Author's Note: In thanking those who reviewed last time, I address a very valid question from davaca: Why is the story coming in weekly doses if it was written so long ago? Quite simply, the original story is not good enough to post without diligent re-writing. I've never been satisfied with anything I've written until it's been turned inside-out at least twice. And since this has to be done during free time budgeted around my work schedule, a chapter a week is about all I can re-write. Even then, I'm never satisfied. I'm eternally grateful that the readers are happy with what turns up every week; if only I could say the same for myself. Alas, it is ever thus.
Let's press on, then. Chapter 3 awaits.
Early on in Fifth Year, Hermione started to notice signs that both Harry and Ron were beginning to fancy her as more than a friend. Given everything the trio had shared over the preceding four years, it was inevitable that they should all come to regard each other as extensions of themselves, sharing a closeness none outside their circle could understand, much less experience.
What might have become a friendship-straining rivalry between the two boys was quickly ameliorated by Hermione's increasingly busy schedule. Employing the quiet forcefulness that was her trademark, she made it clear to both of them that the rigorous nature of her new career goals would not accomodate any emotional entanglements. Boyfriends were out of the equation until such time as she deemed appropriate. This understanding allowed Harry and Ron to continue on as they had, both of them recognizing that the path to Hermione's heart was locked securely behind a door which no Alohomora Charm could breach.
This edict, however, did not preclude simple dating, much to Harry's and Ron's surprise and delight. Throughout the ensuing years, it was not uncommon for one or the other to escort Hermione to Hogsmeade, engage her in a stroll around the Hogwarts grounds, or sit under the stars on a clear night and contemplate the universe and their place in its unfathomable plan. But any attempt by either of them to elevate their relationship with Hermione to the next level was met with quiet but unyielding rebuff.
"Passion," Hermione explained in her usual perfunctory manner, "robs the mind of reasoning and common sense. It leaves one out of control. And I will be in control of my life, and my choices."
This declaration notwithstanding, there was yet no lack of love in her heart for her friends. When, under romantic conditions, Harry yielded to his desire and drew Hermione into a heartfelt kiss, she never failed to respond with warmth and tenderness. With love.
But no passion.
Harry was quietly adamant in his refusal to believe that there was not a fire inside Hermione, like unto his own, just waiting to be kindled. With all the love she possessed, passion could not be far removed, so he reasoned. And, drawing (even if unknowingly) on the hubris which was his legacy from his father, Harry determined that Hermione's flame, once set alight, would burn for him alone. He began to see it as his life's mission to ignite that flame in her heart. But as the years passed and graduation loomed, his goal began to seem as far away as the surface of the moon.
"I plan to marry someday," Hermione said on one seventh-year Hogsmeade trip when the subject of post-graduation came up, as it did so often in those last months of their Hogwarts tenure; but her declaration came with a clinical detachment that shocked Harry by its sterile tone. "The life I've chosen will be difficult. And the clearer my vision becomes, the more I realize that I don't think I can do it alone. I can't speak for others, of course. I mean, Madam Pomfrey does alright for herself here at Hogwarts. All I can do is look inside myself and try to be honest enough to recognize the truth when I see it. I may be heading into dangerous seas, and the journey will be easier with an anchor to hold onto.
"If I learned anything from Third Year," she said with the ghost of a smile on her determined lips, "it's that I sometimes take on more than one person can handle. No time for that sort of rubbish now. This is too important. When the time comes, I'll need someone beside me, to support me, to lend his strength to mine..."
"To love you," Harry said.
"Love," Hermione repeated with an almost total lack of emotion. "Yes, I suppose."
"Do you love me, Hermione?"
The question seemed to startle her.
"Of course I do."
"No -- I mean, are you in love with me?"
Hermione lowered her eyes a trifle, making no attempt to reply.
Harry caught her up suddenly and pulled her into a kiss. He burned his lips into hers, poured every ounce of passion he possessed into his action. Hermione returned his kiss gently, with love and warmth -- but no fire.
Harry pulled back angrily.
"Damn it, Hermione! You're like a bloody robot! Or a zombie!"
"I'm sorry you feel that way, Harry," she said quietly. "But you shouldn't act so surprised. I told you -- "
"I know! I just -- I can't -- Bloody Hell, Hermione! You're driving me up the wall!"
"Are you trying to get me into bed, Harry? If that's all you want, I'm sure the Hogsmeade Inn -- "
"I don't want your body, Hermione!" Harry shouted, heedless of their public location. "I want -- I want -- your heart."
Hermione placed a hand on Harry's arm.
"I'm sorry I said that, Harry. I wasn't serious. I know you too well for that. As for my heart, you've always had it. All of it. What you can't seem to realize is that the something more you're asking of me isn't mine to give. Not yet."
Hermione leaned in and kissed Harry on the cheek. He did not look at her as she turned and walked back to Hogwarts, leaving Harry to sit with his hand gripping his mug of butterbeer with trembling, white-knuckled fingers.
Harry awoke from his dream with a start, the ghost of Hermione's face still imprinted on his mind. Beads of cold sweat glistened on his head like morning dew. He raised a hand to wipe his face, finding the action only slightly less difficult than hefting a cauldron full of potion on the crook of his little finger. The fatigue in his joints that should be abating seemed instead to be intensifying. Following his first instinct, he reached for his pouch to sort through his potion pokes in search of a possible remedy.
As he threw open the pouch with a twinge of discomfort, his eye flickered over a tiny gleam of amber on the buckle of the khaki shoulder strap. He rummaged amongst his pokes a full minute before something clicked sluggishly in his brain and he returned his attention to the strap and buckle.
He felt his heart leap. Could it be?
He plucked the sliver from the buckle, careful not to drop it nor lose it to the wind. He caught his breath!
It was a fragment of broomstick twig! He was certain of it!
His fatigue forgotten, Harry pulled out his wand and touched the tip to the broom sliver. If this were, indeed, a fragment of his lost Firebolt, it could be used in a Tracing Charm. But was it?
The incantation finished, Harry stood and lay his wand across his upraised palm. In like manner as his wand had pointed to True North in the Maze during the Triwizard Tournament under the impetus of the Four-Point Spell, so now would it point directly to the primary body from which the tiny fragment had come.
Harry turned, stopped, turned, each time watching his wand closely. At last the wand stirred. It wavered a moment, then darted to one side and stopped.
Noting the location in his mind, Harry turned the other way and repeated the process. This time the wand hesitated not a whit, spinning about to point in the same direction as before. There was no doubt. The wand was pointing directly at the "parent" from which the "offspring" had come.
But was it his Firebolt?
There were two ways to go. A Unification Charm would cause the two parts to be attracted one to the other, like non-ferrous magnets, uniting the tail shard with the broom from which it came. It was certain and infallible. Unfortunately, the spell would inevitably cause the lesser body to take the initiative; if the twig leaped from Harry's hand and flew out of his sight, it would be united with his broomstick right enough, but he might not see precisely where it had gone. And his chance to repeat the process would have vanished as completely as the errant twig.
No, the second option was the safer, if less expedient: A simple Summoning Charm.
Harry squinted, drawing on his failing reserves in the gathering twilight. He pointed his wand and said, "Accio Firebolt!"
Nothing happened. Unperturbed, Harry shifted his aim by a degree and repeated the incantation. Depending on the distance between him and his broomstick, the shifting of his wand only a quarter of an inch could mean a variance of hundreds of feet in regard to the invisible compass of which he was the center and his wand the point. Thrice more he tried, without success. Then, on the fifth try --
"Accio Firebolt!"
From a point some three hundred yards away came a muffled explosion. A clump of brush erupted upwards. From it burst a long, slim column of polished wood that arched high in the air before describing an arc aimed directly at Harry. With gladness of heart he felt his fingers close around the familiar, smooth haft. Harry held the broomstick before him, resisting the urge to kiss it.
'Now," Harry thought with a new lightness of spirit, 'I can go home.
'As soon as I figure out where home is!'
Author's Note: Now that Harry has his trusty broomstick back, the means for his return to Hermione
is no longer an issue. But other problems await. See you next week (I hope).