REBEL

21. LIGHT GREY

21. LIGHT GREY

"I don't like that look on your face," a voice booms across the clearing.

I don't need to look up to know that it's Ron trudging over to me. With each of his wide strides, the frozen leaves that represent the last remnants of autumn crumble under his heavy combat boots. The resulting scrunch is virtually the only sound for miles.

It's an unwelcome miracle that there's actually someone whose night watch lasted even longer than mine. I was banking on being undisturbed here for a while.

Ron sits down a good two meters away from me, leans his back against a thick tree trunk and stretches out his long legs. As soon as he has found a comfortable position on the rooty ground, he raises his wand and casts a powerful warming charm first on me and then on himself. It's quite thoughtful, but I lack the motivation to thank him.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

With a deep sigh, I lift my head and look at him.

"I have to tell him," I state.

He cocks an eyebrow.

"We're talking about Malfoy, I presume?" he deduces.

I merely nod.

There's a moment of silence that I guess Ron uses to work out what I'm alluding to.

"Lucius?" he asks at length.

Normally, I would now congratulate him on his quick wit, to which he would most likely reply with his favourite phrase 'always that tone of surprise'. This, too, is a remnant from days gone by; a cherished tradition. Today, however, I don't feel like joking around with him.

My facial expression seems to be answer enough.

"I see. And why now?"

What, pray tell, am I supposed to say to that?

Because I've done a marvellous job of repressing it, like pretty much everything else.
Because my rose-colored glasses have successfully distracted me from it.
Because I didn't want him to start hating me again.
Because apparently I'm a fucking egotist when it comes to him.

I decide in favor of an answer that hopefully sounds a tad more reasonable.

"Well, he has a right to know, don't you think?" I murmur, sounding rather exhausted even to my own ears. "He should be able to decide whether he really wants to storm the Manor with us, taking all critical information into account."

In a kind of subconscious defensive reaction, I wrap my arms around my bent legs and rest my chin on my knees.

Ron frowns deeply.

"Why do I have the feeling that this is not about the mission?" he asks, narrowing his eyes at me.

I quickly shift my gaze from his face to the mist-shrouded clearing. Box Hill National Trust is a truly bleak place in January, which is frankly why I've retreated here. The perpetual grey and drab suits my bad mood perfectly. And it's quiet. Actually.

Unfortunately, my stoic silence doesn't stop Ron from lecturing me.

"Listen, Hermione," he says, uncharacteristically serious. "I know only too well what it's like to lie awake at night because you're racked with guilt, believe me. But this is Malfoy we're talking about. Someone who has killed at least as many people in recent years as you or I have, only in his case they were mostly good people. Innocent people. There's Fleur, to name just one of them. And yet we took him in and placed our trust in him."