Everything was just a blur, even as Ron stepped away from the brick fireplace and into the dimly lit pub. A few of his father’s friends from the Ministry nodded to him over their early morning drinks as he swept across the beaten floor, blue eyes darting frantically from corner to corner, but Ron hardly noticed their cheery greetings. He could feel his heart pulsing madly in his chest; hear his footsteps pounding against the floor, but it all seemed far away.
Ron slammed his palms against the bar’s smooth surface, ignoring the piercing sting that burned his fingers. “Where are they?” he demanded of Tom, the barkeep. “I know she’s here; she only just left a few minutes ago…”
Tom swirled around, a look of cheery bemusement on his wrinkled face. “Who?”
“ ‘Who?’ I’ll tell you who, mate,” he hissed, unaware of the scene he must be making.
The barkeep’s face fell at Ron’s tone, and he couldn’t quite keep his frown lines from betraying just how annoyed he was becoming. “Well, I suggest you tell me who you’re after; the better to move this conversation along, eh?”
“A good friend of mine came here to meet with Viktor Krum, and I need to know where they’ve gotten to.”
“I think it is quite obvious, dear boy, that I was not born yesterday,” Tom chuckled in an irritated sort of way. “How word got out that Mr. Krum was bunking here is beyond me, but I certainly will not allow an fervent fan to disturb him--or your ‘friend’.”
Ron sighed angrily as he lunged towards the staircase behind the bar. “You don’t understand, this is urgent--”
“Oh, I’m sure it is…” Tom continued sarcastically, casually sliding in front of him and looking pointedly at Ron as he spoke. “But I’m afraid Mr. Krum has specifically requested not to be bothered whilst he is entertaining his guest.”
He closed his eyes and took a deep, slow breath, biting his tongue to keep from shouting; a voice inside his head that sounded oddly like Hermione’s suggested that screaming wouldn’t help the situation. “Please. Will you just”just go up there, and ask him if…tell him Ronald Weasley wants”needs!-- a word with Miss Granger.” The bartender hesitated, and Ron brought his hands up before him in a gesture of defeat. “I promise, I’ll leave you to your business if you could just do that for me. Please.”
Tom shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I just cannot allow it!” Ron opened his mouth, having finally decided that maybe a bit of yelling would indeed get his point across, but the old man cut him off. “For the last time; no. And if you ask again, I’ll have to ask you to leave. You’re disrupting my customers!” He motioned unconvincingly to the now nearly empty pub; it seemed that the bar-goers had long since finished their morning drinks and Apparated off to work.
The old man glared at Ron, his eyes daring him to make a snide remark about the barren pub. Ron met his gaze, and was about to give Tom just the remark he’d been waiting for when the fireplace roared with emerald flames, the whooshing sound drowning out his response. He watched angrily as a squat woman in a royal purple bathrobe dashed into the pub, curlers bouncing in her strawberry blonde hair. Tom glanced sideways at the woman and reached a hand under the counter, gesturing with his free hand for Ron to wait a moment. “The usual?”
Ron sidled towards the staircase, stopping dead as Tom caught his eye. Annoyed and scowling, he threw himself onto the closest barstool. With an abundance of self control that was somewhat uncharacteristic for him to have, especially at a moment like this, Ron decide to patiently eavesdrop on the little woman’s conversation. That proved rather hard to do; it was very difficult to sit down and act like a good boy, when every nerve in his body was screaming at him to jump up and curse everyone in sight, just so they won’t bother him while he ran upstairs screaming like mad for Hermione to come and talk to him that very instant.
“Oh, no. Thanks Tommy, dear, but I’m actually looking for someone…” she replied, scanning the pub on tiptoe.
The barkeep smiled mischievously, “ A date, Miss Flaherty? Quite a first impression you’ll be making, dressed like that; I see you’re wearing your finest fuzzy slippers.”
“Funny you are, old man. But this truly is quite, quite urgent,” the woman squeaked.
Tom eyed her apprehensively. “Is everything alright? I haven’t seen you in such a state since… Well, I’ve never seen you in such a state.”
The witch heaved what those who didn’t know her would find a quite overly dramatic sigh and pulled herself up onto a stool. “ ‘Is everything alright?’ That’s a tricky question, that is….” She pulled the bathrobe tighter around herself. “To be quite honest, Tom, I’m not sure anymore…” As Tom opened his mouth to speak, genuine concern etched into the lines of his face, she held up a dainty hand and smiled. “Not to worry, Tom. I didn’t come here to gripe about my troubles, less so to bother you, dear. So, please, don’t mind me one bit.”
The barkeep nodded and returned her smile, although he still looked slightly anxious. “Yes, ma’am.”
Ron cleared his throat impatiently as he turned back to the bar, having decided that he couldn’t possibly ignore the panicked electrical impulses surging through his brain any longer. Tom gave a small start, as if he had forgotten he was there. The worry etched in his face changed instantly back to irritation. “Oh. You.”
“Yes,” Ron hissed. “Me. Now--” He stopped, his eyes frozen on the mirror that hung behind the bar. Amongst the cobwebs and dusty tables that the mirror reflected, two light blue orbs stood out, largely because they were framed behind zebra-print spectacles.
“What?” Tom hissed impatiently. When Ron didn’t answer, he clucked his tongue and ducked under the counter, grabbing a second dusty glass to scrub.
Ron held the woman’s beady blue gaze, relief flooding over him. Her reflection smiled and waved at him, gesturing for him to sit down. For a moment he wondered how on earth he couldn’t have recognized Elma the moment she stepped from the hearth, but the urgency with which he had entered the bar returned the moment Elma motioned for him to take the stool next to hers. “Mr. Weasley” Ronald! Just the chap I’ve been meaning to see!”
“Elma!” he gasped, flinging himself upon the stool and nearly sliding off in his haste. All at once, it seemed as if his mouth was voicing every thought that had been surging through his mind from the moment he had plunged his hand into the pot of Floo powder at the Burrow. “Elma, please”my friend, she’s upstairs and”she’s in trouble”you see, she’s with someone”I’d bet money he’s one of You-Know-Who’s followers, a Death Eater--but she doesn’t know it” the arm and the school and”I had this dream, you see--but she trusts him and I think he’s going to--” He paused for a gulp of air, having said all that in one swift breath.
The woman held up her hand for silence. “Settle down, please. Take a deep breath, there we go. That’s better. Calm down, everything will be just fine, sonny, just fine…”
As much as he liked the woman, Ron felt a twinge of annoyance. Hermione was upstairs with a Death Eater-he no longer had any doubt about that detail-and here was Elma, talking as if this was afternoon tea. “I don’t think you understand!” he began, but was silenced once more, this time as Elma placed a stubby finger to his lips.
“I think I know more than you think I know, boy. And I’m sure everyone would appreciate it if you would keep your voice down,” the cheery woman added with a small smile. “Now, things here are not as they seem, you must understand that, dear.”
“I think I understand quite well!” Ron replied indignantly, listening hard for any sound that might indicate trouble. Presently, all he heard was the bartender whistling as he pretended that he wasn’t eavesdropping on their conversation, and a door close somewhere upstairs. “We haven’t time for games and riddles”Hermione’s up there, and--”
“And she’s in no immediate danger!” Elma finished for him, her voice rather squeaky as she fought to speak above him. Ron made to stand up, his patience growing thin, but Elma grasped the sleeve of his robes. “Please, deary, just sit and listen to an old woman prattle before you go tackling Quidditch players and snapping wands, eh?” Ron sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, but he didn’t sit down. Satisfied, Elma straightened her bathrobe and continued. “I’ve just gotten word from your brothers, Fred and George”charming boys, really; lovely shop they’ve made for themselves, too… The note itself was very cryptic, I admit”horrid penmanship he’s got, that Fred-- but from what I can gather, there’s been a misunderstanding at home”one that could mean the difference of life and death. The life being yours in Azkaban Prison, the death being that of Viktor Krum.”
Ron grunted and stared at her expectantly, casting glances at the stairwell from the corner of his eye. He raised his eyebrows and inclined his head towards the witch, silently pressing her on.
“From what I could gather in the few seconds I scanned the note,” she said slowly, choosing her words carefully. “ There is something about someone drinking dung, and that their order was informal--” Elma started, sliding off her stool. Ron was about to ask if she was okay when a sound like bees buzzing reached his ears.
Elma shot up, a curler or two coming loose, but otherwise seemingly unfazed. “Terribly sorry!” she squeaked, whipping out her wand. It was vibrating, a queer pinkish glow emanating from it. Elma scowled, heaving a disgruntled sigh as she jammed the rather stubby wand back into the pocket of her bathrobe.
She looked up at Ron, an apologetic smile on her lips as she fumbled with another pocket. “Again, my dear, terribly sorry. Heaven knows I’d rather”but, erm, you see, Grizelda’s simply useless without--” The wand was now emitting a high-pitched static that reminded Ron briefly of a Muggle ‘rodeo’ his father had worked on years ago. “Dear, dear…Forgive me, child!” Elma squeaked, shoving a scrap of parchment into Ron’s hand, and dashing towards the back door.
Halfway there, just as the wand began to glow through her robes, she stopped, looking rather huffy. “Really, now?” she said to no one”at least not that Ron could see. “Is it that serious… Oh my...!” With that, Elma disappeared with a loud popping sound.
Staring at the spot Elma had been seconds before, it took Ron a moment before he came to his senses. A crumpled piece of parchment clutched in his hand, he turned back to Tom, who appeared to have been watching him. He leaned against the bar, mentally debating whether he should storm upstairs, or read the note first. Elma seemed quite urgent in delivering her message, but would it be more important than getting Hermione away from Krum? Perhaps Fred and George had finally cottoned on, and had sent the message to assure him that people from the Order would be there as soon as possible.
But what were the chances of that?
“You have to let me up there!” he barked after a few more moments’ thought, whipping around to stare at the old man.
Tom glared at Ron. “We’ve already gone through this, boy!”
Without thinking, Ron whipped his wand from his robe pocket and started for the stairs, walking backwards. “I understand, sir, but--”
“NO BUTS!” shouted the innkeeper, throwing his mug to the ground in fury. “Get that wand out of my face, son. In fact, get the bloody hell out of my bar-- I’ve had quite enough of you! The ministry will be hearing about this, they will!”
The redhead raised his wand to the bartender, hoping to Merlin he wouldn’t have to use it. He blinked as the man moved towards him with agility and strength unbecoming of such an old chap. For a split second, Ron supposed it came from years of breaking up bar fights and quarrels, before he realized that Tom had stopped advancing towards him and was staring at a point over his shoulder.
“Is everything alright?” Ron stood paralyzed, waiting for his head to clear; the moment those words reached his ears, a peculiar pang of adrenaline mixed with a rush of relief had surged through his skull, causing his head to go cold, his hands numb. “We heard shouting; is there a problem?” Hermione continued, starting down the stairs.
“Nothing you need to worry about, Miss,” Tom assured her, his demeanor changing quite dramatically. “My apologies to Mr. Krum”and to his lovely guest, of course.”
Ron lowered his wand and slowly turned to look over his shoulder, finding that Hermione looked quite unconvinced. She ignored Tom’s courtesies, and was staring at the tip of the barkeep’s wand. It seemed like an eternity to Ron as her eyes traced the wand’s path, passing over his chest and slowly rising to meet his pale face. “Hermione…” he began, but his voice trailed off. Ron noticed that Hermione’s eyes looked slightly red, her cheeks pale. Color further drained from the girl’s face as seconds passed, stretching into minutes. “Hermione,” he repeated, his tone softer now. “Have…have you been crying?”
All at once, Hermione seemed to come back to life. “Will you excuse us?” she asked Tom, her tone strained.
Without waiting for an answer she paced down the steps, grabbed Ron rather forcefully by the shoulder of his robes, and dragged him to the back of the bar.
Tom stared after them, his expression hinting frustration. “I was abo--”
“We won’t be long,” Hermione called over her shoulder. “And then I’ll let you have him.”
“Hermione,” Ron began again, but the brown haired girl cut him off with a steely glare.
“Shut up.”
“But you look like--”
“I said, shut up,” she repeated, her voice trembling--but whether from fury or something else, Ron had no way of knowing, his only clue the girl’s bloodshot eyes. Hermione positioned him so that his back was against the wall, the stone fireplace to his left and a table to his right”no place to run. Standing in front of him with her arms crossed over her chest, she glared at Ron, as if daring him to try something stupid. “What are you doing here”and why were you about to duel with Tom?”
“I came here to tell you something,” he confessed after a moment, deciding not to press the girl anymore about the tearstains on her cheeks.
“But I told you already, at the Burrow. I don’t want to talk to you.”
“I know, but… it’s important. Really, I promise. Just hear me out.” Ron was surprised to see Hermione’s face soften almost instantly, though she still seemed a bit pale.
Hermione nodded, looking taken aback. “Alright, then… What is it?”
Just as he opened his mouth to respond, but the voice he heard was not his own. “Herm-own-ninny?” Viktor Krum was standing at the top of the stairs, peering down into the main room of the bar.
“Down here,” called the brunette, turning around to face him. “Its alright, Viktor. Everything…everything’s fine.”
Over Hermione’s shoulder, Ron watched Viktor amble down the stairs, grinning at Hermione in quite an unusual fashion. He was slightly put out to see Hermione returning the grin, however feeble, but decided there were more pressing matters to attend to than the jealousy burning in his stomach. Ron reached for her hand and furrowed his brow meaningfully. “Erm, can we talk in private?” he muttered as Krum made himself cozy at the bar. He was ordering a drink from Tom, but Ron could feel his dark eyes staring at him and Hermione through the mirror.
Hermione jumped at his touch, but did not pull away. Her tone was a bit higher than usual, but firm. “No. Now. You said it was important. So important it couldn’t wait any more.”
“And it is!” Ron assured her hastily, fearing he might be losing her cooperation. “But--”
“It’s now or never.” The girl’s tone was resolute; but, was she talking to Ron, or herself?
For a moment he hesitated, feeling Krum’s gaze upon him. He took a deep breath and seized Hermione’s other hand, leaning in to whisper in her ear, for fear of being overheard and causing trouble before it was due. “I, er… Hermione. You see, I think…er, I don’t know how to tell you this, but…” What was that in her eyes? Concern? Pain? Hope? “I think that…that Krum is a-- a Death Eater.”
Hermione’s face fell, and there was no mistaking the look in her eyes now; they were alight with alarm”no, fury. Both? Perhaps there was still a bit of mystery in the girl’s expression; Ron did have a B.O.G.I.E.S badge pinned to his chest, after all.
“What...?” she stuttered, stunned. She pulled her hands lose from his, staring at him.
Ron glanced up at Krum, who was stirring slightly on his stool. “Hermione, please. Don’t let him hear--”
“I don’t believe this…”
“I know, but you have to trust me, Hermione,” he insisted, reaching for her shoulder.
“No,” Hermione huffed, taking a step back. “I don’t believe you.”
“Listen; I, er, overheard a while ago that Dur--”
But Hermione was still rambling on, a hurt expression on her face. “I don’t believe this… Here I thought”ugh! I am such an idiot!”
Ron shook his head, wishing Hermione would keep her voice down. “ Please, quiet down; I don’t want him to hear… You’re not an idiot, Hermione. No one had any reason to suspect him; it was just a stroke of luck that I--”
“No, I just thought…” She trailed off, looking at the ground. Ron stared at her for a moment, confusion painted on his freckled face. After a few moments of awkward silence, she looked sharply back up at Ron, glaring. “Wait what’d you say?”
“I said that you weren’t an idiot…”
Hermione bristled. “You said”that you think Viktor is a Death Eater…? Ronald Weasley, how dare you! Rubbish, that is. Rubbish. It’s fourth year all over again! Do you really think I have so little sense as to rub elbows with a Death Eater?” She didn’t wait for him to reply (there was only time for Ron to make a lame gurgling sound in his throat); Hermione seemed to be working up a sort of steam reminiscent of Mrs. Weasley. “I honestly cannot believe you! You haven’t any valid reason to think”he’s my friend, Ron. And I thought you were, too. I thought…”
“Vat is going on?” Viktor slid off his barstool to stalk over to the brown-eyed girl, and was now looming over her shoulder, eyeing Ron defensively.
Hermione seemed not to notice, even as Ron made subtle gestures for her to stop talking. “I suppose that’s all you came here to tell me, that I’m ‘fraternizing with the enemy’? Fine then. Message received.” She finished dryly, crossing her arms and staring determinedly at a spot on the floor.
“Herm-own-ninny…” Krum’s dark eyes flitted to Ron. “Vat in Merlin’s name did you say?”
Ron drew himself up to his full height and squared his shoulders, pleased that he was at least a half an inch taller than the man before him. He took a few brief moments to ensure that nothing stupid would come out of his mouth involuntarily, cast an anxious look at Hermione, and then stared right back into Viktor’s heavily browed eyes. “If you’ll excuse us; this is a rather…private, conversation.”
“It’s not a conversation at all!” Hermione hissed back at him, her eyes shining. “Not anymore. For the last time, Ron; go home. I don’t want to talk to you right now. Never mind, Viktor, not now…” she added as the Bulgarian opened his mouth to question her once more.
Ron watched, as if in slow motion, Krum lift a callused hand to rest on Hermione’s shoulder. “Don’t touch her,” he growled, his eyes narrowing.
“Vat?” Viktor replied quite sincerely; Ron’s murmur had only just been audible.
Ron lunged forward and grasped the man’s wrist firmly in his hand, wrenching it away from Hermione’s delicate shoulder. “I said, get your ruddy hands off of her.”
“Ron!” Hermione gasped, her voice trembling with shock and fury.
But neither boy moved. Ron tightened his grip on Viktor’s wrist, his knuckles turning white as he held Krum in his icy gaze; Viktor flexed his fingers a bit, but held Ron’s stare unyieldingly despite his confusion.
A few moments passed before Tom the barkeep looked up, the sudden silence drawing his attention. His toothless mouth curved into a scowl as he threw down his rag and marched towards Ron, his wrinkled nostrils flaring. “What is--? So sorry, Mr. Krum”you, boy! Hands off, before I call--”
“No,” Viktor grunted.
Tom stopped dead, dropping the hand that was reaching for Ron’s robes. “Sorry…?” he asked, struggling to keep his tone polite while talking to the Quidditch celebrity.
“Leave him. If you don’t mind, ve vould like to have a bit of…privacy.”
“But-”
Viktor shifted his glare to Tom, who bowed begrudgingly and left towards the staircase, muttering under his breath things that were only just barely above a whisper, but clearly unkind.
“Let go of him!” Hermione shouted, her voice cracking. “What has gotten into you?”
“I vould like to be knowing the same…”
Ron released Viktor’s wrist, mostly because he was unnerved at Hermione’s expression, but continued to glare at the man. “I’ll tell you ‘what has gotten into’ me,” he hissed.
“Vell? Ve are vaiting…” Krum muttered, his patience growing thin. The Quidditch player took a protective step towards Hermione, which Ron countered by sidestepping between the two.
“Don’t you go near her, you filthy excuse for a wizard. I’m surprised no one else has found out about you”ex-Death Eater being your teacher for most of your school career, and all. And that stunt you pulled in the maze”no one can really be sure that you were under the Imperious curse, can they? Thought you were clever, didn’t you?”
Hermione pressed the palms of her hands against her forehead. “Ron…! We’ve already gone--”
“And what about your arm?” he continued, gesturing towards Viktor’s left arm. “It seemed to be hurting you, that day in Hogsmeade. Had to turn in early, eh? I didn’t punch you that hard…”
“It was a Quidditch injury!” Hermione sputtered, outraged. “Ronald Weasley, honestly, I cannot believe you!”
“I was talking to Viktor,” Ron replied smoothly, looking at the Bulgarian expectantly.
Viktor nodded, absentmindedly caressing his arm. “Yes. It vas an injury”a malfunction on the Healer’s part. My arm bothers me from time to time, but vat…” He trailed off. A few seconds later, though, something seemed to click; he raised his heavy eyebrows and snorted. “Is that vat all this is about? You think that…that I am a Death Eater?”
Ron crossed his arms over his chest and nodded curtly. “You don’t deny it?”
“Vy”of course I deny it! That is preposterous! I certainly am not in league vith the Dark Lord.”
“There,” Hermione huffed, tugging on Ron’s sleeve. “Is that good enough for you? Now will you stop acting like such an idiot and leave?”
“Of course he’s going to deny it!” Ron exclaimed, rounding on Hermione.
“This is ridiculous, Ron. You’re making a fool out of yourself”not to mention embarrassing me and insulting Viktor! What do you want him to do? Prove it?”
“Yes.”
Hermione looked as if she might curse him into oblivion, or else cry, but instead she sighed angrily and turned to Viktor. “Get to it then.”
“Vat…?” he replied uncertainly.
“Show the git your arm so he’ll leave and we can apologize to Tom.”
“Do you really think that is necessary, Herm-own-ninny? I… I haff nothing to prove!”
“Come on, Vicky,” Ron challenged, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his robes, one hand tightening around his wand. “What’s the harm in showing me your arm… if you’ve got ‘nothing to prove?’”
“I…”
Ron brandished his wand and held it ready at his side, his posture suggesting more confidence than he really felt at the moment; doubt was starting to set in his mind… Was he overreacting? Truth be told, he had no real evidence, no real reason to believe that Krum might be a Death Eater. Only”and he hated to admit it”jealousy. Jealousy, and a bad arm… “Roll up your sleeve, then,” he croaked.
“Honestly, Ron!” Hermione huffed angrily, her cheeks turning pink. In one swift motion (and a muffled apology to Krum) she seized Viktor’s forearm and less than gently pulled the sleeve up to his elbow. “There! Are you satisfied? If you’re quite through making a fool out of yourself, Ronald, now would be an excellent time to leave.”
Bloody… bleeding hell…. “Hermione--” Ron began urgently.
“We’ve had enough of you for one day! I have had enough of you!” Hermione interrupted curtly, her fingernails digging into Krum’s arm.
“But--”
Hermione sighed and closed her eyes meditatively, releasing Viktor’s arm. After a moment she opened them to stare at Ron, looking much like she had through most of third year; frustrated, exhausted, and on the verge of tears. “Look, Ron--”
“No,” he said urgently, snatching at Krum’s arm. It took him a few clumsy tries”the Bulgarian wasn’t very cooperative”but he managed to clasp his fingers around the man’s thick, hairy wrist, twisting it so that his sweaty palm was face up. “You look.”