Work Text:
Hermione dropped her leather overnight bag on the floor, coughing as an unexpected cloud of dust engulfed her. Waving her hand in front of her face, she blew a heavy breath from her lips, trying to clear the air of the fine, grey powder, and stepped forward, only to accidentally inhale another lungful of dirt. Tears sprung to her eyes and she quickly backed out onto the creaky old porch, gulping in the fresh, crisp air of the late March day.
Obviously not used in years, she thought as she released another little cough, patting her chest as she swallowed thickly. Though I guess Kingsley did warn me…
Swallowing again in an attempt to clear the tiny particulates from her throat, she took a few small steps forward and braced her hands on either side of the weathered doorjamb, poking her head into the dilapidated… house. Cottage. Shack, really.
There was a kitchen at the far end of the room, a single set of yellowed countertops and cabinets running along the wall encapsulated by peeling wallpaper with what looked to be a Muggle gas stove (her brows rose in surprise) squeezed in the center of the counters. She couldn’t see a refrigerator, which slightly concerned her.
Nibbling on the corner of her lip, she dragged her eyes from the kitchen to the attached living room. Standing in the middle of the room was a well-worn and saggy circa 1938 Art Deco sofa and a plain coffee table sitting in front of it. Beyond the sofa sat a beaten two-seater dining table complete with honey pine dining chairs that had seen better days. To her right, only two other doors. One was open, leading to what looked to be a loo; the second was closed, hiding what Hermione presumed to be the bedroom.
That was it.
Barely enough for one, much less the two Order members who were supposed to train together, plot and plan together… live together.
She groaned internally, hoping it wasn’t Ron because that would be awkward.
Pushing herself off the doorjamb and into what would’ve been the living room fifty years earlier, Hermione sighed heavily, rolling her sleeves up her arms. If she was going to stay there for any length of time, she refused to live under its current conditions; what the little house needed was a good, strong Tergeo for the thick layer of dust coating virtually every surface, a Reparo for the furniture and the walls, then a little elbow grease for everything else. Just as she reached for her wand to get to work, a hand landed on her shoulder and, startled, she twirled around, sucking in a surprised breath when her eyes landed on a familiar – handsome - scarred face. She sputtered, choking on saliva she sharply inhaled.
“Bill?!” she wheezed, blinking against the tears that burned her eyes, gasping in a breath when he began to clap her on the back, as if that’d actually help rid her lungs of the spit lodged in them.
“Sorry,” he said with a small, sheepish chuckle. “Are you alright, Hermione?”
“Yes,” she croaked, then cleared her throat, bringing her hand to lay at the base of her neck. “You’re my partner?”
Bill tucked his bottom lip between his teeth and nodded in response, pulling his hand from her back to tuck pieces of his shoulder-length auburn hair behind his ears, then crossed them over his broad chest, looking around their safe house. The setting sun glinted off his fang earring, drawing Hermione’s attention; her eyes traveled from the sharp little point across the rust-colored stubble dusting his strong jaw to his soft, pink lips as he released the flesh from between his teeth and ran his tongue over-
Hermione quickly averted her gaze, clearing her throat again as a flush rose to her cheeks. How embarrassing, blushing over her ex-boyfriend’s older brother. The older brother she had the most absurd crush on. The older brother she, apparently, was going to live with for the foreseeable future...
That little reminder made her brow dip heavily over her eyes. “I’m surprised Kingsley split you and Fleur.”
She retrieved her wand, waving it around the living space, watching the dust rapidly swirl into a funnel over the (now) steel blue sofa and disappear with a soft pop. When Bill didn’t immediately respond, she waved her wand absentmindedly, allowing magic to do the cleaning for her and glanced at him over her shoulder. He’d shoved his hands in his trousers’ pockets and studiously avoided her gaze, looking down at his feet as his dragonhide-covered foot toed at a piece of peeling linoleum tile. He looked… crushed.
Hermione straightened her spine, the familiar tendrils of panic beginning to curl in her gut. Did something happen? She hadn’t heard! Was there another ambush? Did… did something happen to Fleur?
She quickly counted back the days until she was into the weeks, and her eyes widened in disbelief: she hadn’t heard from anyone in six weeks! Not until just yesterday when Kingsley sent her an owl, relaying to her that there’d been a change of plans, included a long list of instructions, and a Portkey.
“Bill?”
He looked up at her, flashing her a weak smile. “We’ve separated.”
Hermione’s heart stuttered, her lips rounding into a shocked ‘o.’
Bill closed his eyes briefly, but then opened them again and pulled his hands from his pockets, clapping them together. “Right. Where to start then?”