When You're Strange: Never Forget {Harry Potter}

Chapter Eleven:

Hermione's POV

"Thank you, Mrs. Tonks, we greatly appreciate this," I smile at the mother of Tonks. She hands me another quilt and a warm smile before she leaves Harry and I alone.

We've been moved from house to house these past few days, staying as hidden as possible. With every single witch or wizard after us because of the large sum of galleons placed upon our heads, it's rather difficult.

Tonight we're staying at Tonks' parent's house and we'll stay here for a few days. The Order has been working furiously trying to clear our names. Arthur Weasley hasn't been able to return to his job at the Ministry because of all the commotion.

And to top it all off, we have no idea whatsoever where Ron or Aaron are. It's been days since they've been gone and we haven't heard from them at all. We don't even know if they know about the bounty on Ron's head. Chances are they haven't been around Daily Prophets recently.

It makes me want to be sick; thinking about what Aaron is getting himself into without me there. It's not that I don't trust him to make smart decisions on his own - Aaron is an incredibly intelligent person. It's just that I know he'll make incredibly rash decisions when it comes to Alice. He feels like he owes her something, for being such a bad brother all these years. And who knows what he's willing to give up to make it up to her.

If it's one thing Gryffindor boys have a knack for, it's heroics.

I toss a quilt at Harry, who's occupying one of the cots Mr. and Mrs. Tonks has set up for us in their basement. He's paging through the most recent issue of the Daily Prophet, searching for the capture of Ron and the others, or of any clue to what Voldemort might be up to.

"Finding anything good?" I ask, sitting ontop of my own cot, cozying under a thick quilt. The chilly basement isn't the most ideal place to be staying in, but it's better than being sent away to Azkaban.

"I don't think I'll ever find anything good in this bloody paper," Harry grumbles, rolling his eyes at some dumb editorial on the uneasiness the muggles are bringing to the wizarding world. Every issue has been sneaking in anti-muggle peices. It's as if they're trying to plant a hatred in the minds of wizards without them knowing it.

"Well, you know what I mean," I continue, watching as he throws the newspaper onto the basement floor, as if he is giving up on it.

Harry flops onto his cot, staring up at the old wooden ceiling of the basement. He takes his round glasses off and rubs his eyes, obviously stressed out. I can't even remember the last time I've seen Harry relaxed. I don't think he's had a chance, not in all of his 17 years.

"We've got to get things done, and quickly," Harry speaks up, not turning to face me. He just keeps his eyes glued to the ceiling.

"We're trying. It's not as easy as it -" I try to assure him, but he cuts me off,

"We're not trying hard enough. I think that we need to take serious action in these next few days. We can't let what the newspaper said about us, stop us. You-Know-Who is only getting stronger and smarter." He tells me, turning over onto his side.

The look of determination is one I'm used to on Harry's face, but it doesn't make me feel any more safe. It actually makes my stomach churn with uneasiness. We don't have any sort of plan. We think we know where the chest holding Voldemort's heart is, but that's about it. We don't know how to destroy it, or if the mixture will even open it.

The plan is all too shaky for me to be comfortable.

"I know we don't have a lot to go off of, but we have to at least give it a shot." Harry tries to comfort me, "We nearly did it before, why can't we do it this time?" He shrugs, being unusually optimistic.