I Lost a World

I Lost a World

It’s dark out here, but not dark enough. The sky is yellow-orange, a haze of a hundred million city lights, and I can’t see the stars.

It’s quiet, though, and I like that; it’s what keeps me coming back night after night. The house behind me feels like it’s made of sound sometimes, with members of the Order coming and going and a red-headed horde that never stops moving, never stops talking.

And there was that portrait in the hall, but I took care of that. Funny, isn’t it, how these pureblood supremacist berks know a spell to block every spell, but they don’t bother to protect against a nice sharp Muggle kitchen knife.

I was the only one who laughed.

The door at my back opens with a low, echoing groan, as if the old wood is saying exactly what I’m thinking. I decide not to turn around. My guest should get the message and clear off.

I’m almost surprised that anyone’s willing to be alone in a dark garden with me. Ron’s afraid of me now, I can tell by his eyes, the way he never looks right at me anymore, as if he doesn’t want to draw Voldemort’s attention. Or maybe he always has been, and he’s just gotten worse at hiding it. Either way, I can’t blame him, or anybody else. Not really.

I haven’t heard footsteps yet.

When I turn around, the first thing I think is Of course. Of course it would be Hermione, hands on her hips, hair frizzing in every direction in the sticky night air. Everyone else has given up on me already, packed it in, gotten the point.

I think about telling her to go away, but I know she’ll just tell me to belt up, although perhaps in more polite, Hermione-like words. So I don’t bother, and go back to watching the sky.

Hermione sits on the crumbling brick step beside me, and I can almost hear her deciding what to say, which “Harry, you really should…” to start with.

I don’t give her the chance. “I just like it out here,” I say, in a tone that dares her to disagree.

“I know,” she says calmly, “I like it too.”

We lapse into silence, and I listen to the night. There’s a strange overlap between worlds in this place; I hear car engines and the distant thump of a radio, but also a soft chattering that sounds like gnomes coming from the bottom of the garden. Closer than them all is the rhythmic thud of Hermione’s foot, tapping against the brick.

It must be killing her not to try and get me to talk. I start placing bets in my head on how much longer it’ll be before she caves in. Ten minutes? Five?

Make that two.

“You know,” she says, “everyone here is nice to me. Nobody calls me names, nobody says horrible things about my parents. But I’m still different. I never quite belong.”

I whip round to stare at her. She’s complaining to me about difference? I can barely see straight, I’m so angry. I want to yell at her about prophecies and life and death, about lost childhoods and lost futures, about living with a mind that’s never entirely your own.

But I don’t, although I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s that I’ve never heard her say these things before, and it’s a shock to hear the girl with all the answers admit to insecurity. Or maybe it’s just too much trouble to speak.

No, that’s not it. Well, not entirely.

I know I can’t be the last one to leave here again tonight. I just don’t want to send her away yet, don’t want to creep through this horrid house all alone after everyone else has fallen asleep.

Hermione takes my hand, and I let her. “But that doesn’t mean they don’t care about me,” she says. “And even though they’ll never truly understand, they’ll still listen if I want to talk.”

She squeezes my fingers. I squeeze back a beat too late; I’m not very good at this touching thing.

She’s right, as always. As subtle as a tonne of bricks, perhaps, but right. And I think: lost and found. One day I’ll talk to her, and Ron, about all that I’ve lost, and then I’ll thank them for what I’ve found.

Even though for now, I just feel like watching the stars.

***

Notes: Written for the Harry Potter Lyric Wheel (www.livejournal.com/community/hplyric). There are two lines from the song "Lost and Found," by Al Jarreau and Joe Cocker in this story. They are "I can't be the last one to leave here again tonight" and "lost and found." Title borrowed from Emily Dickinson.