PART 1
"I'm a fool," Harry derided himself as silent tears slipped from his eyes, over his ears and onto the pillow on which he was laying. He'd been asking himself how he could have fallen for Voldemort's plans to use Sirius as bait; why he had risked the lives of his friends; why he had lost Sirius; why he had to be the one.
The weight of the world, or the wizarding world anyway, truly rested on his shoulders. Kill or be killed. Those were his options. He despised Voldemort because he was a murderer. The only way to defeat him was to become a murderer himself. There was a battle raging within his psyche. Could he be what he abhorred? Did he have the strength?
All this was locked inside him. There was certainly no one on Privet Drive to whom he could speak about such things. It was bad enough that he was a freak. The Dursleys did not need to know he was a potential killer in addition to being a freak. He was cut off from everyone he loved, not that he could burden Hermione or the Weasleys with this. He couldn't write to Sirius anymore. He was gone. "It's my fault," he told himself. "I already am a murderer." With that conclusion, sobs racked his body. He was alone and miserable with no where to turn.
Miles away, but also in the Muggle world, Hermione sat at a tidy oak desk in her bedroom. She was worried about Harry. In fact, worrying about Harry seemed to occupy most of her thoughts these days. She couldn't even divert her thoughts with The Guide to Common Magical Quick Home Remedies. It seemed there was nothing inside it that addressed the issues of a wounded heart or a tormented soul. She sighed loudly, taking out a quill to begin a letter to Harry... a letter she doubted he would ever see if his blasted Uncle had any say in the matter.
"Hermione, what's the matter, dear?" A woman asked, passing her doorway. Her arms were loaded with freshly folded towels.
"I'm so worried about Harry, Mom. And his uncle confiscates his mail sometime. I want him to know how much I care and I'm not sure he'll get my message."
Mrs. Granger set the towels on her bed and beckoned her daughter to sit next to her. "You really love him, don't you?" she asked perceptively.
Hermione felt her face turning a burning red. "Mom," she sputtered. "We're... we're just friends."
"Honey, your father and I were 'just friends' once too. You're awfully devoted to him to be just his friend."
"You don't know the half of it," Hermione sighed, thinking of their past adventures. It was true. Her mother didn't know the half of it, probably not even an eighth of what her studious responsible daughter did while off at school. Of course Hermione had told them about Harry's heroics, but she often found ways to leave herself out of the more dangerous parts of the stories.
"We can look up his phone number if you don't have it," Mrs. Granger offered. "I'm sure his uncle will let him use the phone if it's not costing him anything."
"Maybe. I'm really worried about him, Mom. Something bad happened at the end of last year and then we all had to leave school. He hasn't had time to deal with it yet. He needs me, Mom. I know he does. He doesn't have anyone who cares about him there."
Mrs. Granger smiled at her daughter. Hermione was in love. It was in her words, her expression, and her commitment. Maybe it was time she met this Harry Potter she'd heard so much about.
"Don't you worry, dear. We'll find a way for you and Harry to talk."