the young man. A frightened look crossed the young man's face. "Qu'est-ce que c'est?" he exclaimed in French at the fourteen inch stick of wood being pointed at him.

"Now, Ron!" Hermione whispered urgently.


The poor young man immediately looked as if he'd been hit on the head with a pile of bricks. A dazed expression crossed his face and he furrowed his eyebrows and frowned at the two of them.

"Qu'est-ce qui s'est passé?" he murmured to himself and then again to them. "Votre carte de credit, s'il vous plait!"

"It didn't work, Ron, do it again," Hermione ordered under her breath.

"Again?" Ron looked around nervously.

"Just do it!"

"Confundus," Ron repeated and pointed his wand at the young man again before quickly hiding it back up his sleeve. He almost felt bad for the ticket agent, who again looked as if he'd been clobbered with a ton of bricks. He looked out at Ron and Hermione from behind bleary eyes. Ron looked around the room cautiously, hoping again no one had seen him pull out his wand. He could just picture himself getting carted away by the Muggle police and leaving Hermione alone in a Dijon rail station.

"Comment puis-je vous aider?" he asked a bit unsteadily.

"Nos billets?" Hermione asked expectantly, reverting back to French in the hopes the young man would comply.

"Bien sur, bien sur." The young man looked to the screen in front of him and scratched his head, his confusion evident. "Vos billets, oui…." Ron heard Hermione blow out a sigh of relief, but he was holding his breath until he had the tickets in his hand. Seconds ticked by as he waited for the little pieces of paper that determined their next move. He couldn't exhale unless he saw them. He imagined his face was turning purple. He pictured the young man calling his superiors. He pictured officials asking him questions in French, which he could not understand. He pictured Hermione being detained, locked in a room and questioned by a separate set of officials.

"Alors, voici vos billets pour Zurich, Budapest, Belgrade et Sofia."The young man finally emerged, looking slightly less confused than he had before.

"Merci beacoup pour votre aide," Hermione thanked him as soon as he placed the tickets in her hands. "Merci, merci," she repeated over and over.

Ron looked to the young man behind the glass and wrapped an arm around Hermione's waist snugly as he turned from the window. If Hermione disapproved of the possessive action she said nothing. Instead, she simply led him over to the bench the mother and child had just been seated in. He kept his hand wrapped around her as they both took a seat. She leaned into his shoulder and looked back to the ticket window. He finally let out a breath and allowed his lungs to take in some air.

"Now we wait."

He didn't know six hours could feel quite so long. Their departure from the Burrow, the morning in the Ministry, even the French Onion soup all felt like days ago as they sat in the train station and watched people come and go for hour after hour while they waited for their train. They made a game out of guessing where travelers were headed, what they were doing, who they were. Ron wasn't very good at it, as he knew few Muggle professions aside from a dentist and a football player. The game distracted them from the potential thought that there might be someone on their heels and that parking themselves in a public place like they were might not be the greatest idea.

Ron thought back to the question he'd posed to Hermione outside the restaurant that she hadn't been able to answer. He wondered if there really were people after them and if they had they been set up. Were they being tracked? Or were they just hyper aware after months and months of being chased for their lives? The Portkey had been wrong, but he knew from his dad's old job that Portkeys got messed up all the time without any truly nefarious purpose. He wondered if Hermione recognized it too and if she was thinking the same thing. Maybe they had overreacted. Maybe they were just so accustomed to seeing danger that they saw it even when there wasn't any. The man in the blue polo-neck had really seemed to be having dinner with his wife. He hadn't so much as glanced at the two of them the entire meal once Ron quit staring at him. Now they were here, sitting in the Dijon rail station and he wondered if perhaps they'd messed up. Perhaps he should have let Hermione take them to Bercy. Then they could have already been in Australia

But when he read and reread the Daily Prophet stuffed into his pocket, he was convinced they were right. Death Eaters still at large - vowing revenge - targeting those involved in Voldemort's downfall. The pieces all fit together. It was like solving mysteries back at Hogwarts with Harry. There were Death Eaters still hunting people, Darling had been acting strange, and the Portkey hadn't taken them to Paris. It all added up.

Despite the possible danger, he felt an odd sense of comfort at the entire situation. This was so unlike the past week at the Burrow. They had a purpose again and a clear destination in mind. They'd had their setbacks, but he'd actually gotten a bizarre sort of pleasure out of figuring out what to do. He hated that she'd come undone on the bench by the buses like she had, but he liked being able to take care of her again.

"Lawyer, going to Brussels, on business," Hermione remarked at the gentleman with salt and pepper hair in a three-piece suit who had just entered the station. She sounded surprisingly upbeat, happy even. Ron wondered how much faith she was putting in Krum.

"Do you really think he'll be able to help us?" He tried his best to sound non-confrontational, but he couldn't stand the thought of her getting her hopes up only to be let down. Not if he could step in now to fix it.

"Yes," she stated positively. "Yes, I know he'll help us."

"When's the last time you talked to him?" he asked quietly then, trying hard to avoid the jealous tone of voice he always got when he talked about Viktor Krum. "Before the wedding, I mean, when was the last time you talked to him?"

"Last Christmas," she confessed after a long pause. Ron thought he could detect the slightest twinge of guilt in her voice. "You were with Lavender," she offered up an explanation before he could even speak up in protest.

"Last Christmas you went to the party with MaClaggen?" he remarked with a furrowed brow.

"I did."

"And you were also writing Viktor?"

"I was."

"Hermione Granger!" Ron managed a laugh as he looked to her with raised eyebrows.

"I just wished him a good holiday, that's all," she dismissed and pushed a strand of loose hair behind her ear.

"And you really remember his address?" he asked with raised eyebrows. She nodded her head and Ron didn't bother to inquire what they would do if he wasn't at home. The International Quidditch season would just be winding down and there was more than a slight chance he would be out of the country. Hermione leaned her head against his shoulder and looked toward the door, waiting for the next travelers. Ron smiled and followed her gaze. Three young blondes chattering rapidly in French with shopping bags and fancy suitcases had just entered.

"University students," Hermione remarked, nodding at the girls. "Going to Florence and definitely for pleasure."

The game continued until an hour before their high-speed Eurorail train arrived. They shared one of his mum's ham sandwiches and journeyed to a shop near the entrance of the train station to buy groceries with what little French money she had left

He was intrigued by the French coins Hermione had and wanted to hold onto the ten franc piece very much. He liked the look of it, with its outer ring of bronze and contrasting center of aluminum. The money came from an envelope she'd pulled out of her drawer in Henley. She had a whole drawer full of money from around the world that she had collected over the years. Learning about the drawer of coins had surprised him, the same way her French language skills had. He liked that there were still tiny parts of her he didn't know, even after all these years.

He felt like each day he learned a little more about her. Today, he realized she could speak French and she liked to hold onto his arm when they walked. She didn't hold his hand anymore. It was like holding hands wasn't quite close enough for her. She liked to link both arms around his, wrapping his arm up tight in an exhilaratingly possessive manner. He'd noticed it for the first time when they'd been searching for cover in the rain. Then she'd been attached to him on their walk to the rail station, and she'd hardly let go since. He didn't even have to do anything. He just had to let her cling to him.

The way she was nestled against him, even now as they walked the aisles of the store together, made him eager to see the inside of these sleeping cars from Zurich to Budapest. He pictured compartments like on the Hogwarts Express, only with giant fluffy mattresses inside. He wondered if all four trains would have a dining car and candy trolley as well and what kind of money they would accept.

"So how much more of this French Muggle money do you have?" He inquired, eyeing the shelves of colorfully wrapped biscuits and sweets. Even though he couldn't understand what the packaging said, he could make out from the pictures on the front that there were biscuits topped with raspberry filling and marshmallows dipped in chocolate. For a moment, he forgot where they were and how he was supposed to be keeping an eye on the exit and the shopkeeper. He felt like he was back at Honeydukes.

"Enough to buy some of those if you want." She smiled at his obvious interest.

"Only if we can afford it," he shrugged, attempting to appear nonchalant.

Ron watched Hermione peruse the shelves, wondering what exactly she was looking for. His mum had practically emptied the entire cupboard into Hermione's beaded bag back at the Burrow. They had enough food to last for a whole week. There were cans of beans and tins of kipper and a bag of crisps. He'd drawn the line at a loaf of bread, but now he found himself wishing he hadn't as he saw Hermione pull a small loaf off the shelf and put it into her basket.

"It was really smart of you to bring this French Muggle money," he complimented. "I'd never have thought of that."

"I didn't do it because I thought we'd need to," she admitted then and laughed at herself. "I just wanted to take you to this pâtisserie in Paris."

"Are those the chocolate shops?" Ron recalled the incredible windows they'd walked by in the rain.

"Oh, they're so much more than chocolate!" Hermione closed her eyes. "Lemon tarts and giant meringues as big as your head and éclairs and pastries and cakes."

"Sounds like a bit of heaven," Ron grinned at how well she knew him. "It was smart to bring it," he repeated with a comforting smile.

"Your plan was really smart." She turned to him and did the same. "A bit illegal, mind you."

"Well, I reckon the world owes us a few free train rides," Ron scoffed. Hermione didn't counter the statement, just continued walking down the aisle past bottles of water and flavored syrup. He peered warily over her shoulder when a fat man in a suit entered the store to purchase a newspaper, and he fingered the wand that was still up his sleeve when two olive-skinned youths passed through the candy aisle they had just been in. He tried to be discrete as he peered over her head to the next aisle, but he knew she could see it.

"Do you think they're the same people?" she asked. "I mean, the people who killed Theodore Nott. Do you think it's the same people who…who…"

"Sabotaged our Portkey?" Ron finished her sentence. She just nodded her head. "I dunno. Could be. The paper says they've vowed revenge and all. I reckon somebody could have gotten their hands on the Portkey."

"I really thought this was all over." She blew out a weary sigh.

"It is over," Ron assured her. "Whoever killed Nott, whoever did this it's just some desperate people who are angry that they backed the wrong side…again." He tried to comfort her, but she seemed thoroughly unconvinced. He wasn't even sure he believed his own words. Being out in a Muggle city exposed like they were unnerved him as much as it had back in Hermione's hometown. He'd stopped mentioning it after they left the café, but everybody they passed on the street seemed suspicious. There was a reason he'd chosen to sit in the rail station by the front door. There was a reason he wouldn't even let her walk to the loo by herself. The world didn't feel safe. He could ignore it briefly, drooling over sweets and holding Hermione's hand, but he couldn't relax for long.

"He was good at potions," Hermione finally murmured.


"Theodore," she spoke plainly, referring to the dead Slytherin by his first name, as if they had been close friends. "He was the only other fifth year to get an Outstanding on his OWLs , did you know that?"

"I know he was a racist bastard," Ron remarked coldly.

"He fought for us."

"After he probably saw people dying!" he laughed. "After his dad tried to kill all of us fifth year," he reminded her. "Don't you remember he was at the Department of Mysteries? For all we know, his dad's the one who hit you with that curse." He shuddered recalling the curse Harry told him about that had nearly killed her.

"No, it was Dolohov that cursed me," she murmured casually like she was talking about a Hogwarts professor who had given her poor marks.

"No matter. He was there! He could have done it."

"People change," she insisted and shook his head. "Clearly Theodore wasn't his father if he came back with Slughorn."

Ron just grumbled something under his breath in response. He felt like he'd had too many of these conversations this week, first about Snape, then about Narcissa Malfoy, and now Theodore Nott. He didn't understand why Hermione and Harry were so quick to forgive after all that had been lost.

"He didn't deserve that," Hermione murmured then. Ron knew she was probably picturing Nott's dead and disfigured body impaled on the pikes of an iron gate.

"He wasn't exactly a stand-up guy, Hermione. Even if he did have a change of heart at the very end."

"Do you think he deserved what happened to him?" Hermione turned to face him then. She looked rather cross, like she already expected to know his answer. Ron paused a moment before answering.

He didn't actually know a whole lot about Theodore Nott. He was tall like Ron and for his first few years at Hogwarts Ron just called him the tall Slytherin. He was smart like Hermione had said. Ron had to begrudgingly admit he'd been one of the few Slytherins that actually deserved Snape's praise in potions class. He spent a fair amount of time in the library too. Ron only knew because it seemed every time he'd set foot in there Nott had been there as well. He wasn't friends with Draco. In fact, he didn't seem to have many friends. He'd seemed to get friendlier with Draco once both their fathers got thrown in Azkaban though. He didn't seem too fond of Harry after that and Ron knew he'd heard him express disdain for Muggleborns on at least one occasion.

Yet he had made a momentary decision to turn his back on everything he knew. Ron wondered what had actually prompted him to do it. He wondered what Mr. Nott thought of his son's decision. His dad had said yesterday evening that Theodore's mutilated body had been found outside his uncle's house. Why his uncle's, Ron wondered? Had his dad turned his back on him? Ron blanched briefly at the possibility that Nott's own father may have been the one who strung him up. Mr. Nott was a cold and cruel man, among the oldest and most loyal of Voldemort's followers. Ron wouldn't put it past him to murder his own son if he'd betrayed the cause.

"No," Ron replied and then gave a shrug. "I reckon he didn't deserve what happened to him. But neither did Fred."

Hermione offered no reply at the mention of his brother. It was the first time he'd really thought about Fred all day. The familiar wave of guilt that he'd confessed to Hermione last night washed over him. His brother hadn't been in the ground for three days and he was already forgetting about him. Six hours of traveling with Hermione and he wasn't even an afterthought. Maybe his mum was right to keep Fred's broom out on the mantle where everyone could see it. Maybe all the reminders he had run from at the Burrow were necessary. Maybe he needed something to remind him that the world was a bit darker because Fred Weasley was no longer in it.

Perhaps he'd get tattooed somewhere. He knew a wizard in Diagon Alley who could do tattoos that moved. He could do a spinning Catherine Wheel or a jackal like Fred's Patronus, or maybe just his initials. He'd put it somewhere like the back of his hand or his forearm, someplace where he'd never forget it.

Because he hated forgetting Fred.

She knew what he was thinking about. He didn't even try to pretend. Hermione always knew. She could probably see the pursing of his lips and the way he swallowed as he felt a lump rise in his throat. She didn't lift her head or look at him or say anything though. She let him be sad and feel guilty about the fact that all he'd thought about today had been her. She paid for the handful of items she'd collected, which Ron was pleased to see included a sleeve of biscuits, and silently returned with him to the spot on the shiny tiled floor where they'd already sat for hours. She didn't tell him to stop feeling guilty or assure him it was completely natural. She just moved a hand onto his thigh like she had so many times beneath the kitchen table back at the Burrow.

Ron smiled at the intimate placement of her hand, at the familiarity it conveyed with him and with their relationship. So much had happened in ten days time he couldn't imagine where her hand might rest in ten more. He cursed himself under his breath for again getting carried away with thoughts so trivial and shallow and that weren't about his brother.

"How much longer 'til our train?" he asked for the hundredth time that afternoon.

"It leaves at quarter til," she replied simply and leaned into his shoulder. Of course, he knew he would forget about Fred. He'd laugh again one day and not feel guilty. He'd snog Hermione without reminding himself that the first night they'd done that had been the same day his brother had been killed. He knew he would eventually, but he just couldn't shake the feeling that that was wrong somehow and a part of him didn't want it to ever happen. The world shouldn't go back to normal without Fred in it.

She rubbed his leg soothingly, in a manner that told him she knew exactly what thoughts were swirling around his brain, but she remained silent still and let her fingers do the talking. Her touch was soft, but there was almost a sort of longing in the way her thumb grazed the inside of his thigh. Ron closed his eyes and leaned his head against the smooth tiled wall, wondering again about what the sleeper car that would take them through Switzerland, Austria, and Hungary would look like.

Their plan was shit. Wandering blindly across the continent, spending two days on a train just to find Viktor Krum and appeal to him for help was the most nonsensical course of action he could ever even attempt to think up.

It's what Hermione had wanted though. Maybe a part of her had wanted to see Dijon again with him. He'd still been on alert on their walk to the train station, looking down alleys and through shop windows. She had delighted in pointing out gardens and restaurants and telling stories about the city. Ron knew there had to be magic in a city that looked and sounded as old as she was describing. When she'd told him about the lucky owl carved into the side of an old Gothic cathedral, it had sounded like the curious kind of thing wizards might do. But Hermione wanted to travel on in Muggle fashion. She had wanted to stop by the chocolate shop in Paris. She wanted to enjoy the city streets and didn't want him looking over his shoulder or surveying every person they passed on the pavement. She wanted to be normal.

So Ron would indulge her. When she leaned her head into his shoulder, he leaned his head right back so it rested atop hers. He thought about the train ride and the bottle of wine Hermione had bought and when exactly she planned on drinking it. He looked down at the delicate way her hand moved over his leg. He thought about what Zurich and Budapest and Belgrade and Sofia would look like and what exactly he and Hermione would do for thirty-two hours on four different trains. He wondered if they would finish talking about the things they'd started to up in her bedroom last night, about forethought and responsibility and wanting each other. He smiled when he thought back to those four glorious words she'd spoken to him last night. He didn't think about his brother or her parents or who was after them. He would just think about her. And he found the guilt didn't feel so bad when he told himself he was helping Hermione.


A Harry Potter Story
by MsBinns

Part 22 of 45

<< Previous     Home     Next >>