Patchouli

Tic-Tac

Rating: PG13
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 14/04/2004
Last Updated: 14/04/2004
Status: completed

For years a house has lain in ruins, a mystery for the local villagers to solve. But when, one day, a young, troubled girl appears, it seems as if all the pieces of their puzzle are finally coming together ...

Chapters

1. Patchouli

1. Patchouli

Summary: For years a house has lain in ruins, a mystery for the local villagers to solve. But when, one day, a young, troubled girl appears, it seems as if all the pieces of their puzzle are finally coming together …

Be prepared for quite an unusual ride, that’s all I have to say.

* * *

- Patchouli -

In the depths of the country village, past the shiny, newfangled lots; past the London flats and small urban houses; and even past the peaceful country homes, so blessed with the seclusion from both time and distractions, there was a nearly tangible sadness, heavy with doubt and asperity, shuddering and tearful. It was deep in the dying heart where a house lay, ramshackle and derelict, its foundation supported by crumbling dirt, and its outside walls licked by weeds and browning grasses. It was among a cluster of model homes, complete with the fresh smell of drying paint, and it was to these the dilapidated house was compared. Yet as saddening and disgusting its life was, not a soul ventured up to the peeling door and looked though the grimy windows. Not a soul dared ask about its history. It was unknown, and the unknown frightened even the bravest of them. It was as if the house was invisible to all but the corrupted propaganda, and to that there was no resistance on the villagers’ part – the house held no emotional attachment to any of them, so nothing could be severed, and it was beside the fact to propose, of all things, to defend its well-being.

Through the years it sat there, dark and assumedly vacant, wearing a hide of infested wood and a balaclava of velvety moss. People, landowners and businessmen, came and went eagerly. The villagers often wondered when the day would come when the house was torn out of their reach and in its place a new foundation would arise. However, as the landowners said countless times, there was someone living in the place – they could not merely barge into the house and take the owned property.

So they waited, restlessly and impatiently, sighing their annoyances. Until, years later, the grief of continuous lookout overwhelmed them, and they gave up and pushed aside false hope. The house became somewhat of a legend among them; their children were forbidden to go near it, and even the adults shied away if they strayed too close. And every day, they never saw a living creature exit or enter. Except for the lighted oriental-styled lamp in the front window, and the growing pile of rubbish in the front driveway, nothing suggested that anyone (or anything, some people announced with a shudder) lived there.

It became a haunted house of sorts. Halloween stories were centered around its mysterious depths - creaking staircases and moaning doors, flourished with the ill-disguised rumor of ghosts. Poltergeists, whose main goal in life (or death) was to make miserable everyone around them. They became restless, the storytellers said, for no one ever came to the house anymore.

Whether there were poltergeists or not, however, the lot was daunting to all. The knowledge that some poor soul has succumbed to misery, hiding away like an animal, blockading themselves from the rest of the world … the knowledge that someone was so sorrowful, so rejected and harmed … that, in itself, was frightening. They had ideas, thoughts and imaginings, but they didn’t know.

No one knew.

Perhaps if it were common for such behavior to occur, they would have left the house and its occupant to drift away into memory. But curiosity overcame them, as it always does, and each new day was freshly brewed for that sole purpose. Bravery had nothing to do with it - bravery was lacking, in fact, so much that their mystery was not yet solved.

Widely suggested, it was a miracle that the gregariously outspoken villagers did not even consider the fact that someone - a rambunctious adolescent perhaps – was the cause of their loathing fear of the house’s contents. As said by many, the suspect could merely slip into the house each night, light the candles and lamps, and rush off before their parents even noticed their absence. Why did they hold so dearly to the fact that this was indeed a real mystery, with real ghosts and asylum escapees? In that sense, the villagers were ignorant fools - but ignorant fools with the blind luck of fools often succeed, and it was with this case that their suspicions were confirmed. Imagination over knowledge, a wise man once said, and they held that statement true, close to their hearts, and it was with that they began to see the light.

She was a young girl, scarcely two and twenty, with plain fancies and companionable tastes, reserving in herself the distant shadows of her childhood. She had sought comfort and peace in this little country village, moving in without a word in advance (as usually things were set according to the villagers’ neighborly society). And though she was looked upon as a wanderer, she was held in high regard. There was something, an aura, which made her both compelling and inexplicable. She did not speak much or really socialize at all, but kept to herself, quietly going about her business in the same orderly, fastidious fashion. Some marveled at her diligence, her ability to work hard yet seem unstressed. She smiled, yes, but it was melancholy, almost bored. It was almost as if nothing surprised her anymore – as if she were, in fact, much older than her rightful age, and that the twists and turns of life were already trailing harmlessly behind her.

It seemed only natural that the villagers would connect her to the mysterious house, and watch anxiously as she traipsed by each day on her daily route to the spacious library. In the deep recesses of their minds, they knew it was impossible that she would have anything to do with such a downtrodden place, for she certainly seemed clear of all madness; and yet, they watched, as if waiting for empirical evidence of the supposed connection.

But nothing had happened thus far, and the villagers had to ponder if she was not, in fact, connected at all. It was indeed romantic in a nonsensical way, that this ####### of their imaginations could be the one involved in their sparking personal mystery. The people related to her as if they all knew her from somewhere before, and therefore respected her tremendously.

She, however, seemed oblivious to the villagers’ obsession with her normalcy, and it probably was for the best, since she was very introverted, keeping to herself without a word in edgewise. Perhaps, mused the villagers, the stimulation would intimidate her - however, nothing seemed to intimidate her. She was merely withdrawn. Steady and silent, some said lovingly, for she was soon adopted into the villagers’ hearts with compassion; soon dubbed as a true neighbor and a part of their serene country town.

But they knew she was different, as even the dimmest of them could guess without speculation. They knew that behind her flimsy masquerade she was hurt terribly, and without wallowing, she kept forward with a façade of indifference. It was enough to keep herself sheltered from more blows of pain and suffering.

They knew.

* * *

“I positively adore your name, have I ever told you?”

“Yes, actually, yesterday …”

“It’s lovely. Where does it come from?”

“It’s Shakespearean.” Her voice was stressed and exasperated.

“Ah, yes, of course. How could I possibly forget?”

The young woman smiled politely, paid for her croissant, and sat down in the corner of the bakery. It was a cheery day, alight with the sun’s rays, yet she was unable to feel its warmth and comfort. She had come to this secluded country town to seek tranquility, and yet all she received were questions from the villagers living there. They were all polite of course, but after weeks of inquisitions, it became tremendously bothersome, and she had found that the serenity she had been looking for had become even further away as the days rushed past.

But even more disturbing was the feeling that everyone knew who she was; that they knew where she went everyday, to what time she brushed her teeth and tucked in to sleep.

She had thought her past was forgotten, but she was now undeniably unsure.

Averting her eyes from the watchful woman attending the counter, she gathered her belongings, swept up the remaining croissant into a napkin, and left the bakery.

Is this what she really wanted?

It was easy to hide, so easy to hold back the intensity of her true feelings. She had left her life to begin again, and now it felt as if everything was crumbling in around her. She couldn’t help thinking, grief-stricken, horrified, that they knew. They knew whom she was … what had happened. She was a bitter fool even believing for a moment that all that had taken place would be lost in the currents of her memory. It would never be vanquished, and it was in vain to even try …

So were her thoughts as she strode along the cobblestone walkway, passing the smartly painted houses and rows of butter-yellow daffodils. She walked faster, feeling burdened and wholly depressed, but among everything else, it was horrifying to find herself starting to cry. She never cried, but there they were, small crystalline tears dripping into her sweating palm, tracking down her cheeks.

A chill passed over her body then, and she wrapped her shawl tighter around her neck. Instinctively, she turned her face, and found herself looking into the looming shadow of an old, blackened house. For reasons unknown, she found herself feeling frozen, unable to move at all. Her heart was gripped ruthlessly, terribly.

“You think you’re the only one?” he shouted. His eyes were unreadable, dark and sullen, filled with a hurt that she had never seen before.

Her own were blazing. “I’m not letting you go alone!” she shouted, closing the distance between them and gripping his arm. “I would never …” Her eyes were brimming with tears, and she whispered hoarsely, “I couldn’t …”

He pulled his arm out of her reach. “You couldn’t what? If you think … for one moment … if you think that this isn’t hurting me too …”

“Stop it!” she cried, “Don’t you see that I can’t stay here – without you? There isn’t anything left for me!”

He looked into her frustrated tearstained face, into her doe-like, beseeching eyes.

“Don’t you see?” she whispered.

Before she could even register anything in her mind, she was walking the lonely footpath up to the creaking front door. Her eyes flickered quickly to the moth-eaten curtains, draped over the windows, but nothing was to be seen but the built-up dirt from ages of neglect. Her hand touched the old-fashioned doorknocker, but drew back quickly.

He pushed the wisps of hair away from her face, kissing her fluttering eyelids. “Don’t ever leave me.”

“I won’t.”

His lips crashed down on hers, freezing her inside and out, making her senses reel uncontrollably. She gripped his hair, bringing his body closer, and marveled that she taste her own tears …

The young woman’s breath caught in her throat. She looked around herself for a moment, trying to locate where these memories were coming from.

They certainly weren’t hers …

She pushed open the door and gingerly walked inside the old house, her heart beating loudly and painfully. It was no better inside. Every single piece of furniture was completely covered with dust. The doorknob was itching with rust. A cracked lamp lay unused in a corner. Everywhere she turned the house was dark and gloomy, almost tangibly haunted by a lonesome sickness. She shivered involuntarily, half from disgust, half from the sudden cold that overwhelmed her.

He was staring at her, his eyes wide. Panicked, almost, as if everything he had known was utterly useless. Tears leaked through her eyelids, and she buried her face in her hands. “I’m sorry,” she whispered hollowly. “I had to tell you …”

“I didn’t know,” he said quietly. He watched her brokenhearted face. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

He engulfed her in a comforting embrace and rested his head atop hers. “Why didn’t you?”

She sobbed onto his shoulder and shook her head wordlessly. “It makes no sense.”

“How?”

“We’re friends … friends … I … this should never happen to friends …”

He looked into her eyes. “Do you regret it?”

She burned in his gaze, but met him evenly. “No.”

A strange tingling sensation spread from her stomach to her fingertips, and the she frowned as these memories drifted through her mind. She knew those voices – distantly, but she knew them …

She wandered further, her heart now beating uncharacteristically loud, and she found that strangely, she knew this house too. Whether from dreams or reality, she had been to this very place, venturing in its depths …

She looked around, desperately, angrily, and suddenly knew.

With tears quivering in her green eyes, she rushed to the bedroom, where she remembered it to be, and dropped to the floor. There was a quilt there, touched by marks of age, but still bearing the creases of her love, and she brought it to her face. Ignoring the dust and grime, she breathed in its scent. Patchouli. Her mother’s smell …

She looked up and saw her mother standing there, a mere transparency, unaware of her presence. She was sobbing, clutching her heart, a haunting sound escaping her lips. Her mother was just as she remembered her, young and unblemished, and she found herself both terrified and grief-stricken, watching this woman - her mother – weep tearlessly on her own rotting floor …

Scrambling up from her position, the young woman ran towards the front door, past the ghostly vision of her deceased mother, and grasped the doorknob, throwing it open and stumbling outside. From inside the house, an eerie wail resounded.

She never knew …

And for the first time in her twenty-one years, Celia Granger completely broke down and wept.

* * *

Mere days later, as it was told, the people of the village were ceremoniously invited to a funeral. It was a sad event, as all funerals are, but unknown, and the villagers were curious. They knew that she was there, and that she hosted it, and they were bitterly pleased that she finally had overcome her apparent shyness to present such a sorrowful occurrence. She introduced herself to all, and told whom the funeral was for.

‘My mother,’ she started in a shaken voice, ‘was a wonderful, compassionate woman. My father was a hero. I never knew them well, for they died before my second birthday, but I knew this one fact. I was adopted into their nearest friend’s family, but I never knew of my history …’ Here her tears began to fall. ‘But even when I was small, barely able to speak simple words, I knew that I would never be first priority. They loved each other more than they loved anyone, including me …’

She walked down from the pedestal, tears leaking from her eyes, and said quietly, ‘They were never even married. I want to give them that, at least.’

She gestured to the beautifully carved headstone, complete with a glossy marble lion atop, and the villagers leaned in to read the words engraved onto its surface:

Harry and Hermione Potter

Kindred Spirits Forever United

Those few who felt it later told that there was a rushing sound much unlike the wind, a passing chill, and the ghostly figures of the young lovers rose into the heavens.

Well, that is, as the villagers tell it.

* * *

A/N: I said that the weirdest story I had written was To Be, but I’m not sure anymore. This one surely gives it a run for its money. I’m sure at least half of you thought it was Hermione who came to the village, not her daughter. :)

This story was based slightly on a true story – my own insecure mind, friends (sadly), and a creepy old house we have in our neighborhood. Basically everything about the house is true, besides the fact that I’ve never seen the inside. This may not add up to you fine people, but it’s not supposed to really. Also, I know there were no cutesy “moments”, but that’s what happens when I write angst.

Thank you, of course. You guys really make my day.

-Lauren

btw, I decided NOT to write the dates of *sniffle* Harry and Hermione’s deaths because 1) I honestly don’t know when they were “born” and so forth, and 2) I wanted it to feel sort of surreal, if you catch my drift. :P