Boys Don't Cry
Disclaimer: don't own Harry Potter or any of its characters except Matthew and the plot.
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To my pal, Ann, and her sister. Thanks for agreeing to take me to go see PoA on the first day. And thanks to all the reviewers!! You keep me going.
Yes, I've got some twists planned in this story-for the remainder of it, anyway. Here are some things to look forward to in the next chapter(s): Their return to Hogwarts, a kiss (between who, I won't tell), the ball, Harry and Hermione's dance, a trip outside in the cold snow and…
Well, I don't want you all to know what's going to happen in the end, now, do I? So I'll just keep you guessing about what else happens. A couple of more chapters, until the end!! Happy reading!
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Secret
Harry slammed the door as he walked inside. The room was dark and undisturbed, even with the echoing and shattering impact of the door. He strode over to his bed, and grabbed his trunk from underneath. He set it on the bed hastily, his emerald eyes flashing in the dark, opening it with shaking hands.
He didn't waste any time with a packing spell, though he knew to take everything. He was too angry to try to manage the spell. He grabbed his clothes from the drawers, throwing it into the case, then rushing off to snatch everything else of his belongings.
His heart was pounding fast, his pulse throbbing. The air was chilly in his room, making goose bumps rise on his skin, but he didn't notice. Outside, the moon was like a thin, silver smile sliced into the night sky. The clouds hung heavy and hovered. He could hear his heavy footsteps on the carpeted floor, striding over to one place then the next. He went over to his desk, seizing his quills and parchments, and then throwing them inside the trunk. He swiped off the rest in an angry accident, hearing the crash as they fell to the ground. With a frustrated cry, he leaned down on his knees and hurriedly tried to gather his things. His eyes were stinging and hurting from trying to keep the tears back, his lungs burning and feeling as if they were about to detonate any second now. His mind was screaming at him, its voices bellowing and shrieking, begging him not to go but at the same time rejoicing. His heart was tugging at him, roaring to be heard and to be obeyed, but he did not listen. Everything seemed to be racing, moving so fast and leaving him all alone and broken, with no one to help him or notice. He felt like everything was going wrong, everything was crashing down on him but not managing to kill him like he begged.
While everything fell and collapsed in ruins around him, he stood there, in shock and with a broken heart and spirit.
He tried to breathe steadily, but it came out as heavy and tight breaths. His chest felt as if tightly bound with the rope of guilt, mistakes and anger cutting into him. The darkness and cold silence was deafening; there was a thundering roaring in his ears that made him feel as if he was just on the edge of finally breaking. He felt as if he had been torn and ripped apart, his heart and flesh, his spirit and mind. His limbs were numb but too heavy and slow, his mind was too shrill and clawing at him. His heart was beating too loudly and strangling him. His lungs were burning from not breathing enough, but smoldering from the toxic of breathing. His bones felt jagged and sharp, breaking and puncturing through his skin. His thoughts were icy and toothed, eating him from inside out.
All at once, it seemed as if every thought in the world he had ever thought came rushing back to him. It was like being in a crowded and tight room with people who screamed and talked over one another. The air was hot and stuffy, but here it was freezing and painful. He was squeezed in between strangers and tried to find a way out, but here he was surrounded with people he knew and loved, and tried to find a way to make them see him.
He was angry, sad, torn, hurt and miserable.
He didn't know before it was possible to feel so many intense things at once, but now he knew. And it was strangling him, choking him with its cold hands.
He gathered up the fallen things, his fingers numb but burning. It was hard to see and his mind was swirling and spinning in a dizzy circle, but he kept on. He scooped up the things he could fit in his hands and laid them on the desk, before crouching down again. He felt some tiny pieces on the ground, but he did not recognize them.
Just then, as he tried to pick them up, one pierced into his finger as he cried out suddenly, and dropped it. He shook his hand, but soon felt the blood seeping out. Sighing angrily, he stood up and crossly whispered the spell for the lights. He blinked furiously trying to get adjusted to the abrupt effect.
He looked down at his finger, and saw as blood seeped through his minor wound. He wiped the blood away with his shirt, squeezing for a moment, and then letting go. He raised his hand again and saw that it was a fairly deep cut embedded on his finger. He glared at the wound, feeling it throb and watch as it filled with blood once again, before walking back over to his desk.
He saw papers on the floor, and jagged, small pieces of glass. Curious, he kneeled back down and picked up the papers to put them on the desk. That was when he saw and realized what had been the cause for the broken glass.
There, standing before him, was their picture. The frame was broken, the glass cracked, and there was a vast hole where the glass had been shattered from the fall. Feeling his heartbeats and thoughts suddenly fade into silence, he swept away the broken pieces of glass and picked up the picture.
He swallowed hard, feeling his throat tighten and become awfully dry.
It was the picture of the two of them. Hermione and him, at Hogwarts, in the beginning of the year. He remembered this. Ron had gone over to fetch Lavender, and Ginny had wanted to take a picture of the two of them. He remembered that it had been a frosty morning, fresh white snow blanketing the grounds, the air chilly and biting at their fingers and noses. His eyes trailed over the picture, feeling his heart suddenly melt, as if the spring thaw after winter. His fingers buzzed, his green eyes softening and his lungs aching from forgetting to breathe. He traced her outline slowly with his fingers.
Her cheeks were rosy from the cold, her smile breath-taking in the picture. A nippy, strong breeze had swept by at the time she was about to take the picture, and Hermione's hat had flown away. Harry remembered, immediately launching after her hat, as Hermione also tried to catch it. He had gotten to it first. After dusting the snow off of her hat, he had stood in front of her and fitted it on her head.
That's when Ginny had taken the picture. She had captured the moment. Their moment.
Her smile was wide, as she was laughing, looking up at him. Her brown eyes were twinkling, like the stars in the midnight sky. Her face was turned up to him, as he was looking down at her, grinning and laughing.
They had been happy. He had been happy. No one had left anyone behind. He loved her, and it still had been a mystery before if she loved him, or could ever love him, but he remembered, at that moment, that look in her eyes…
He remembered that flare that sparked inside him, filling his heart and stomach with warmth. That was when hope had constructed. That was when he was not afraid to hope that there had to be something in there for him.
The picture in his hands moved, like a movie before his eyes. He saw them laughing all over again, fitting her hat on her hand and looking down at her with such love and longing. Happiness. She looked up at him and smiled her smile that had always managed to melt everything inside him, their faces just inches from each other's.
But seeing, watching, the picture before him, everything inside him began to stir. He felt his memories come rushing back to him, old and new, from the years before and from just moments ago. He felt it carry him away, sweep him off of his feet and drop him back into that sea of recollections. He felt it, everything, all over again. Every single emotion, every single drop of his spirit that had flooded, every blow that had broken his heart. He felt it all.
He remembered smiling and laughing with Ron and Hermione, and the way he felt his emotions spark suddenly, one day with Hermione. He remembered wanting to always be with her, and one day realizing that he loved her. He remembered swearing to himself that she and Ron would not get hurt because of him when Voldemort had risen. He remembered hearing the news that she had been taken, and feeling that anxiety and anger, guilt and frustration mound inside him as he thought about her, day and night, trying to find a way to contact or get through to her.
He remembered seeing her in his dreams, bloodied and bruised. And the way she had screamed in anguish and pain, and called out his name.
He remembered feeling his heart break whenever he heard it.
He remembered finding her, and almost dying in the hands of Voldemort. She had been unconscious, for Voldemort had tortured her one last time before him, making sure he was watching the woman he loved, hurting. He could feel the relief and happiness again, of hearing that she was going to be just fine. He remembered the joy and the way his heart had stopped when he saw her again.
He remembered the night he had watched her cry as she begged him to stay. And that he wanted to cry also, but had just barely held back the tears.
He remembered holding her, feeling her tears soak through his shirt and onto his skin. He remembered hearing her say the words that made him hold onto her tighter and more determined to return. He remembered kissing her, tasting her salty tears, placing kisses on her cheeks, eyelids, nose, forehead, and chin. He remembered feeling that glowing light fill him.
He remembered feeling her smooth skin underneath his hot and burning fingertips, roaming her body and holding her close. The way she had held onto him, the way her hands had flamed his skin, marking him with her touch.
He remembered coming back. His broken heart. Her goodbye. It was real. All of it. It had been.
He didn't remember standing and walking to his bed, or sitting down, or how, but he was there. He still held the picture in his hands, not gently, nor as if he was grasping onto it for life. He was not aware of how the lights had flickered off, leaving him in the darkness once again. The picture in his hands replayed the same happy scene all over again, but in his eyes, he saw everything. It was flashing before him, flickering and blinking in his eyes. His memories.
And he sat in the darkness, that night, staring at the picture in his hands. He did not think of anything else, but instead relived every moment that passed through his mind, and captured his heart.
He did not leave that night. He was angry and hurt, so hurt that he had been so prepared of running away and leaving, without looking back, but…he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to. He couldn't bring himself to pack everything else up, or even just taking what he had packed up and going through that door. Instead he just sat there, closing his eyes and holding himself. He dropped the picture from his hands, hearing the distinct crash and the remaining glass shattering on the ground, as he buried his face in his arms.
He didn't cry. Although he felt broken and torn apart, every limb and every vein warped, twisted and broken, he didn't cry.
He was engulfed in that silence, the darkness embracing him with its cold and abundant arms. It roared in his ears and deafened his senses, making him feel frozen, but at the same time he was trembling. The moon shone through his window and the darkness, but even that did not catch his attention. Everything seemed to be dimmed in his eyes, no color, no warmth.
There was happiness and warmth in his memories, in the past that flashed before his eyes, but even that seemed faded and worn. Slowly, they were being drained of color too. Slowly, they did not even seem to be real, anymore. He saw himself in them, but he could no longer remember, as the pictures and images started to vanish.
The smiling was foreign and alien to him. The sparkle in his eyes non-existent, and he was too numb to miss it. He was hurt, but he was so hurt and broken he could no longer feel it. He was bleeding inside, but he could not feel the warmth escaping from him. He barely remembered having any warmth inside at all.
These days… The battle. He had imagined a happy ending. He had imagined laughter and joy, celebration and smiles. High spirits, reunions and reuniting of strangers.
It was so far away now. He had been so wrong. He had been so ready to expect the best. Hope, whispered prayers that he had said in his mind. He hadn't expected hurt and pain; he thought that that was all part of the past…
He was wrong again.
He was so alone. In the dark room, as the heavy clouds moved and blocked the moon, the shadows looming and watching. He had never felt this before, no, not as strongly as now. He had no one.
Not Hermione, not Ron, not Remus, not anyone.
For once in his life, he had no one to turn to, to at least make it all a little better. For once, Harry Potter had no one.
He was alone, but he did not leave. He did not run away. And he thought, because of all the strings that held him back as he struggled to get out, that there was hope. That there could still be a happy ending, for him.
Because that was the best notion he could think of to keep him from letting the tears escape.
He could not bear to think that he was wrong.
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Harry woke up from a distinct clicking, and the sunbeams blinding him. He squinted his eyes, and growled. The window was filled with light; so much bright light flooding in that he knew it could not be from nature's intentions. He reached for his glasses, cursing under his breath, and also grabbing his wand. He heard footsteps and other soft noises that seemed so loud in his undisturbed and quiet room. His room had been so utterly devoid of any sound at all, that it rang through his ears more loudly than it would have.
He put on his glasses hastily, swinging his legs over the side of his bed, facing the window. He knew sunlight that had been enacted by a spell when he saw one. It was much too bright, and it was in the middle of icy rain and snow, the last time he had checked.
"Debilito Solaris," he said irritably. In one swift motion, the sunlight vanished, as if being boxed up, leaving the room in dim darkness again. He heard a loud `thump', as he turned around.
There, standing at his desk, digging through his drawers, was a tall, dark haired boy in dark robes that clung to his ankles. Harry glared at him, his eyes flashing. But just as he opened his mouth to swear at the boy, Matthew had frozen, as if suddenly realizing that the sunlight had disappeared suddenly, and turned around quickly. Matthew grinned at him slightly, as Harry clutched his wand tightly.
"I see you've woken," Matthew said, sighing as he closed the drawer. He turned to Harry. "But, I hope you didn't mind, you could use some light in this room." He frowned, as he looked over at the window. "I see now that you did." Harry growled.
"I locked that door," Harry snarled. "Locked doors mean no visitors, or in your case, trespassers. Get out." Matthew smiled at him, and Harry got a bad, twisting feeling inside.
"Simple lock spell, simple opening spell… My father was a Professor at Hogwarts. I know more than you think," he said darkly. Harry swore at him.
"What do you want?" he almost shouted, angrily. "You come in here, rummaging through my stuff without my permission, and now you want small talk? Just tell me what it is you came in here for." Matthew shook his head, as the odd smile plastered on his face continued to raise suspicions and strange feelings inside him. The dark haired boy bent down, in front of Harry's bed, and Harry saw a glint from what he was holding. Matthew raised his eyebrows.
"What a darling picture," he said dryly. Harry's mouth was pressed into a thin line, his emerald eyes dark with anger. "Such a shame it's ruined…did you decide to throw this frame against a wall, or something, last night?" he asked, slightly amused, showing Harry the picture. Harry stood up, furious, walked over to him, and snatched the picture away. Matthew looked at him darkly.
"Get out," Harry hissed, pointing to the door. Matthew stared at him, his eyes unreadable.
"I heard, what happened, last night," he said quietly and firmly. "I'm sorry." Harry continued to fiercely look at him.
"Is that all you have to say? To apologize? Okay then, you did, now get out." Matthew just looked at him, his dark eyes not revealing a single fleck of emotion. He sighed, as he looked around the room, and then looked up at Harry again.
"Everyone's worried sick about you, you know. They all heard. They feel terrible. They had no idea what had happened and what toll it took on you. And last night… Hermione's in ruins. Remus won't speak to anyone. And you… you're always locked up in this bloody room." Harry's eyes narrowed at him.
"I want you to get out," he jeered. "Now." Matthew raised an eyebrow at him, but his expression did not change.
"You really are a selfish bastard," he said, and as soon as Harry heard his words, Matthew was pinned up against the wall, Harry's wand pointing at his throat. His green eyes were flashing, furious.
"I don't know what you're trying to play at," Harry hissed, "but you'd better tell me now, because I'm in no mood to play whatever childish game it is that you're engaging." Matthew's eyes darkened, as he wrapped his hands around Harry's wrists and pushed them away with so much force that Harry staggered back. Matthew looked at him, quietly, before speaking.
"I know how much she means to you, so I thought you might want to know," he said. Harry got the hint that he was talking about Hermione, and he felt something cut inside his stomach, burning in deeper.
"What?" Harry snarled.
"He contacted her, Harry." Harry felt his insides twist up inside, knotting tightly. His mind filled with questions, as he looked at Matthew in confusion.
"What?" Harry asked again, this time his anger fading from his voice, but just worry and puzzlement. "Who contacted her?" Matthew looked at him, his eyes as dark as he imagined bottomless pits and complete darkness would be. His eyes were solemn, and his features were dead serious.
"While you were gone. Voldemort got through to her. Hermione," he paused, as if trying to give Harry some time to get it through his mind. "He contacted her," he said gravely. Harry stared at him, frozen. He wasn't sure whether to believe him… Voldemort was dead. He had killed him. He couldn't have… No, he couldn't have…
"It was on the second day," he said. "When you were still out waiting for him and his Death eaters." Harry couldn't move. His heartbeats had silenced, the quietness cutting through him like an extremely sharp sword that could have sliced him in half without any struggle. His blood ran cold, as his breathing halted.
It couldn't be true. It couldn't.
"What?" Harry asked again, as quiet as a whisper, in disbelief. He stared at Matthew, who wasn't saying any more. Harry felt his anger rise through him again, buzzing and humming. He clenched his fists, setting his jaw.
"That's not possible," he said forcefully and firmly. "This house is protected by the strongest spells and enchantments that it could only be contacted through if Dumbledore himself or the members of the order permitted the message or messenger. I saw it with my own eyes. There's not a chance in hell that Voldemort had gotten through. It's not possible. He couldn't have broken through, even if he had used the most powerful spell that could break, or even rival the ones that they had protected this house with. It's just not possible," he said, getting angrier with every word that had escaped his mouth. Matthew looked at him.
"You don't believe me, do you?" he said, without emotion or amusement as if it was all just a stupid prank or joke they had decided to pull on Harry Potter. Harry could've sworn his voice was dripping with pessimism and hate. "I suspected as much." Harry rushed towards him, grabbing the fronts of his robes.
"What are you playing at, Matthew?" he said to him, dangerously. "What's your plan? Why did you come here?" Matthew's eyes flickered with anger and hostility, as he pushed Harry away.
"Get your hands off me, Potter," he spat. "I'm not playing at anything. It's the truth. I heard her, through her door. He did contact her. Don't think, not even for a damn minute, that I would lie to you about such a thing." Harry could feel himself start to shake, his fingers digging into his palms.
"If it were true, you would've told the other members of the Order-" Harry started, his voice forceful and on the edge of rage, but Matthew interrupted him.
"You idiot!" he said harshly. "Why do you think I didn't tell anyone? Because she caught me, and made me swear not to tell!"
"I don't care!" Harry shouted, livid. "I don't care if she pleaded or begged at your feet! You're a part of the Order; you knew the danger she was in! You were supposed to tell them! She could've been hurt, or worse, killed, or even lured away from here-"
"But she wasn't!" Matthew snapped. "And, just because you, Harry Potter, can't keep a promise, doesn't mean I can't." Harry rushed at him again, uncontrollable rage coursing through him. But Matthew seemed to know exactly his move, and blocked him first, pinning him again the wall. Harry struggled to get out of his grasp, but Matthew was too strong. His eyes were glittering dimly.
"She wasn't hurt," he said to him, lowly. "And if she was even a yard within being harmed, I would've protected her with my life. I'm not stupid, Potter, I know what's at stake." Harry glared at him.
"How," Harry said darkly, "did Voldemort manage to contact her through all the spells, enchantments they had put on this place? I want to know." Matthew let go off him, stepping back, his dark eyes dimmed with danger.
"If I knew, I would've stopped it at once and alerted Dumbledore," he said. "But I don't, so the matter is out of my hands." Harry felt annoyance build up inside him, mixing in intoxicatingly with his anger.
"What did he do to her?" Harry demanded. "What did he say to her?"
"She's stubborn," Matthew hissed. "Too bloody stubborn for her own good. She wouldn't tell me, and then threatened that if I told a soul, she would deny it all." Harry's eyes turned into slits.
"This seems suspicious to me," he said threateningly. Matthew's face contorted with anger and impatience.
"Bloody hell, Potter," he spat. "You really think I would make all this up? Do you really think I would lie about this? What, if you don't mind to tell me, could I possibly gain from lying about such a situation? Is there wealth tucked away in some corner that I would receive if I lied to the Famous Harry Potter and he fell for it? Because, Merlin's knickers, if there was, then I would be trying much, much harder to try to get you to believe me. But I think my patience is wearing thin, now. And frankly, I don't even care anymore if you believe me or not. It's your bloody life, your bloody ex-girlfriend whom you still supposedly love, and now that everything's all right in the world with the Dark Lord gone, I don't have to stick around for you anymore. I don't even have to be here, telling you this. But oh, fool that I was, I thought you might have wanted to know." Matthew's eyes darted from Harry, giving him one last hate-filled look, before turning and heading towards the door. Harry's eyes followed him, shaking from rage.
But before Matthew had walked through the door after throwing it open, he halted, and looked over his shoulder. He had a sinister smile on his face.
"Though, I'd be an idiot not to at least put it into consideration. There are still threats on the rise, even if you've defeated Voldemort. Oh, and I wouldn't mention it to Hermione," he smiled wider. "She's a rather good actress, you know. Could fool anyone, if they didn't know any better." And with that, he walked out and closed the door behind him with a slam. Harry let out a livid cry, as he grabbed the vase of dead flowers beside his bedside and thrust it against the door.
The vase shattered and the water burst, spewing into the air. The wilted flowers were scattered and broken, thrown against the firm door. The dark and discolored petals rained down, falling to the carpeted floor. Harry turned and let out another anguished and angry yell, as he turned and drove his fist into the wall, shaking and trembling.
His breaths were hard, tight and ragged, as his body sagged against the wall, his forehead sliding against the solid barrier. He was so angry, so shocked, so confused.
He didn't understand. He couldn't understand.
Questions swarmed his mind, poking and jabbing at him with their pointed fingers. He didn't know what to do, what to believe, although in his heart he knew Matthew was right. That what he had been saying was true. He refused for that to be his decision, for he had no proof at all, but what did Matthew have to gain from lying to him about such a thing as that? What plan could he possibly have?
He couldn't think of anything, anything at all.
His world was spinning, rocking and tilting. He felt as if he could not grasp onto anything to keep from falling. He was swimming in confusion and worry… anger and fear snatching at his ankles.
What could Voldemort have possibly done to Hermione? How could he have contacted her? What did he say to her? All these questions… no answers… no way to find them…
He was lost.
He did not know what to do.
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Harry knew when they were to be leaving for Hogwarts. The next day, he had already started to pack everything else up that he had left out. Molly Weasley had kindly knocked on his door and reminded him to prepare and that they were to leave the day after. He nodded and said his thanks, as she gave him the best smile she could and closed the door.
He resumed in packing his things.
He had tried looking for Hermione, hoping to catch her in the halls or down in the kitchen. But not once had he seen her. He hadn't seen Remus either, except when he had gone down to the kitchen and he was talking to Mrs. Weasley. Harry had seen that look in his eyes, how they had somehow darkened when Remus saw him. Harry had just looked at him with no emotion evident in his expression, before turning away and heading back up to his room.
He intended to apologize to Remus, he did. It hurt to know that he had uttered such hurtful words to him; but for once, in his life, he had finally felt as if he was being truthful. Because what he had said was the truth. The complete, God-honest, truth.
And though guilt had mounted inside him once he had the energy to calm down and think, he couldn't help but feel a sort of release. He never had the courage to actually tell people the whole truth: always leaving tidbits and sometimes the most important details out. He wanted to, to show them how being blasted Harry Potter hurt him sometimes, when he was at his most vulnerable. He wanted to tell them what he had felt build up inside him over the past years of having Voldemort running around, harming the ones he loved. And now…after what had happened…
It was sort of like he had just enough. Like he had just burst from all the intense emotions, bitterness and reckless anger that had been growing within him through all his years. He couldn't take it anymore.
And that's when he had spilled out the truth.
He had felt that the world had turned its back on him, when, he did not know, but he knew it. It was wrong of him to let it all out on Remus…but he felt as if Remus misunderstood everything that had been happening. Everyone had.
Harry sighed, slowly folding his clothes and placing them inside his trunk. He felt his stomach sink in deeper, as he closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands.
His mind kept flashing back to his conversation with Matthew. He curled his fingers, feeling his fingernails dig into his forehead. He felt his rage rise inside him, as he shut his eyes much more tightly. He still didn't understand. He couldn't find a way to piece it all together… It was like a big, complex puzzle that he had to finish, but didn't have all the pieces to. He knew there was something he was leaving out, something that either Matthew didn't know or didn't want to tell him.
How could Voldemort have broken past through all the spells and enchantments without setting off the alarm? There wasn't a way inside without a permitted portal from a member inside the house, but there was only one person who could create the portal. Only one person knew the spell… And it was Molly Weasley.
He sighed, frustrated. It didn't make any sense at all. He had to get more information. He had a very bad, creeping feeling that this situation was more than it seemed.
He had a bad feeling that what he had stepped into was more dangerous than anyone would suspect.
Immediately, Harry raised his head from his hands and bolted up on his feet. He had to talk to Hermione…even if she was going to be as stubborn as he thought she was going to be, he had to try. He couldn't let anything slip by at all.
The last time he had let that happen, she was taken and barely managed to survive.
He couldn't take any chances.
He threw the door open, as he ran out into the hallway. He had to talk to her. He had to try.
He ran down the empty hallway, his footsteps knocking against the hardwood floor. He stopped at her door, breathing hard. He raised his hand and knocked on her door. He waited.
There was no answer.
He knocked again, this time louder.
There was no sound inside the room. He listened hard for rustling sheets, muffled and coming footsteps… anything at all. There was nothing. He felt panic shoot through him. He grasped the doorknob, and to his surprise, it wasn't locked.
"Hermione?" he said, as he opened the door slowly. He walked inside the room, dark, cold and calm. He looked around her room, but she was nowhere to be found. He sighed, sitting down at the edge of her bed and closing his eyes for a moment, trying to gather all of his scattered thoughts.
She was safe. She had probably just gone downstairs or went to the bathroom. After reassuring himself that she was far from the grasps of danger, he opened his eyes again.
He looked around the chilly room. It was dark; tinted with silence and shadows. He had remembered that this was how her room had looked when he had come in. Undisturbed and dim. He felt sadness reappear within him, looking at her window.
It was still blocked. There was no sign of the outside world peeking in from outside the glass, or the frost that had been left over. Her room looked just like a room of someone who did not want to be reminded that there was a whole world outside of the walls and windows.
He tore his eyes away from the window, feeling his heart slowly being ripped apart once again.
He looked over at her desk, where there had been once parchments and about a dozen books piled atop. He smiled sadly. He remembered that Molly had had to borrow some books from Remus, hoping that Hermione's love for reading would get her mind off of him. He recalled what Mrs. Weasley had said to him, smiling sorrowfully.
"Apparently, she loves reading. But not as much as she loves you. I don't think even she noticed that the books were there."
The desk was now empty. It had been wiped clean, and the books he knew to be there were non-existent.
He looked beside him, on the far edge opposite from him, of the bed.
Her trunk lay there, motionless. He smiled weakly as he saw her initials in faded and chipped pink letters that had been once a vibrant red back in their early years of Hogwarts. He stood up, and slowly walked over to the trunk.
He slid his fingers over the smooth wood, slowly tracing the letters that had been carved in. He lowered his hands and unclasped the lock, raising the top.
He laid the top back, and saw a neatly covered item, enveloped in a soft, white cotton fabric. He looked closer, and saw something flashing, a small part of the object inside peeking out. Curious, he slowly put his hands inside the trunk and brought the wrapped item closer to him. He gently unwrapped the fairly heavy piece, and smiled at what he saw inside, feeling his throat tighten and suddenly go dry, as if parched and desiccated.
Framed in dark silver swirls and twisting vines, shining dimly like metal coal, was a picture of them. Him, Harry Potter, and Hermione Granger. He felt his heartbeats suddenly cease into a dull silence, watching the scene of the two of them before him. He recognized it. He had seen it before, watched it dozens of times that he had memorized every single motion, every single twinkle in her eyes, and the way her lips had curled into such a beautiful and genuine smile.
The picture Harry Potter held in his hands was the same he had framed on his desk.
It was the same, and he smiled wider at the thought of Ginny replicating the photo she took of the both of them. Ginny had always had an eye for things such as love, thanks to Pavarti Patil and Lavender Brown. But he guessed that Ginny knew when it was the real thing and when it was just some fantasy created from the thirst of new gossip to parade around the school. And as he watched the picture replay before him, he knew that he had to find some way to thank Ginny later on.
He watched as the Harry inside the picture fitted Hermione's hat on her head and laughed and smiled with her, as she looked up at him with her deep, glittering brown eyes. He felt the same restlessness return inside his stomach, his heart doing little cartwheels, remembering. For that one moment, he allowed himself to be entranced and swept away by the feeling and memory. Back when everything had been just fine. No complications, no problems, no broken hearts and hurtful words. And while those days had not exactly been perfect, they seemed closer to perfect than he thought he would ever come across. Those days seemed like the closest to perfect that he would ever come.
"Harry?" he turned his head immediately, and saw Molly Weasley standing in the doorway. He looked down at the picture in his hands, and made to instantly put it away.
"Oh, no, Harry," she said, as he halted his actions. "I'm sure she wouldn't mind. Go on. It's such a darling picture. Of course, I'm quite sure you have one of the same in your room." He looked up at her, and saw her smiling at him. She was not smiling very wide, but wide enough to let him know that she was being sincere and truthful. He smiled weakly at her, before turning his gaze back to the picture.
"I do," he said, almost as quiet as a whisper. He looked back at her, just as she was walking towards him. She stood beside him, gazing down at the picture. Her smile was of admiration. "How did you know?"
"I remember Ginny asking me for a replication spell, through owl," she said, not looking up at him. "Of course, I made her explain what it was for, and she told me that it was for a sweet picture she took of you and Hermione; so that the both of you would have a copy." Harry nodded, looking down at the picture, before watching her as she lifted her gaze to the window behind him. Her eyes dimmed with worry and sadness. He silently enveloped the frame back in the cloth, and put it back gently in her trunk. Harry sighed.
"Mrs. Weasley…I'm terribly sorry about…the other day. I didn't mean…I shouldn't have said it that way." She looked at him and smiled weakly.
"There's no need to apologize to me, Harry," she said. "I understand, and I'm sorry that we've misunderstood the pressure and pain you've gone through. I'm the one who should be sorry. I assume it's just because we've all been so caught up in the plan of meeting…" she paused, still unsure to say Voldemort's name. She started again, "I'm so sorry, child. And I never really did know what happened between you and Hermione…but I'm sorry. I really am. Remus is too…" she sighed. "You ought to talk to him, Harry." Harry nodded, looking away. "I know he can be difficult at times, but just know that he's just so protective of both you and Hermione. He knows the toll the loss of both your parents and Sirius took on you… and, it seems to me, that all he wants to do is at least make it better for you. He wants to be there for you, because Sirius entered your life at such a late moment and passed away at such an early instant. He wants to be there for you, because Sirius never really had a chance to." Harry closed his eyes, feeling a slight dizziness swirl around him, hearing her words. He felt that same stone being lodged in his throat.
Remembering had never been so painful.
"Mrs. Weasley," Harry finally said, quietly. He opened his eyes and looked at her. "Would you happen to know where Hermione might be? I need to talk to her." She nodded, looking at him sadly and smiling slightly. She walked past Harry and closer to the window, as he watched her.
"Point your wand to the window, and say `Obsidium Evanesco'," she instructed. Harry nodded, as he took out his wand and did just as she said. Instantly, the midnight cover slid down and disappeared into thin air. Harry saw the snow fall down softly outside, like cold angel kisses. Molly neared the window, looking out, and Harry followed.
Outside, in the backyard, were two figures. He recognized them; a girl with wavy and slightly frizzy russet hair peeking out from a hat he remembered all too well, and a figure in a dark cloak, and from a peek at his face, he was sure it was Remus. He watched as an owl plopped a small, black sack in her hands, and flew away into the sky. He looked on curiously, as Hermione put the bag inside the pocket of her cloak, without checking to look inside the sack. He watched as Remus gave Hermione back her wand and she nodded, pointing it at him.
Suddenly, Remus pointed his wand at her and a bright, blue beam shot out. He watched in horror, as Hermione tried to engage a shield, but failed to create it strong enough and the beam shot through it easily and shot her square on the chest. His eyes widened as she fell back into the snow, a pained expression on her face. He took a step back, making to turn around and to run to her, but he felt a hand grab his arm firmly.
"Watch, Harry," Molly said to him, not taking her eyes off of the scene.
He looked out, his heartbeats booming in his chest. Hermione had gotten up, panting hard with a look of anguish on her face. But she stood up, pointing her wand and nodded. He watched as another beam blasted out of Remus's wand, and she attempted to make another shield. Again, it wasn't strong enough, and it broke through and hit her. Harry's mouth dropped open in shock, at Remus who wasn't even helping her up, though she scrambled back on her feet. He watched continuously, as she tried and tried again to make a strong enough shield. Finally, she made one that the beam could not penetrate through, and his heart ached at the look on her face.
She was smiling. The first time he had seen her smile through these days.
"He's training her," Molly explained. "Hermione had requested him to teach her some stronger spells to help protect herself-"
"For what?" Harry blurted out. "She's no longer in harm's way, is she? Voldemort was defeated, and she's not… She's not a target anymore, is she?" She sighed.
"Harry… We're hoping she's not, but it doesn't hurt to be careful, does it?" Harry stared out at snow-blanketed ground below him.
"No, I guess not."
"You could wait until they're done…but I assume that they'll not be done for quite a while. I could call her for you, if you want. I'm sure she'd-"
"No, no, that's alright, Mrs. Weasley," he shook his head. "I'm sure I can talk to her later." She nodded.
"I best be going, Harry. I wish you luck with everything," she said, as she made her way out of the room. As soon as he heard her footsteps fade away as they got farther, he sighed, before turning away from the window. He walked towards her trunk, gazing at it for a moment, before raising his hands. He laid the top down, closing her trunk, and closed the clasps. He let his hands stay on the chest, his fingers frozen on the wood. He slowly slid them along the carved details and the rough spots from over the years of being bumped along the walls. Just then, his fingers found some foreign markings. He slowly turned the trunk to its side, and smiled at his discovery.
He remembered. Malfoy and his little pest cronies had put a spell on her trunk, about the beginning of last year, carving letters on every inch of the surface. Every remark, just as Malfoy had planned, indicated her so-called and gossiped about `feelings' for him, back when everyone had teased and gossiped about their mutual and simple friendship, which was not so simple or plain in their eyes. He remembered Hermione, flushed crimson in the face, once she had discovered the markings on her trunk. He remembered the way she swore under her breath, cursing Malfoy, and tried to make the carvings vanish, only to find out that Malfoy had also put some anti-removing spell on it too. The rather ridiculous prank had driven her to the library, researching for some spells to remove an anti-removing spell, and took her about a week to remove them. He was sure she had removed all of them, the way she had been up in the common room as the other girls giggled at her.
He remembered that she would not look him in the eye that whole week.
He grinned, tracing over the carvings with his finger. Apparently, she had removed all of them except one.
There, in rather small letters, was a little marking, carved precisely and just.
HG+HP