AN;Reposted-I noticed this chapter wasn't coming up at all-I hope reposting will help. As a matter of citation…There is a poem appearing in this chapter that I did not write. I actually took it from my HS yearbook - it was dedicated to a classmate who died in a car wreck. It is written by "anonymous." It is not mine.
VL
Chapter 14 - Mourning
Hermione stirred in the bed, a squeak escaping her throat as she turned over toward the warm sunlight. Her eyes fluttered open, only to be squeezed shut again to block out the morning light. For a moment she nearly forgot where she was. Her body felt like lead and every position she moved into seemed more comfortable than the last.
But, she hadn't forgotten.
She lay in her bed, eyes closed, yet fully awake, mustering the courage to force herself to move. It would be so much easier to lie here all day and act like the last eighteen hours hadn't happened. But, what would that accomplish? After all, there are studies to be had, classes to attend, meals to eat….and parents to bury.
She raised her hand to her forehead only to have it stop midway. She felt another hand grasp hers as her bed gave way to the weight of someone sitting beside her. She felt the soft touch of Harry's lips to the back of her hand and her face broke into the slightest indication of a smile. She opened her eyes and met his.
His face wasn't riddled with concern. He wasn't fawning over her. He wasn't racked with worry. He was smiling at her. Oddly enough, that seemed exactly what she needed. She had enough to worry about, enough to mourn. She didn't want to feel the compulsion to hold her friends together, or the guilt of "ruining everyone's day." While she knew it was only the first step, she had enough of an emotional meltdown the night before, she didn't want to be "poor Hermione" today…or any other day for that matter.
"Good morning," he said softly, still holding her hand in his.
"G'morning," she yawned broadly.
He stifled a chuckle. "Need I ask how you slept?"
She smiled. "About like that, I think," she said, pointing to Ron's body haphazardly thrown over Pavarti's bed, snoring audibly.
"You are more right that you think." Harry feigned a wince as Hermione slapped him on the shoulder. After regaining his composure, he pulled Hermione to a sitting position and silently wrapped his arms around her. She laid her head on his chest, arms loosely around his sides, listening to the rhythm of his respiration.
This was one of her favorite things about Harry and her relationship. It never felt forced. It never felt pressured or uncomfortable. They just "fit" together better than any two people she knew. She attributed most of that to the friendship they built long before their interest in each other changed. Harry played a lot of roles in her life. This was clearly his time to be a best friend. And, she loved him for it.
"Thank you," her muffled voice reverberated against his chest. She felt his arms draw her tighter and his hand play in her hair. With a short kiss to her temple he let her go. She looked to Ron, taken aback by the dark circles still visible under his eyes. "Neither of you slept last night at all, did you?"
"Well, I've been trying to show Hedwig that I'm really sensitive to her needs, so I thought I'd try to be nocturnal just to prove my devotion," Harry said playfully. "Ron had more issues with sleeping between pink sheets than anything else." Hermione giggled softly.
"Well, he does look rather cold with no blankets to cover him," she replied.
Harry looked at him curiously. "Yeah," he said softly.
More feeling his unease than hearing it, Hermione looked between the two of them. "Harry, what's the matter?"
He returned his eyes to hers. "I honestly don't know. He came back last night after you'd gone to sleep. Something wasn't right but he wouldn't tell me what it was. Just shrugged it off and said he was worried about you."
Hermione watched him sleep a moment more, her body finally forcing her to pay attention to its more basic needs. She pushed the warm blankets off her, shuddering from the chilled air. "I um…need to," she stammered.
Cottoning on, Harry hopped from the bed, "Oh, yeah. Go ahead." She smiled at him and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Pulling a towel from the hook behind her bed, she clutched it to her chest and padded to the door. She grabbed a pink gingham lined basket from a cubby by the door and left for the loo.
One thing Hermione did like about the girls' dormitory was the bathroom. It was massive, yet comfortable. The toilets were cordoned off from the main dressing area. The dressing area boasted extensive stone countertops, several upholstered iron stools, and a vast expanse of warmly lit mirrors. Understanding the "pack" mentality of women and the loo, worn but comfortable, chairs and a small sofa sat in the center of the room beneath the rotunda ceiling. A spattering of popular beauty magazines littered the small tables between the seating. For as much as she loved appointments of this room, on mornings like these, she loved the lighting best.
Several sconces hung intermittently from the walls around the room. The roaring flames not only warmed the bathroom but gave a gentle amber light to the room that diminished how undoubtedly dreadful she must look. If she appreciated Hogwart's for anything, it was for the castle's sensitivity to what a girl looks like at the crack of dawn.
After seeing to her basic needs, Hermione settled herself onto her favorite crimson stool and rested her elbows on the stone counter. She whisked a few strands of hair away from her face and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She wasn't sure what she was looking at, or even what she was thinking, but her eyes locked involuntarily on the familiar brown ones in the mirror.
So this is what an orphan looks like.
She squeezed her eyes shut as she tried to force the thought from her mind. After a moment, she sat upright in the stool and hastily pulled her hair back with a clip from her basket.
I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry.
For as much as she tried to force her heart to listen to her head, it wasn't working. The tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision as she continued to wrestle with her hair. She drew a deep breath, wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her dressing robe and looked back to her reflection. Her eyes fell across her bushy hair only moderately contained by the clip she'd pulled it back with, as her mind remembered a conversation she'd had during the summer between her third and fourth year.
Hermione, you don't need to use that speak-easy potion…
It's "Sleak-Easy" dad.
I don't care what you call it; your hair is fine.
I should hardly expect a man to understand! Small birds could nest in this mop and I'd never be the wiser! I hate my hair!
Well, I love it. It reminds me of your mum.
With the echo of her father's voice in her head, and the memory of the kiss he'd placed on her head as he left the room, Hermione dropped her brush to the counter and burst into tears. She sat on the stool, arms wrapped around her stomach sobbing until the tears had finally run out several minutes later. She looked back to her own tear-stained face fighting to regain some modicum of control.
You've got to pull yourself together.
Her mind understood the trauma she'd endured and reasoned away her response, but some distant part of her ego willfully scorned the fact she was unable to control her own emotions. If there was one thing Hermione Granger always prided herself on, it was her self-sufficiency. She could take care of herself. She could reason her way to the answers and she'd never given into feminine outbursts of emotion.
Almost never.
She dropped her forehead to her hands as her eyes filled with tears again. She couldn't escape the truth and she knew it. For the first time in her life, she had no answers for anything. She didn't even know where to start. She only knew one thing - she needed her mother, and it was the one thing she couldn't have.
It still seemed utterly surreal. Part of her was convinced if she borrowed Hedwig she would return with a note on her mother's linen stationary declaring she'd finally lost her mind. But, for as much as her heart believed that - her head knew better. She knew her parents died. What's more, she knew Kingsley died and Tonks was injured trying to save them. She knew the root of the attack lie with Voldemort and his Death Eaters.
More than anything, she knew the last twenty-four hours irrevocably changed her life forever.
But, she had no idea how she felt about any of it. She didn't know how to feel. She didn't know what to do, or how to behave. She didn't want to know. She wanted to act like it didn't happen and move on with her life, but she knew that was impossible.
So, here she sat. Sitting before a reflection she didn't recognize, suffocated by a sorrow she couldn't seem to temper, the logical part of her mind impeded entirely by the emotional part of her heart.
"Hermione?" Ginny's soft voice interrupted her musings. Hermione instinctively wiped the tears from her eyes, pulled a loose strand of hair behind her ear and, cleared her throat. She sat up straight and looked in the mirror to see Ginny approaching behind her. "Hi," Ginny said quietly as she wrapped her arms around her from behind.
"Hi," Hermione replied non-chalantly, but curling her hands over Ginny's arms as they crossed along her chest.
"Harry asked me to check on you. He said you'd been gone for a while," she answered, before Hermione could ask the question.
Hermione tilted her head to the side and leveled her eyes at Ginny's reflection. "I'm fine," she said flatly. "Really, I don't need people gawking over me, I can take care of myself," she replied with a forced smile to soften the words.
Ginny squeezed her tighter. "Everyone knows that Hermione. There isn't a more capable witch in all of Hogwart's than you." Hermione relaxed her posture a bit. "But," Ginny continued. "The point is - you shouldn't have to take care of yourself right now. That's our job." Ginny smiled warmly and released Hermione's shoulders. "I'll tell him you'll be along in a minute. Take your time." With that, Ginny swept from the room and the door closed with a soft click.
Hermione guessed Ginny couldn't have taken four steps along the corridor before Hermione dissolved into uncontrollable sobbing. If Ginny heard her through the door, she did her the courtesy of allowing her to regain her composure without an audience.
***
Remus balanced the tray on his left hand while his right fumbled with the doorknob. He pushed the door open and walked in quietly. Tonks was lying in the bed looking toward the window with a vacant expression. The sunlight streaming through the window brightened the room and Remus couldn't help but smile. She was broken, she was bruised, but she was alive.
He cleared his throat quietly to announce his presence and she turned her face toward him. Although, still darkened from her experience, Remus couldn't help but notice how much better she looked today than she had upon her return last night.
"I brought you something to eat. I thought you might be hungry," he said holding the tray expectantly. She smiled at him warmly and pushed herself up on the pillows until she was sitting upright. Remus walked to her bedside and cautiously placed the tray on a nearby table. Settling down on the bed next to her, his fingers played with the delicate threading of her comforter. It wasn't long before she stopped his progress.
"I imagine you came in here for more than my breakfast," she said quietly.
"Yes," he replied.
"If it's all the same to you, I'd like a little time to put my report together."
"Of course." he said quickly. In truth, that wasn't the real reason he'd come to see her either. He just didn't know how to say it, or what she would think. He felt a bit like a fish out of water, but couldn't fight the compulsion to stay. Luckily, she rescued him from his dilemma.
"Remus," she began, her voice as timid as he'd ever heard it. He looked up to see her staring at him. His breath caught in his throat and all logical consideration flew from the room. She threw her arms around him as he reached for her. He grasped onto her with everything he had, a distant part of his consciousness screaming concern for her injuries. However, her response to him seemed to indicate she either wasn't bothered by the strength of his embrace, or didn't care. He didn't think she could've held him any tighter if she tried.
"It's okay. It's okay," he muttered, more to settle his own nerves than assuage any fears on her part. Her hands fisted themselves in his shirt as they rocked together gently.
"I thought I'd never see you again," she said hoarsely.
"It's okay," he repeated.
"No. No it's not," she said determinedly as she pushed back to look at him properly. "Remus, we've been dancing around this for months. I've never had the courage to say what I've wanted. I've always been too afraid of what it might mean, what you might think. The moment I realized what I was up against, I realized what a mistake my silence had been." Her voice faltered. "I realized that I might never get to tell you the things I've been too afraid to say." Her mouth opened and closed as she searched for either the courage, or the words, to finish what Remus knew she wanted to say.
"Remmy," Sirius' voice echoed in his head. "What do you say to a little good humor for our dear friend Prongs?"
"I say if you mess up what's about to happen between him and Evans, I'll hex you myself."
Remembering the sweet kiss James exchanged with Lily in front of the common room fire, Remus was suddenly aware that actions spoke louder than words. He slid his hand around the back of Tonks neck and pulled her head toward him, not hesitating to consider the consequences. He crushed his lips to hers and was met with an equally impassioned embrace. Her hands slid across his back and through his hair. He wrapped his free arm fully around her waist and pressed the length of her body to his, as the breakfast he brought for her remained untouched.
***
Hermione clutched Harry's hand as she entered the Great Hall for breakfast. She had no real inclination to eat, but Harry would not hear of it. While she was slowly giving up the great House Elf quest for amnesty, she wasn't yet ready to ask for room service. Resigned to the inevitable barrage of pitying eyes, she accepted Harry's offer to meet Ron for breakfast.
She closed her eyes briefly, letting Harry unknowingly guide her along the length of the House table, as the room quieted upon her arrival. Eyes closed or not, she could feel the stares from every corner of the room. The charged emotions of, literally, hundreds of students suffocated her.
Eyes still closed, she sensed Harry's head turn toward her as she gripped his hand tighter. She focused the lion's share of her faltering energy on him and only him. This was one instance where being in love with Harry Potter was far more beneficial than being just his friend. Sadly, he was Hogwart's expert in "putting on a brave face" in response to tragedy. He certainly had more practice than anyone else. Out of sheer habit, he seemed to be doing the same thing right now, and that was exactly what she needed.
She couldn't, or wouldn't, allow herself to be any less brave than he had been in the face of Cedric's death - or Sirius's. She opened her eyes and met his as they continued to walk toward Ron's place at the table. Wordlessly, she assuaged his concerns and let him know she was okay…as long as she was with him.
"Hi," Ron said as the settled onto the bench across from him. His eyes were fixed on Hermione.
"Hi," she replied warmly and gave him the best smile could manage. She looked between Harry and Ron for a moment and added, "Thank you." She looked at Ron specifically. "Both of you."
"Anytime Hermione," Ron said quietly.
"Ron," Harry said inquisitively. "Are you sure you're okay?" Hermione followed Harry's eyes and was equally as perplexed by what she saw. Ron's plate was half empty. In and of itself, that was nothing to be concerned over. But, this was different. It was clear that not only did Ron take very little breakfast; he also hadn't touched any of the food he selected.
"I'm fine," Ron mumbled as his spoon played in the rapidly chilling porridge.
Harry looked to Hermione questioningly. It was clear to her that this was what Harry referred to this morning. Ron wasn't acting himself, and she was not about to believe it revolved entirely around her situation. Without giving it a second thought, she released Harry's hand and closed her eyes.
She fought through the varied emotions around her and tried to focus on Ron. She had, unbeknownst to them, used both Harry and Ron several times to practice her empathy lessons. While she harbored a bit of guilt over the inescapable fact she was "prying," and generally marked it up to the best interest of education and learning. However, this time was different.
Either Ron was highly emotional - which she wasn't sure he was capable of, save their shouting matches - or she was improving her skills. His emotions erupted through her almost immediately. So much so, she drew a sharp breath as his feelings trounced her already raw emotions. The instinctive hand Harry threw to her leg essentially broke the contact she'd established, but she had what she needed. Something was wrong - and it had nothing to do with her.
"Ron," she said pointedly. He looked up sharply, no doubt realizing what she'd done, and leveled his eyes to hers.
"Hermione," he warned.
"I'm sorry Ron," she interrupted. "I had to. Harry and I are worried about you and you won't talk to us."
Ron's mouth bobbed open and closed. Hermione had seen that look before. He was fighting the urge to launch into a scathing attack. To his credit, he merely shook his head and returned to stirring his porridge with increasing vigor.
Hermione slumped her shoulders, feeling guiltier that Ron didn't berate her, than if he'd done so. She knew he was only on his best behavior due to the circumstances. She looked between Ron and Harry and let out the first chuckle anyone had heard from her since dinner the night before.
"Look at us," she scoffed, helping herself to some kippers and toast. 'What we wouldn't do for a cheering charm around this place." She looked up to Ron, expecting some manner of smile, only to see him turn his attention to the inside pocket of his robes.
He pulled out three exquisite orchids and the faintest of smiles broke his features as he looked at them briefly. "We have one," he said warmly. "These are for you."
Hermione reached across the table incredulously.
Ronald Weasley thought to get me flowers? Orchids at that?
She examined the white petals, admiring how the strength of the blossom contradicted its fragile appearance. A smile crossed her features and her shoulders relaxed as her eyes lingered over the gift. Two questions were answered rather quickly. First, the flowers hadn't been crushed in Ron's pocket, so they must've been transfigured from something else and two; he had clearly used a cheering charm on them. She couldn't stop smiling as she spun them in her hand.
"Thank you Ron," she said brightly. "That's the most thoughtful thing you've ever done for me."
"Well." Ron cleared his throat and took a sip of his pumpkin juice. "I'd like to take credit for…" he hesitated, his eyes obviously catching hold of something across the room, "…for it. But I'm just the messenger." Hermione noticed Harry turn to look over his shoulder, clearly searching the room for what interrupted Ron's thoughts.
"Messenger," Hermione repeated. "Then, who are they from?"
Ron returned his gaze to attention to the condensation silently meandering down his glass and replied, "Merc Thompson."
"Merc? But when did you…" she stopped suddenly. Cheering charms aside, her face darkened as she remembered their conversation from dinner last night and realized what his mood was likely related to. "Ron," she began. "Tell me you were nothing short of the perfect gentleman when she brought these to you."
Ron didn't reply.
"Ron?" Hermione insisted.
"Not so much, no," he replied dejectedly.
"Ron!" Hermione barked, causing the heads of several nearby students to spin in her direction. Harry grasped her leg tighter, encouraging her to calm down, but Hermione was not in the mood to be subtle. "Whatever did you say to her?" she demanded.
"I don't…well, I just," he stammered.
"Ronald Weasley you had best tell me what happened before I hear it from her!"
Ron sat back, pushing his plate away, and drew a deep breath. Apparently deciding it best to make a preemptive strike, he told them what happened the night before. By Ron's standards, the story was incredibly detailed. He even gave a verbatim account of their final conversation. Hermione was under the distinct impression that the incident didn't last as long as the story, but she was livid nonetheless.
"I absolutely cannot believe you!"
"Hermione," Harry interjected.
"No! Don't you try to save his arse on this one Harry Potter!" She turned back to Ron. "That is, without doubt, the most loathsome thing I think you couldn't done or said to anyone, least of all to someone trying to do something thoughtful for me! Where do you get off disallowing her to see me? Since when have you ever known what I truly needed?"
"Hermione," Harry said, this time physically turning her chin to his. "He obviously feels bad enough about this," he reasoned.
"Bad enough?" she repeated, Looking incredulously toward Harry. "This from the keeper who loses his cool over a silly song, yet feels it is perfectly acceptable to berate, ridicule, and demean someone he doesn't even know!" She cut her eyes back to Ron. His forehead was buried in his hands. "This was vile, Ron; even by your standards of engagement." She turned back to Harry as she spun around on the bench. "No matter how bad he feels, I can absolutely guarantee it's not the remotely close to what she's feeling right now." With that she nearly leapt from the bench and walked determinedly toward the Ravenclaw House table.
***
Ron pulled his cloak around him as he stepped out into the frigid air. He hesitated on the castle's front steps, dreading the fast-approaching conversation. He watched his breath condense in the air, forming miniature clouds that quickly whisked away in the steady breeze.
This was unfamiliar territory for him. Although his feet had begun carrying him across the well-worn path to the Quidditch pitch, he wasn't going to play Quidditch. He wasn't going to spend hours in the team dressing room working out strategies on the board. In truth, that's what he loved most about the Gryffindor captaincy. Devising Quidditch strategy was somewhat akin to chess, and he surprised even himself with his own creativity. But this was not strategy, this was not Quidditch, and he had no idea what he was doing.
He stopped on a familiar burm that offered a broad view into the stadium. The Ravenclaw team was drawing their practice to a close. He could see their captain waving the players down onto the pitch where he feverishly began scratching something into the sand. He waited, trying to gather his own courage, until he saw the team head off for their dressing room.
It's now or never.
You don't have to do this, you know.
Yes, I do.
Although he willingly decided to go through with this, he wasn't breaking any land speed records getting there. He arrived just outside the main gate doors and leapt out of the way as they flew open in front of him.
"…And presenting," a boy appeared, covering his mouth and simulating crowd noise by huffing into his hand," playing for your Chudley Cannons," he continued his commentary. "Kennedy, Lenhart, Moore, Stephens, Ryan, MacBeth, and," he cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, "Mercury Thompson!" He threw his hands wildly in the air and continued his mock applause.
Ron took a step back as Merc appeared behind her teammate, giggling softly and rolling her eyes. "Please," she began to protest. Before her teammate could interject she added, "You've got it all wrong. The seeker is always the last one they announce." She smiled broadly.
"Well, in your case, they'll make an exception." The boy stopped and turned around to face her. As he did, Ron's eyes locked with his. "Well, if it isn't the Weasel King," he said flatly.
Ron choked back the fire that erupted in his stomach at his unsolicited nickname. He knew this would be difficult, but he had at least hoped to find Merc alone.
"What are you doing here? Gryffindor doesn't have the pitch until tonight," Merc asked.
Ron cleared his throat and gave an apprehensive look to her teammate. For all he knew this was her boyfriend. Even if he was just a friend, the look on his face made it quite clear that he knew about what happened between them on Halloween.
If you're going to do it, do it right. Don't just stand there like some skittish house cat.
Ron drew himself to his full height. The result of years of growth and Quidditch playing did well for Ron. He was nearly 6'5" inches tall and was built proportionately to his frame. He wasn't overly impressed with himself, but it did do wonders for his confidence to know he could beat the Boy-Who-Lived at nearly any feat of strength. "I was wondering if I could talk to you," he said.
Merc and her teammate exchanged skeptical glances. Never taking his eyes off of Ron, he inclined his head toward Merc. "Do you want me to stay?"
Merc looked at Ron quizzically and replied, "No, you go on. I'll be fine." She smiled at her teammate who rather hesitantly adjusted the bag on his shoulder and walked toward the castle.
After he was out of earshot, Ron found himself without the words to continue. He gathered the resolve to apologize to her, but somewhere along the way he'd neglected to prepare the speech ahead of time. This was apparently frustrating for her as well. She shrugged her bag higher on her shoulder and crossed her arms over her chest. Feeling she was about to either yell, or leave, Ron scrambled for something to say.
"So, Merc is short for Mercury," he began colloquially.
"Yes," she replied without embellishment.
"That's a strange name." He wanted to kick himself as soon as he heard the words come out of his mouth. Here he was swallowing his pride to apologize and he begins the whole conversation by degrading her again.
Smooth Weasel.
Shut up.
"It's a nickname," she replied.
Feeling heartened that she hadn't let into him; he continued to avoid the real reason for his visit. "Oh," he began interestedly. "Where'd you pick it up?"
She smiled warmly. "When I was five my father signed me up for the Wee Witches Quidditch League and I beat a nine year old boy in the speed trials." She relaxed her stance. "My father's an alchemist, what can I say, I've been Mercury ever since." She shrugged her shoulders and uncrossed her arms.
"You played in the Wee Witches League?" Ron asked surprised.
"I played every year until coming to Hogwarts," she replied.
Ron's brow furrowed in question. "If Merc is a nickname? What's your given name?"
"Ron, I'm quite sure you didn't kip out to the pitch in the freezing cold to have a friendly conversation about my name. What do you want?" Merc said abruptly.
The comfort Ron had begun to feel in this conversation rapidly dissolved. The moment was upon him and his heart lodged itself in his throat. "Right," he began sheepishly. "Listen, I um, " he stammered. Merc fixed her eyes on him, awaiting his answer, and successfully increasing his discomfort by geometric proportions.
"I'm not very good at this," he conceded. He drew a breath and decided this was much like his mother removing the bandages when he skinned his knees as a child; it's hurts less if you don't hesitate. "I wanted to apologize for what I said to you the other night." He rocked back and forth on his heels, unable to raise his eyes to hers. "I was in a right state." His voice grew distant. "I shouldn't have taken it out on you." An unsettling silence followed his comments. He forced himself to look at her properly, if only to see that she hadn't walked off.
Merc was staring at him silently, an inscrutable look engraved across her face. Ron continued, if only to assuage the awkward silence that hung in the air between them. "So, that's it really. That's why I came down here."
"I honestly didn't give it a moment's thought," Merc said quietly.
"I've thought of little else."
"You don't have to apologize," she offered sincerely.
"I want to," Ron replied. "I've spent the last three days hoping I could get the words out before you hexed me."
"Well, my wand is safely tucked away in this bag, so no worries there." She readjusted the strap across her shoulder as silence resounded in the air between them.
Feeling the awkwardness stifle the conversation entirely, Ron decided he'd had enough chivalry for one day and sought a quick exit. "Well, I really need to head back," he said simply. Not entirely sure if he should wait for a response, he took a few steps backward. Still feeling his face flushed from embarrassment, he offered a meek wave in her direction, and turned to follow the path back to the castle. Succumbing to a compulsion he didn't quite understand, he stole another glance over his shoulder. It didn't pass his notice that Merc had not moved from her spot until he was halfway to the entrance.
***
If the circumstances had been any different Harry would've thought this was a sign of the apocalypse. Not only were he and Ron easily surpassing their third hour in the library, but Hermione hadn't blessed them with a single scathing remark. There were two possible reasons for that. The first, he and Ron had actually been rather diligent in their task, so pontificating about the woes of procrastination was completely unnecessary. More likely, and more distressing to Harry, was the second reason. Hermione hadn't done much of anything.
He and Ron exchanged silent conversations regarding her behavior. Her potions text lay open to the same page for well over an hour and the ink in her well was likely to dry before she finished the first part of her assignment. It was clear neither of them knew what to say or how to say it. How do you tell Hermione Granger that she's neglecting her studies? What's more, is it even appropriate to say such a thing…after all, it had only been a week since her parents were buried and he was quite positive that while her body sat in the Hogwart's library, her mind was reliving the bitter cold of that day.
*
There were so many things about this experience that were foreign to Harry. Most interestingly of all, was how uncomfortable he was in a muggle suit. In retrospect, he'd still spent more of his life as a muggle than a wizard, but the wizarding world - for all its dangers - was still far more comfortable to him. He and Ron, not owning the appropriate muggle attire, had transfigured their robes into tailored black suits. If Harry was uncomfortable, Ron was downright miserable. It was all Harry could do not to elbow him in the ribs when he persistently fidgeted next to him. Aside from the wardrobe, everything about the service, and the customs associated with it, was sadly mysterious to Harry.
The Grangers were Anglican and attended services every week. They were not only well-known in their professional circles but appeared rather steadfast members of their church. While the Dursleys attended religious services, they did so for mere appearances only, and anything that served to enhance their social standing was not an open invitation for Harry's attendance. As a result, Harry had never seen the inside of a church, let alone a cathedral. As the funeral service progressed, he watched Hermione diligently. Not only was he concerned for her emotional well-being, but he had no idea when to sit, stand, or kneel and following her lead was the only way he felt he'd not make a horribly embarrassing mistake.
For his part, as the service progressed, he watched the only people in the cathedral that held any station in his life. As this was a muggle service, the wizarding community harbored several concerns. First, while the full count of Gryffindor students wanted to support Hermione, attendance was limited exclusively to Harry and Ron. All interested students were encouraged to send flowers or other inconspicuous tokens of support to the gravesite. Second, the manner of their death was not forgotten by those who actually knew the truth. The entire Order of the Phoenix attended the services incognito, each with their hands securely planted in their pockets - no doubt with a wand at the ready. Third, Harry was not naïve. As he glanced around the towering cathedral, he saw the bemused and confused expressions of other, rather poorly dressed, "muggles." He was Harry Potter, he was not in the presence of his blood relatives, and he was not at Hogwarts. He was quite sure the variety of expressionless funeral-goers stationed at intervals around the room were likely Aurors in the Ministry's employ.
The only others he recognized were several teachers from Hogwarts. Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape were acting as both representatives of the school and the Order. Harry felt the presence of Poppy Pomfrey was done for the benefit of Hermione's emotional stability. When the service began and Madam Pomfrey took the open seat next to Hermione, Harry was certain of her purpose. While he had no idea what she might be doing, he felt it must've been effective. Save for a few errant tears that escaped her eyes, Hermione remained stony-faced and strong throughout the entirety of the mass. Later he would look back and admire her strength, especially given his demeanor at the graveside service was another story.
If Harry prided himself on anything, it was his own ability to stay strong in the face of difficult situations. He'd nearly made such practice an art form. In his recollection, he'd only truly let his friends see him cry after their row on the Weasley's patio. He wasn't prepared for what the service would entail, nor was he prepared for where his own emotions would take him.
Even for early November, the weather was bitter. The biting cold scorched his cheeks and nose as his visible breath chapped his lips in the stiff breeze. Hermione clung to his arm as they exited the cars and walked the ever-lengthening steps to the gravesite. She hadn't spoken a word since the service began, and this was no different. There were a few covered chairs beneath a green fabric tent that sat toward a mechanism that would hold the coffins. Harry gently guided her to one of the chairs as he took his place behind her. Not surprising to him, Madam Pomfrey settled into the chair next to her as the pallbearers made their way to the tent.
In hindsight, Harry reasoned the bitter cold weather and the consuming despondency that stifled the air must've elicited his response. If conjuring a Patronus would've made this sadness go away he would've done it despite the presence of hundreds of muggles.
As he looked to the pallbearers edging ever closer, the two caskets carried between them, his memories drifted to the echoed screams of his mother. The same screams he'd heard in the presence of the dementors rushed back to him with vivid detail. He stifled a gasp and closed his eyes, turning his head from the scene before him. For as much as he willed the voice to stop, it did not. When he opened his eyes again he found himself staring at the simple black veil of an elderly woman seated a few feet away. As it swayed quietly in the breeze, visions of Sirius flashed through his mind.
Even after shutting his eyes to the elderly mourner, he couldn't erase the vision of Sirius falling through the veil. Like a skipping record, it replayed itself in his mind over and over. Harry found himself leaning on the back of Hermione's chair, willing the sounds and vision of his past to remain there. He was supposed to be here to support Hermione yet he couldn't erase his own experience from his mind.
Harry's breathing grew more rapid as he fought to contain his own erupting emotions. The gentle sounds of the caskets being placed before them compelled his eyes to open. Yet, rather than seeing two, his mind saw three. He squeezed his eyes shut as he felt a familiar hand clamp down around his arm. It wasn't Hermione. It was Ron.
He looked to his right and saw the heartfelt compassion of his best friend. He wasn't sure if Ron knew his thoughts were hijacked by the memory of his own parents or if he just saw the struggle Harry was succumbing to. But, the simple gesture helped. It helped immensely.
Harry glanced down to the women seated before him. He found Madam Pomfrey's arm encircling Hermione, whose shoulders were quaking silently. The thought of her sorrow only made him want to wrap her in his own arms, but Madam Pomfrey had him pretty well boxed out. What's more, every time Harry made the gesture to touch Hermione supportively, the mediwitch inexplicably brushed his hand away.
Harry didn't have the opportunity to get angry about it. Before he could process the next step the minister was standing between the caskets reading from his text and giving the final farewell. Oddly, Harry's thoughts shifted again.
He looked at the caskets, perched above the graves that had already been prepared before their arrival. There had been so many people at the funeral he'd never given the finality of it much thought. As the minister closed the service and people began milling around, talking quietly and gazing toward their Grangers final resting place he was overcome with a feeling of solitude.
All these people will leave. Hermione will leave. Yet they will stay here, alone…forever.
It was an odd thought to have. Why should it matter to them if they are alone? They're gone already. It's not like they know everyone has left them. It's not like they would feel abandoned or lonely…right? He turned to see several mourners making their way to their vehicles…getting on with their lives. Something about it was so unfair. Their lives were over; part of Hermione's life was over…
…just as part of his life had ended - twice - without the opportunity to say goodbye.
His eyes welled with tears that burned hot in the frigid breeze. His mother's voice from her death mingled with the voice he'd heard in the graveyard. The visions in his mind flashed between memories of Sirius in the Department of Mysteries and old photographs of his parent's radiant smiles. Harry felt his own shoulders begin to shake as he fought, unsuccessfully, to stem the flood of emotion he'd never expected, nor prepared for. And suddenly, Madam Pomfrey's presence at the service became crystal clear.
As he felt himself dissolving into tears, another hand grasped his securely, nearly crushing the bones in his hand. His breath caught in his throat and the visions in his head subsided as rapidly as they arrived. His breathing slowed and he quickly regained control of the tears that were streaming down his cheeks. He looked to Madam Pomfrey whose eyes were fixed securely on him. The expression on her face fell somewhere between compassion and indignation as she looked back to Hermione concernedly. Realizing his own emotional state was likely affecting Hermione, Harry walked toward the place where Ron, inspecting the memorials sent by the Hogwarts students, had come to an abrupt halt.
A variety of floral arrangements surrounded the tent. While unnoticed by the muggles, many of the flowers had been enchanted. Cards, letters, and even a few stuffed animals littered the graveside.
While walking along the line of gifts, Ron appeared particularly interested in one simple gesture. He was holding a piece of linen parchment lettered in exquisite calligraphy. The name from the handmade card attached to it caught Harry's attention as he assumed it had done with Ron. It was from Merc Thompson. Harry read the inscription on the card as Ron held it at arm's length.
Dear Hermione,
I wish there were words to take away your pain. I wish there was something I could do. I know there is not, but am compelled to try anyway. I hope these words will give you comfort, if not now, later. I wrote them for you. If you ever need anything, know that I'm there for you - even if it's just to hug you until you can't cry anymore.
Love, Merc
As Harry finished reading the card, Ron was already puling the linen parchment to the forefront to read what Merc had written for Hermione. Harry read silently along.
For Hermione:
Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there,
I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow;
I am the diamond glints on the snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain;
I am the gentle autumn's rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush;
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft star that shines at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there;
I did not die.
It was nearly more than Harry could take. He drew a calming breath and walked back to Hermione, Ron still clutching the parchment in his hand behind him.
*
Ron cleared his throat pointedly, drawing Harry's thoughts back to the library. He looked to Ron questioningly only to see him sit up, broad shouldered, while his eyes looked threateningly behind Harry and Hermione. Harry had seen that look before. He turned just in time to see Draco Malfoy sidle up to the table.
"What do you want Malfoy?" Ron asked acidly.
"What is it with you Weasel? I can't even offer my condolences to a fellow classmate without a scathing remark?" he replied.
Ron scoffed. "Like you have a sincere bone in your body to offer condolences with!"
Malfoy lowered his eyes mischievously and leaned forward against the table. "Some of my bones are more sincere than others." Hermione's jaw fell open as both Ron and Harry leapt from the table.
"What the hell does that mean, Malfoy?" Ron exclaimed before Harry got the chance.
Malfoy merely smirked and looked past them both to where Hermione sat. His features softened almost unnoticeably. "For what it's worth Granger, I am sorry about your parents."
"It's not worth much coming from you," Harry said darkly.
"If your opinion mattered to me Potter, I'd be hurt," he replied simply. Malfoy stepped back from the table. "Well, best not to keep you from all this studying. I guess the Head Boy is supposed to at least look studious." Harry shoved his wand hand into his robes, as Hermione grasped his arm.
"Let him go," she said quietly as the trio watched him walk away.
"Let him go," Ron muttered mockingly. "Why? That git deserves a face-lift. I'm all for letting Harry give it to him."
"I don't know," Hermione said thoughtfully. "Something about him is different…not right."
"Hermione, he's never been 'right,'" Harry said casually as he and Ron sat back down.
"He does make a fair point," she continued to amid their shocked expressions. "I don't think I've ever seen you both study this much." Harry exchanged a knowing look with Ron and shuffled in his chair. "What?" she asked, looking between them.
"Nothing," they replied together.
"Okay, now I'm positive you're both hiding something from me. What is it?" Hermione demanded. Harry looked to her questioning brown eyes and felt a sigh of relief. He wanted to tell Hermione what happened in Dumbledore's office, but never felt the time was right, or she was ready to hear it. Although she didn't realize the depth of the question she'd asked, the fact she opened the door to the conversation, made his decision a lot easier.
"Well." He looked to Ron for support. Ron nodded as he put his quill down and settled in for the story. "The truth is…Ron and I aren't working on our homework." Hermione looked questioningly at the parchment and books littering the table.
"Then what is all this?"
"A needle in a haystack," Ron muttered dejectedly.
Harry closed the book in front of him and pushed it along the table toward Hermione. She glanced down at the title and her eyes widened in shock.
"1,000 Years of Dark Magic," she read quietly. "Harry, this is a restricted book about the dark arts!" she hissed.
"I know," he affirmed. "You're the smartest witch at Hogwarts. If you're up to it, Ron and I are in desperate need of your help." Ron nodded quietly.
"Tell me what happened," she said flatly.
***
"Boys," Madam Pomfrey said quietly. Neither he nor Ron moved. "Boys," she reiterated, this time putting her hands on their arms, crossed securely over Hermione's body.
"What did you do to her?" Harry asked, a tear streaming down his cheek.
"The only thing I could do for her," she replied softly. "She'll be fine, but I'd like to make her as comfortable as possible when she wakes up."
"Poppy," Professor Dumbledore's voice floated across the office. "She can rest in my private chamber." A door opened to the trio's left. Harry and Ron looked quizzically toward each other and back to the open doorway. Harry suddenly became aware of the logistics of his situation. He was sitting on the floor, Hermione's full weight stretched between he and Ron, and he had no idea how he would be able to get up from his position, without dropping her, and move her. His predicament didn't last long.
Professor Dumbledore walked from behind his desk and stopped in front of the trio. As he stretched his hand over them, Harry felt Hermione's weight lift from his legs. She glided through the air ahead of him, Madam Pomfrey close behind, and soon the three disappeared into his private chamber.
Harry and Ron stared at each other completely dumfounded. Demonstrations of the Headmaster's power never ceased to amaze them especially when his use of magic employed no wand at all.
Both Harry and Ron collected themselves from the floor and dropped unceremoniously onto the chairs in front of Dumbledore's desk. Within moments, he returned from his chamber and took the seat before them.
"Sir," Harry began. Dumbledore raised his hand to preempt further inquiries.
"Harry, before you ask. There is more you should know about what happened tonight." Harry and Ron exchanged a nervous glance. "We actually doubled the protection on the Granger home this evening. It was not enough. When Professor Snape arrived to relieve the first watch, he found the house in flames, one of our members dead, and the other missing." Harry's heart dropped to his feet.
"Who?"
"Kingsley Shacklebolt died trying to protect the Granger's from the ambush. Professor Snape could not locate Tonks." Harry felt his stomach lurch into his throat. "She arrived under her own power at Grimmauld Place just before Madam Pomfrey brought you to my office."
"So, she's okay?" Ron asked with alarm stamped on his face.
"Poppy says she'll be fine after a few days observation and rest." Harry looked at the Headmaster, studying the features of his face and demeanor. He didn't look tired. He didn't look distinguished. He looked old. Although no one knew how old he really was, it seemed as though every year of his life was ingrained on the lines of his face. It didn't inspire confidence.
"Harry," Dumbledore said softly. "Voldemort's desperation to solidify his position will eventually involve you." Harry felt Ron's eyes on him as he continued to listen to the Headmaster. "This has to stop."
Harry looked to him incredulously. "How am I supposed to stop it?" Frankly he couldn't believe Dumbledore was looking at him as though he had the answers or the responsibility to defeat Voldemort. Afterall, wasn't Dumbledore the most powerful wizard of modern time. He's supposed to be the one with the answers, not seventeen year-old Harry Potter.
"Of that, I'm not sure," Dumbledore conceded. "I've searched for the answer relentlessly over the course of my life. I've not come to any conclusions."
"Sir" Ron interjected. "If you've looked for a way to defeat him for half a century, and found nothing, what makes you think Harry can find it now?"
"Because, for as much as I'm skeptical of divination, I've come to understand one thing about genuine prophecies; they have a tendency to come true." He smiled. "I have come to believe I cannot find the answer to this question because I am not the one destined to solve it."
"You think I can find the answer you can't" Harry asked dumbfounded.
"Yes."
"How?"
"That is the more difficult question to answer," Dumbledore replied. "As with any adversary, I would suggest attacking his weaknesses." Ron and Harry looked between each other and back to the Headmaster. "As I've mentioned before, Voldemort puts very little faith in the branches of ancient magic. He finds ancient magic arcane, useless, and overly complex. His preference for modern magic overlooks the power of our ancestors. It's really quite ironic. Voldemort places such valued importance on the ancestry of pureblooded wizards, yet neglects the branches of magic that essentially derive their power from the magical bonds of family and friendship."
"Hogwarts doesn't exactly teach ancient magic, sir," Harry replied. "How are we supposed to find answers in magic we've never studied?"
"Hogwarts does not teach ancient magic on my orders. I've had far too much experience with ancient magic to not understand its power. Quite simply, it's not a branch of magic appropriate for students."
"But we're students," Ron retorted.
"You are very special students. Sometimes special students have special arrangements."
Harry furrowed his brow inquisitively. "What do you mean?"
"Hogwarts has a rather impressive collection of books devoted to the branches of ancient magic."
"Where?" Harry asked, a sinking feeling settling in his stomach as the memory of a screaming dark arts text leapt to his mind.
"You will have full access to the restricted section of the library," he answered.
"Books?" Ron said disbelievingly. Harry couldn't help but agree with him. Even if they had every textbook ever written on ancient magic and the dark arts, there's a big difference between empirical knowledge and the application thereof. Dumbledore made it a point to mention the complexities and power of ancient magic. Harry was not at all convinced that was something even Hermione could learn from a book.
"You'll also have a rather experienced professor for your studies," Dumbledore added.
"Who?" Harry and Ron chimed together.
"Me."
*
"Dumbledore is teaching us ancient magic?" Hermione said incredulously.
"Well, I don't think he's teaching us in the traditional sense." Harry paused to look past Hermione's shoulder toward the restricted section. The gate opened quietly and Dumbledore emerged leafing through a book. "Hermione, meet our new study partner."
"Ms. Granger," Dumbledore said quietly as he settled himself in a chair at their table. "We're glad to have you back."