Out of Time

Chapter 43

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

- The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot

After half the bottle of firewhiskey is gone, Hermione can't even recall precisely whose idea it had been. All of them had wanted to drink - maybe in celebration of destroying it, to two Horcruxes down in two days, to banish the vivid visual the Horcrux had spawned, or just as a belated 'Happy Christmas' among the three of them.

As copious alcohol ingestion is wont to do, things turn melancholy. Harry's idly twirling the knobbly wand between his fingers, staring at it as he manipulates it back and forth.

"That thing loved to remind me that it was my fault. That everything was my fault, all the time. It never let up. Over and over again, it was Sirius, or Dumbledore, or Moody. They were all dead because of me, because I was stupid or careless, or ignorant about something I should have spotted. Willfully ignorant, sometimes, like deep down maybe I wanted those things to happen. That maybe I'm more like Tom than I want to believe."

This colloquial use of Voldemort's given name jolts Draco behind her, but he stays silent. Harry doesn't notice either way.

"It had started throwing Kreacher into the mix, too, telling me he was being tortured after we abandoned him at Grimmauld."

Wanting to offer something commiserating that won't riddle Harry with guilt, Hermione contributes, "It always told me that Draco didn't want me anymore. Or that my parents won't ever forgive me for sending them away. Or that Theo and Pansy had been caught and were being tortured for information."

Draco's hands grip tighter around her, where she rests nestled between his knees. She wonders if he'd ever had that dream, if it had featured for him in the same vivid way it had for her. No; why would it have? She's being silly. Draco hadn't been anywhere near the Horcrux. It was a torment reserved especially for their little tent, isolated in the middle of nowhere.

Their small fire in the sand burns brightly, spitting flickers of sparks into the air by the breeze of the ocean. The wind is just strong enough to keep the fire small, which is perfect - even though there's no one about. Hermione trusts the visual obscurity of their protective enchantments. The only thing she's unsure of is how high a rising column of smoke could be seen. Where do the enchantments stop in height? But tonight, the wind is taking care of that risk for them.

The air is chilly but it's a crisp chill, not a damp one. The power of three combined warming charms make them quite cosy by the fire, and Hermione's sure the sheer absence of the locket is contributing to better spellcasting. It had been draining them in more than one way, even if only through exhaustion and devastating morale.

Harry nods, absently watching the fire. The flames reflect in his circular glasses. He tips the dwindling bottle in his hand back for a quick swallow. "It liked to tell me Ginny was done with me, too. The separation is... hard. I'd never seen anything in my dreams like that Zabini-thing, though."

"How did you handle things when we were so far apart?" Hermione murmurs to Draco, not quite quiet enough to be private. She feels his shoulders shrug from behind her, his arms wrapped crossways around her front.

"Snape had me brewing things for him under the guise of my 'apprenticeship.' I cooked up some amortentia and if I had bad dreams, or missed you too much, I'd uncork a bottle and smell you. Had to be careful to recork it before I'd drift off to sleep."