Book of You and I

Blackfriars Bridge

When Conway finally strolled up to Saint Paul's on Tuesday morning, Hermione let out a sigh of relief. She'd convinced herself he wasn't going to come. And she needed him to come. Needed the distraction, the opportunity to be anyone but Hermione Granger for one hour.

She tempered her elation and raised a brow. "You look like shit."

It was true. His feet were sluggish, as if his body didn't want him to be there; his eyes were dull, and clothing in disarray. Conway glowered at her. "It's the crack of dawn, it's bloody cold, and I haven't had any tea."

"Lovely to see you too."

"Shut up, Rat." His voice didn't really have any venom in it. Conway looked her up and down. "You don't look too hot either."

Hermione winced. Being in Atalanta's body didn't do anything to hide her shaking hands and raging migraine. There'd been an Order meeting until three in the morning. She'd hardly slept at all. Hardly slept in the past week, honestly. They still couldn't decide the best way to retrieve Harry, and Hermione was losing patience. The longer they dallied, the longer her best friend had to stay with those abusive muggles. Dumbledore, who should have been fighting for Harry's well-being, was urging them to wait until the end of the summer. Hermione had spent the better part of last night raging at the professor, headmaster or not. He'd allowed it, probably because of Cedric's death. He had been infuriatingly gentle. She wanted to break something.

"I've had a wonderful week," she said sarcastically. Conway considered her for a long moment before extending a hand. She looked at it in confusion. "What?"

"Well, come on then. We can't get into the whispering gallery this early, we've both had lousy weeks, and we're both tired as hell. Let's get out of here."

Hermione shrugged. "Whatever." She took his hand.

They walked in comfortable silence down the mostly empty streets and made their way to Blackfriars Bridge. It was vacant, save for a few stray runners. Conway gathered a bunch of stones and began throwing them over the railings into the Thames. Hermione leant against the metal and watched. It was strangely therapeutic. She liked the way the stones fell; they were graceful to the very last moment, and then–a rough slap on the surface of the water. Nothing graceful about the landing. A choppy splash, followed shortly by the next stone. By the time the next was falling, the previous was all but forgotten.

Conway wrenched his arm backward and launched a large stone over the side. His eyes tracked its descent. "So. Why do you look so terrible?"

Hermione snorted. "Oh, are we being honest now?"

He threw another stone. "Is honestly only for the whispering gallery?"

He actually sounded curious. She frowned. "No."

"Then tell me." Two splashes, one after the other. The ripples overlapped clumsily.

They didn't look at each other. Hermione bit her lip. She wanted to tell him. Merlin, why did she want to tell him? What could she even tell him, and why was she feeling so certain that it would help? Could anything help at this point? Her thoughts drifted to her cousin, and she felt a twist of longing. But she couldn't write to Attie right now, not without revealing the location of the Order safehouse. And with Harry back in Surrey, Hermione hadn't really had anyone to talk to. Ginny was still so young, and Ron wasn't exceptionally logical or particularly good with feelings. Hermione was lonely. And here was a boy, offering to listen. It was probably insincere, but Hermione was feeling reckless.

She sighed. She was almost certainly going to regret this. "A friend of mine died recently."

A rock tumbled to the ground awkwardly as Conway whirled to face her. His eyes were wide. "You have a very dark sense of humor."