Lumos

Chapter Fifty-Seven: "Inheritance" (I)

"It was Albert, then," Hermione breathed.

Ron's jaw flexed. "Yes. Against orders. He didn't much care to know that you two were stuck down there. Went live, made an appeal to his mates, begging 'em to abandon the cause."

"Did it help?" Hermione breathed.

"A bit. There were some deserters—enough to cause confusion and create an opening—and a couple new volunteers besides." Ron shrugged, voice going a touch bitter. "It'll be a miracle if he sees Christmas, now that we've got a bloody Lethifold having a go at him every couple of hours." He groaned. "His cousin, Astoria—she's taking half the shifts, but Harry and Parvati have got to leg it up to the safehouse to do the other half."

"Milo must be terrified," Hermione murmured, sickening feeling growing in the pit of her stomach.

Ron flared his eyes. "A bit. Poor bloke's had a lot to wrap his head around, since—"

And then, confused, dazed, like someone had tossed a bedazzling hex at his feet, George said faintly, "You got captured on purpose?"

Hermione and Ron blinked.

George still hadn't moved. The conversation had flowed onwards, but George hadn't followed it. He sat frozen, as if the notion of her capture was flypaper, and he'd gotten stuck to it and held in suspension.

Oh, she'd known. She'd known he'd hate it.

Facing the pain in voice now—it was entirely worse than she'd imagined.

"It wasn't so much on purpose as it was an inevitability," Hermione said quietly. Her tone trembled a bit, though she spoke the truth. The beating pulse in her chest sped, squeezing, and the tips of her fingers and toes suddenly felt sort of detached from the rest of her, like she wasn't quite sure where to put them.

Ron leaned forward. "There were a thousand ways it might've played out, but what happened wasn't an impossibility." He rushed the words out, like he could head off George's ire. "It's one we planned for, but not one we meant for. It wasn't like we—I mean—without obliterating countless teenagers—kids, really—"

George lowered his hands. His eyes were bloodshot.

"Hermione," he breathed. It was so disbelieving, so raw, so choked that the sound of her name slammed against her chest and threw her miles and hours away, back in the room with no light because—because—because—

Eyes rounded in desperation, mouth part open, shoulders hunched in like he'd been struck across the heart—George looked just the same, right now. Disoriented. Terrified.

Like the men in cloaks were holding him, wristwatch extended while Umbridge lifted her wand.

Dull, foggy rushing covered Ron's voice.

She tried and failed to even her breath. But all she could see was George—her George staring at her, at—at them—helpless.

The sight propelled her to her feet. "I—" Her sob lodged in her throat, and then she was stumbling away, towards the right hand hallway. Her center of gravity rocked, and her shoulder thudded into the wall. Voices swept over her ears, calling.

Her sweaty hand slipped on the doorknob.

Breathe. She needed to breathe.

When she tripped through the door, it was a bedroom, not a loo that greeted her.

The space would cave in. Plaster, wood, and stone would crackle and squeeze until she disappeared.

The window across from the entry called to her, and Hermione rushed for it. Her shins smacked against the wooden, cushioned seat below the glass. She hissed and wedged her knees to perch atop the seat, then fumbled the hinge until the panes shifted, opening the left side out like a door, and—and—cool, piney night air wafted against her face.