Out of Time

Chapter 33

Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")

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

It's up to Hermione, once again, to locate something edible.

This is growing old. Fast. Every time Ron just grumps about, whinging about his arm (which was a severe injury, Hermione reminds herself over and over), and Harry just gives her that pleading, silent look, she caves. Every bloody time.

She stomps through the bushes, looking for a certain sort of berry that one of her outdoor books said could be safely eaten. This book is helpful with identifying plants and Hermione thought herself clever for stuffing it in the bag in the first place - not that she'd foreseen a situation in which they'd really be relying on it. It was supplemental preparation.

But now it isn't supplemental, and the blasted book doesn't mention how difficult it is to locate these plants. Yes, sure, there are four dozen varieties of edible plants in the United Kingdom but only a quarter of those are truly in season now (don't forget, here comes winter!), and, by the way, this sort is only found at higher elevations, or in acidic soil (how is she supposed to tell that, for Morgana's sake?), or it's a favourite of the local wildlife and when she finally locates something that could be useful, it's picked totally clean. Right down to the stems. For all she knows, she was twelve minutes too late.

Her brain spews rabid sarcasm full throttle.

The last time she'd dragged Ron out with her, she'd regretted it. He'd bitched and moaned the entire time, his dominant arm in a sling as if she could ever forget that he'd nearly bled out in the pine straw, his deep red blood staining the tips of her dirty trainers forevermore. She'd tried her hardest to grit her teeth and ignore him, but it was hard.

She'd found a bush of bilberries and almost whooped for joy, but every time Ron tried to pluck some with his left hand, he squashed the berries in his fingers. They're extremely delicate berries and she'd fussed at him with increasing impatience she couldn't seem to get a handle on. Finally they were both shouting at each other, fists clenched by their sides, faces bright red with exertion and the deepening chill in the air.

Harry had heard them from clear over the hill and came to investigate. This was unwise because he left the protective enchantments around their camp, and none of them could see the bloody tent to get back.

This spawned a full three-way quarrel. Harry was wearing the locket and Hermione could tell he was shorter of temper than usual. Ron's temper's been abysmal since Hermione splinched him. Somehow he's always managing to infer that she was responsible for this - not in the 'it was her apparition, so whoops,' kind of way, but the 'you never screw up and you did,' or maybe the worst kind of, 'you did it on purpose, didn't you? You wanted it to happen.'

They ended up stalking through the woods, spaced just far enough to be able to see one another but not hear any muttered sniping - which they were all indulging in. None of them were quite sure how the wards worked from the outside, having never gotten all three of them stuck on the wrong side before. It was exceedingly unfortunate that Harry ran smack into one like a clear glass wall, immediately spouting blood from his nose and breaking his glasses.

Ron compounded this by bursting out laughing. Mentally offering to trade her left kidney for inner strength, Hermione repaired both Harry's nose and his glasses, and took down the wards so they could all cross back inside.

The relief that should have been inherent - that their wards were so excellent they broke Harry's nose - was nonexistent. Ordinarily, this didn't happen. So long as one of them remained at the tent, usually with a second person on guard just outside the enchantments, they could flag down the one gathering food (always Hermione. Always) when they were done.