The Taking of Tea
folder
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
15
Views:
2,924
Reviews:
11
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
15
Views:
2,924
Reviews:
11
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Chapter Ten: My Soul in its Trouble
CHAPTER TEN: MY SOUL IN ITS TROUBLE
O western orb sailing the heaven,
Now I know what you must have meant as a month since I walk’d
As I walk’d in silence the transparent shadowy night,
As I saw you had something to tell as you bent to me night after
night,
As you droop’d from the sky low down as if to my side, (while the
other stars all look’d on,)
As we wander’d together the solemn night, (for something I
know not what kept me from sleep,)
As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west how full
you were of woe,
As I stood on the rising round in the breeze in the cool
transparent night,
As I watch’d where you pass’d and was lost in the netherward black
of the night,
As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you sad orb,
Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.
Remus was pacing a short track in the headmistress’ office, his worn shoes sounding a muted rhythm as his hand continually pushed back his shaggy hair. Minerva, who did not possess Dumbledore’s even keel, was no less animated. She stood over her desk, writing owls to Harry Potter and Ron Weasley with a wildly shaking hand, making several unreadable drafts and tossing them angrily into the fire. With each failure she shook her head severely, causing the tip of her purple hat to wave to and fro.
“Minerva,” Remus finally said, putting a hand over hers, “perhaps I should write the letters, instead.”
“Yes, go ahead,” Minerva agreed, “I can’t seem to do anything useful at the moment.”
Taking quill and parchment in hand, Remus composed two short, identical letters:
Hermione has gone missing. Was last seen at Ministry. Please reply post-haste,
R.L.
Within an hour of owling the terse letters, both Harry and Ron came through McGonagall’s fireplace.
“How long has she been gone?” Harry demanded immediately, still brushing the soot from his robes as he spoke.
“Since Saturday, I’m guessing,” Minerva said, “since she wasn’t at dinner that evening, and she typically takes her meals in the great hall.”
“And you’ve only thought to look for her now?!” Ron exclaimed, clearly more agitated—or at least handling the situation with less calm—than Harry.
“Hermione is free to do as she wishes on the weekends,” Remus explained. “And there was no reason to expect anything afoul. It was only when she didn’t show up for her classes this morning that we realized something was wrong.” He collapsed into a chair and ran a hand through his hair, tired from watching Minerva pace back and forth. Harry took the chair beside him while Ron stood by the hearth, staring into the fire with a dark expression.
“Let’s try and think this out,” Remus said gently. “Who would have motivation to kidnap Hermione?”
“Voldemort, of course, but if he had, I’d expect that Hermione would be…” Ron paused.
"First we should find out where she was last," Harry interrupted, having no desire to hear Ron finish his grim thought. "I'll go on back to the ministry and file a missing person inquiry. Ron?"
"Right, mate. Coming." Ron looked back to Minvera and Remus, both of whom seemed suddenly old. "Don't worry, we'll find her."
They didn't find her, but they did discover from Much that Hermione had registered her wand at the check-in desk at 1:47 p.m. the previous Saturday. He still had it, as she'd never picked it up, and had no idea how she'd left or why she'd been there in the first place. It was Griselda Marchbanks who provided that information, storming into his cubicle, her aging face red with ire.
"She was here on account of Draco Malfoy's retrail, signing witness documents."
"Malfoy's being retried? Why is Hermione a witness?"
"To testify to his magical abilities," she chuffed, "or lack of, rather. I expect he thinks she'll tell the Wizengamot how useless the boy was at magic."
"Who?"
"His father, of course. Lucius."
A/N: The poem that began this chapter is borrowed from Walt Whitman. Well, okay, stolen.
O western orb sailing the heaven,
Now I know what you must have meant as a month since I walk’d
As I walk’d in silence the transparent shadowy night,
As I saw you had something to tell as you bent to me night after
night,
As you droop’d from the sky low down as if to my side, (while the
other stars all look’d on,)
As we wander’d together the solemn night, (for something I
know not what kept me from sleep,)
As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west how full
you were of woe,
As I stood on the rising round in the breeze in the cool
transparent night,
As I watch’d where you pass’d and was lost in the netherward black
of the night,
As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you sad orb,
Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.
Remus was pacing a short track in the headmistress’ office, his worn shoes sounding a muted rhythm as his hand continually pushed back his shaggy hair. Minerva, who did not possess Dumbledore’s even keel, was no less animated. She stood over her desk, writing owls to Harry Potter and Ron Weasley with a wildly shaking hand, making several unreadable drafts and tossing them angrily into the fire. With each failure she shook her head severely, causing the tip of her purple hat to wave to and fro.
“Minerva,” Remus finally said, putting a hand over hers, “perhaps I should write the letters, instead.”
“Yes, go ahead,” Minerva agreed, “I can’t seem to do anything useful at the moment.”
Taking quill and parchment in hand, Remus composed two short, identical letters:
Hermione has gone missing. Was last seen at Ministry. Please reply post-haste,
R.L.
Within an hour of owling the terse letters, both Harry and Ron came through McGonagall’s fireplace.
“How long has she been gone?” Harry demanded immediately, still brushing the soot from his robes as he spoke.
“Since Saturday, I’m guessing,” Minerva said, “since she wasn’t at dinner that evening, and she typically takes her meals in the great hall.”
“And you’ve only thought to look for her now?!” Ron exclaimed, clearly more agitated—or at least handling the situation with less calm—than Harry.
“Hermione is free to do as she wishes on the weekends,” Remus explained. “And there was no reason to expect anything afoul. It was only when she didn’t show up for her classes this morning that we realized something was wrong.” He collapsed into a chair and ran a hand through his hair, tired from watching Minerva pace back and forth. Harry took the chair beside him while Ron stood by the hearth, staring into the fire with a dark expression.
“Let’s try and think this out,” Remus said gently. “Who would have motivation to kidnap Hermione?”
“Voldemort, of course, but if he had, I’d expect that Hermione would be…” Ron paused.
"First we should find out where she was last," Harry interrupted, having no desire to hear Ron finish his grim thought. "I'll go on back to the ministry and file a missing person inquiry. Ron?"
"Right, mate. Coming." Ron looked back to Minvera and Remus, both of whom seemed suddenly old. "Don't worry, we'll find her."
They didn't find her, but they did discover from Much that Hermione had registered her wand at the check-in desk at 1:47 p.m. the previous Saturday. He still had it, as she'd never picked it up, and had no idea how she'd left or why she'd been there in the first place. It was Griselda Marchbanks who provided that information, storming into his cubicle, her aging face red with ire.
"She was here on account of Draco Malfoy's retrail, signing witness documents."
"Malfoy's being retried? Why is Hermione a witness?"
"To testify to his magical abilities," she chuffed, "or lack of, rather. I expect he thinks she'll tell the Wizengamot how useless the boy was at magic."
"Who?"
"His father, of course. Lucius."
A/N: The poem that began this chapter is borrowed from Walt Whitman. Well, okay, stolen.