4 Turns | Dramione

07 | fugitive wizards

0 7

f u g i t i v e w i z a r d s
Aug 11 1612 (Saturday)

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There were still 21 books, untouched on her desk. She's on her 11th and she's getting discouraged. Three weeks had slithered away. Her best friend, Harry's birthday had passed about a week ago and she couldn't even say a "happy birthday" to him. Besides, she couldn't find any useful information inside the ten books she'd finished. They only talked about the primary principles and hypothesis that Hermione had acknowledged beforehand. Hermione hated to admit, but it's a complete waste of time, and she'd started having doubt about her possibility of going back home.

It was a fairly quiet Saturday morning as most people had gone to the church. There were only two customers in the shop and both of them buried their noses inside their books, apparently didn't need any of her help. Therefore, Hermione took a book and read at the counter.

She didn't know how much time had passed when the doorbell chimed, suggested someone had shoved open the door. Hermione shot a glance as she robotically greeted "Welcome to Flourish and Blotts" and found a tall man with platinum hair strode to one of the massive bookcases. Then she turned her attention back to her book.

Suddenly, a scream interrupted her reading. She hopped on her feet in alarm, dropping her book on her remaining warm stool. Her hand instinctively slid into the pocket of her gown and wrapped around her wand. Someone squealed again, and it's from the outside.

Something's happening out there.

Two customers returned their books to the shelves before they sprinted out of the bookstore in terror. Gripping her wand tightly, she hastily rushed towards the entrance of the bookshop, leaving her book on the floor. Hermione observed the street through the shop window warily. People were running in the same direction as if they're trying to flee from something. Then startled by the footsteps behind her. She spun around and saw a familiar face.

"Oh, it's you," she gaped.

Malone looked just as surprised. The book in his hand slipped to the wooden floor with a clunk. Hermione bent down and picked the book up for him. She examined the book cover before handing it back to him. It's the exact same book she's reading—The Tales Told by Time-Travellers.

He recomposed himself with a smirk as he reached for the book.

"Yea, it's me."

Before she could respond, another shriek rang out. Hermione turned her head away attentively to the window again before she opened the door. More shrieks and cries reached her ears. A bunch of people were dashing out of Gringotts, the wizard's bank, strangely in panic. Horror was shown on their faces and so did the yearning for survival. Everyone tried their best to run away from the danger as fast as they could, not bothered by the idea of nudging the old and weak out of their ways or worse knocking them off. In front of Death, morals meant nothing.

An old man was sitting on the concrete ground beside the bookshop, his brows were furrowed in pain. Hermione rushed to his side. She heard Malone's footsteps as he followed suit. The aged man appeared to have sprained his ankle. With a few waves of her wand, she'd healed his injury in seconds.

"What happened?" she demanded restlessly.

Neither did the elderly answer the witch's question nor did he thank for her help. He stood up rapidly and resumed his escape, trying to catch up with the crowd. She stared at the back of the elder in astonishment. He's the last one. No one was behind him except Hermione and Malone.