Fragile Little Flames [H.G + D.M]

2. The Boy

The girl wakes in an unfamiliar room.

For a second, she can't seem to remember anything. Her thoughts are clouded with the fading edges of a dream and from lingering fatigue. She is out of place. Out of space and time. Her name hangs on the tip of her tongue; her memories balancing on the edge of her brain. She blinks and the remaining anesthesia of sleep drifts away, allowing the strain in her muscles and the pounding in her head to emerge.

She remembers now.

It comes back to her in a kaleidoscope of memories. She remembers running through the forest. The earthy smell of a recent storm. The echo of Bellatrix's laughter in her ear. The feeling of the curse coursing through her veins.

Her name is Hermione Granger, and she is a spy for the New Wizarding World—formed by Order of the Phoenix.

She knows she discovered something on her mission. Something valuable. Something important. But the precarious memory is like water, and it slips through her fingers when she tries to reach for it.

There are fragments missing from the puzzle of last night. The only pieces she can connect together form a broken story—it begins with when her night took a wrong turn. Before she could retreat into the safety of the woods, they caught her. Outnumbered her in mere seconds.

She remembers fighting back, the sweat trickling down her forehead, the cool breeze against her warm skin. She manages to hold them back for an impressive amount of time, but when someone shot a spell that snapped her wand in half, she did the only thing she knew. She spun on her heels and ran. Hoped they wouldn't follow her into the forest. Hoped the trees would hide her.

She soon realized that hope was a foolish idea to have during a war.

Hope doesn't win. Perseverance and strength do.

She was two kilometers to the border when they fired a curse at her. The last she can recall is crawling toward an empty goal, dirt caking in her fingernails, blood trickling from her wounds, and clinging onto the remaining tatters of life.

And now the girl is here, staring up at a slanted wood-paneled ceiling. It isn't a molding prison wall and she does not feel shackles around her wrists. Relief floods her system; she wasn't captured. Hermione supposes she must've made it past the border last night—perhaps she's in an Order safe house. She isn't certain of this theory, though, because whatever happened in the minutes leading to her falling unconscious has been lost to the haze of her infected mind.

The late morning sun is flowing through the curtains in warm rays and she can hear birds singing outside the window. The silky blanket that stretches over her is like a remedy against her bruised skin. It has a strangely expensive quality for a safe house—she makes a mental note to remind the Order to avoid unnecessary costs again. They never listen to her.

Hermione urges herself to sit up and winces when a sharp pain shoots through her muscles. A weight at the bottom of the bed prevents the blankets from rising with her. She looks down, cocks her head to the side when she sees it.

There is a boy.

He is sitting next to the foot of her bed. His body is hunched over and his head is resting on the mattress beside her feet. Hermione watches with curiosity, observing the slow rise and fall of his shoulders. She studies the boy. Tries to figure out who he is. And as if he could read her mind, the boy grumbles incoherent words in his sleep and shifts his weight. His platinum-blond locks withdraw from shielding his face, revealing himself to her.

Hermione bites back a gasp, and fear replaces her momentary peace. She'd recognize him anywhere and anywhere he is, meant only one thing for her—she isn't safe. Hermione wills herself to ignore the pain as she makes a frantic attempt to escape, but her weak muscles are unfazed by desperation and dedication. Her body gives out beneath her and she collapses to the floor with a loud thump, her limbs tangled within the sheets.