A Summer of Reflections

Chapter 5

Harry was slightly shocked to see Hermione in Buckbeak’s room and nearly knocked over the small desk chair he’d been leaning across to turn on the lamp. His heart hammering, he braced his hands against the curved wooden chair-back more to steady himself than to make sure the chair was properly stabilized. He closed his eyes, wondering if he was only imagining the girl curled up in the cushioned armchair a few feet away from him. When he opened them again, Harry realized he was not.

How had he not noticed Hermione sitting by the door when he’d entered the room? Granted, it had been a little dark when he’d first come in, but there was enough of a moon shining through the windows for him to see Buckbeak. And he had gotten used to the shapes and shadows in the room by now that he was a bit alarmed he’d missed seeing her there.

Your defenses will have to be greater than this if you’re going to defeat the most evil wizard alive, a voice chastised in his head. Another part of him argued back that he was safe at Grimmauld Place – and safe above all in this room. Voldemort could not touch him here.

Oh, really? Couldn’t he? The voice answered back, and Harry visibly shuddered.

Now was not the time to be thinking about Voldemort. It only made his head hurt more than it already did from being caught so completely unawares by his best friend.

Taking a deep breath, Harry blinked and focused all of his attention on Hermione. At once, the pounding in his head and chest reduced to a dull, aching throb. Not sure whether this feeling was much better, he crept quietly over to the sleeping Hermione and knelt down in front of her.

She was garbed in a loose-fitting dressing gown; the tie pulled freely about her waist to cover her simple paisley-patterned pajamas. Her head was tucked into the nook of the chair where the armrest met the cushioned backing, while her bare feet were curled into the opposite corner, resting near the edge of the seat. She had pulled part of the sheet that had been draped over the chair to rest over her mid-section; one hand was clutching it closely to her chin. Her other arm was hugging a book against her chest, and Harry couldn’t help smiling at the title: New Theory of Numerology. It was the book he’d given to her last Christmas; the one he was certain had barely left her sight all summer long. In fact, her finger was still holding the page she’d been reading before she had fallen asleep.

For a moment, Harry had the urge to pull the book gently away from her. (What was it about this book that fascinated her so?) It can’t have been comfortable holding it the way she was, but then he seriously doubted she would give it up – even in her sleep. And despite the fact that he thought sleeping in that chair looked highly uncomfortable, he had to admit that Hermione looked rather peaceful slumbering there. There was no hint of unrest or unease in the lines of her body, no sign of tenseness about her hands or her face. Her eyes were resting gently closed, her eyelashes lightly grazing her cheeks. There was just the barest hint of a smile on her lips – the lips that he had so recently kissed; though he was trying very hard not to think about that. And her hair was falling loosely over her shoulders; some stray tendrils had fallen across her neck and along the edge of her jaw-line, the strands caressing the smooth surface of her skin in such a way that Harry found himself almost jealous of them.

If he’d thought about it, Harry would have been startled by the idea that he wanted to touch Hermione in, well – such an intimate way. But Harry wasn’t really thinking at the present time. He was too caught up in the way he was feeling…

Pressing his fingers softly to Hermione’s cheek, he very carefully swept her loose hairs back along her shoulder. She gave a murmured sigh, but didn’t awaken straight away. Harry let his hand linger against her longer than he should have, as he then trailed his way lightly down her arm. He could feel the warmth of her even through layers of fabric. And he suddenly noted the very steady rhythm of her breathing at the same time he noticed his own heartbeat quickening again.

Harry wondered later if it was the hammering of his heart that finally woke Hermione up, for it was at that precise moment when she slowly opened her eyes. Though she gazed directly at him, it took some time for her vision to clear before Harry was quite sure Hermione realized he was kneeling there before her.

"Harry?" came his mumbled name from her lips, even as recognition was now apparent in her eyes.

"Mmm," was all he said in reply, smiling slightly at her.

She gazed at him still – her brown eyes a shade darker than usual, even in the glow from the low lamp behind them. She seemed slow at identifying where she was at first and Harry was certain he could see the remnants of a dream in her eyes.

A moment later, she confirmed it.

"I was dreaming about you," she muttered groggily.

Under normal circumstances, Harry would have been flustered at Hermione admitting she had dreamt about him, and even more surprised that she could say so without appearing at all self-conscious about it. If they had been anywhere else… But here, in Buckbeak’s room – for some reason – Harry did not find her admission odd; nor apparently did Hermione seem very shy about conceding it.

"For a second, I thought I was still asleep," she continued. She reached out one hand, the one that had been holding the book, as though she wanted to touch him and verify he was really there, but she never quite made it that far. As though she had thought better of her action, her arm fell back against the chair and the book slid down into her lap. Her fingers found the leather cover again almost instantly.

"You looked just as you do now," she said after some consideration. "I think that’s why..."

Her voice trailed off. She shook her head and some loose tendrils fell against her face once more. This time Harry could not brush them away, even though he was wholly tempted to. Instead, he nodded, curling his fingers into fists so they did not betray him.

Curious about something she’d said, he asked, "How do I look?"

The corners of Hermione’s mouth quirked up in a smile, but rather than answer him, she started to sit up in the chair. Harry backed away from her. Settling himself on the floor a few feet away, Harry pulled his knees to his chest and rested his elbows on them, gazing at Hermione in all seriousness now.

After some silence, he said, "Hermione, what are you doing here?"

She looked at him steadily as she pulled herself into a full sitting position.

"I would ask you the same thing, if I didn’t already know the answer," she replied in a quiet voice, brushing her hair away from her face just as he’d wanted to do for a second time.

"You know I’ve been coming here."

It wasn’t a question, but Hermione nodded anyway.

Harry knew this should have surprised him, but in truth it did not. There was little about him Hermione didn’t know, except for a few things he had yet to tell her. He supposed his sleeplessness was hardly a secret. The dark circles under his eyes morning after morning coupled with his general lethargy throughout the day were not exactly little details to someone who noticed things the way Hermione regularly did. Just how she had known he’d practically taken up residence in Buckbeak’s room though, Harry didn’t know. Maybe she had simply guessed. Or maybe he hadn’t been sneaking around the house as quietly as he’d thought; he did pass Hermione’s bedroom on the way here every night, after all.

"You’ve been coming here a lot of nights, haven’t you?" said Hermione smoothly, not breaking eye contact with him even as she still tucked stray hairs behind her ears.

That wasn’t really a question either, but Harry decided to give her the same courtesy she’d given to him.

"Yes."

She nodded again, obviously expecting his answer.

"Why were you sleeping here tonight?" he ventured to ask her in return. "I’ve never seen you here before."

She blinked once, glanced across the room, then replied, "I came to feed Buckbeak. I’ve been helping Lupin with him ever since I arrived here. Buckbeak, as you well know, will scarcely let anyone near him. Only you, and me – and Lupin, apparently."

Harry gazed over at the hippogriff, knowing what she said about the animal was true. Buckbeak was as wary of others as Harry was himself these days. Trust was a precious gift both of them granted to very few, and even to less of late.

You can trust Hermione with the prophecy, you know? came an intruding voice in his head. She would understand. That may be true, he argued back. But would she accept it? Would she accept that the prophecy was his fate, when he wasn’t even sure he’d acceded to it himself?

And still he was certain he was not ready – not ready to see the look of horror on Hermione’s face, or on Ron’s or anyone else’s for that matter, when he told them he was destined to be either victim or murderer; there was no other way…

She has a right to know, said the voice again.

"No!"

"No, what? Harry?"

Startled, Harry realized he’d spoken aloud and that he had interrupted Hermione speaking.

"I—" he gasped, feeling embarrassed. "Nothing. I’m sorry. What were you saying?"

Hermione eyed him suspiciously for a second.

"I was saying that I sat down earlier to read for a while, but I guess I was more tired than I’d thought. I never intended to fall asleep."

There was another moment of silence before Hermione looked at him rather worriedly.

"Harry," she said tentatively. "I hope you’re not angry with me for being here tonight. Do you, I mean, are you—"

"No," he cut her off before she could finish her question.

Truthfully, her being there very well could have bothered Harry. This room had become his sanctuary, his refuge. And while a part of him felt like he should have cared that she was invading his space, he found he felt just the opposite about it. He was really rather glad she was there, and would not have wished her away for anything in the world.

Hermione smiled at him, and Harry knew he did not have to say anything more on the matter. He knew she understood, as she so often did, without him saying so; that was one of the greatest things about having Hermione as a friend. It was nice having someone so close to him who knew him so well.

Hermione was tossing the sheet on the chair aside as Harry was pondering the dynamics of their friendship. She stretched a little, then eyed him again, drawing his focus back on her.

"What?" he asked.

Her expression was a bit enigmatic this time.

Hermione opened her mouth and then closed it again, shaking her head.

"What?" Harry asked again.

She seemed to be weighing something in her mind. She shook her head again.

It wasn’t like Hermione not to say what she was thinking. But then Harry thought, if only he understood Hermione as well as she did him…

Hermione suddenly stood up, the debate in her mind obviously having been won at last.

"What do you say we look for Sirius’s letter?" she said. "I presume that’s what you were going to do when you turned that wretched light on."

Harry stood up, too. So, she found the light "wretched," did she?

"Would you rather I turn it back off?" he teased, and got a thrill of delight when Hermione’s cheeks flushed pink.

"That’s not what I meant," she mumbled under her breath, and Harry tried to stifle his laughter. If Hermione could have seen her own reflection…

Deciding to let her off the hook, Harry said, "Yes. In fact, I was going to continue our search. So I’m game if you are. Have any bright ideas on where to start?"

Actually, she did. Thus, the many minutes following were consumed by them up-turning sheets, opening drawers, and checking all the furniture once more for clues they might have missed the first time around. They investigated the empty closet, dug deeper in the musty old wardrobe, and again tried the locked door.

"It still won’t budge," said Harry unnecessarily as he tugged on it. There was no keyhole in the door and no sign of a lock. There had to be some magic way of opening it then, but if that were the case, they would need to ask an adult for help – something they couldn’t exactly do at past two in the morning.

"Lupin was obviously wrong about the letter being in this room," Harry said as he watched Hermione try the door after him. "We’ll just have to search somewhere else tomorrow."

Hermione looked toward the ceiling pensively and then back at Harry.

"The mirror," she muttered. "There’s something about it…"

"What?"

"The mirror!" she repeated more firmly now.

And Harry suddenly remembered earlier that day, how it seemed Hermione had been on to something before Ron had come and told them it was time for Harry’s party. Had she seen something in the aged mirror’s surface that he hadn’t?

Surprising him, Hermione grabbed his hand and led him over to the large, ornate-framed mirror on the far side of the room. Pushing up the dust cloth that had been concealing it, they draped the old sheet over the flouncing corners of the structure until the glassy surface was partially uncovered once more. Standing before it with Hermione at his side, Harry had the oddest sense of déjà vu. The mirror, which was taller than both of them, was still streaked with dust and grime; their reflections in it were the same as that afternoon.

Or were they the same?

Harry edged closer to the mirror, wondering what Hermione had seen in it to cause such curiosity. He thought he looked just as he had before, if not a bit wide-eyed and exhausted from the hour of the morning. But now that he examined it more closely…

Was it his imagination, or was Hermione’s reflection slightly glowing?

Or… No! Maybe, it was the background behind her. There was definitely something about it…

Harry blinked and looked again. Hermione was staring at him through the mirror, watching his gaze flit from his own image back to hers numerous times.

"Do you see?" she said. "There’s something about this mirror that’s not quite—"

She broke off and again her voice sounded as tentative as it had that afternoon.

But Harry understood and nodded, quite sure now that she was right. What was it about this old mirror? The room behind them appeared no different. The mirror stood opposite the main door, which he had closed when he’d entered the room. He could see the chair Hermione had been slumbering in earlier, the roll-top writing desk and the lamp shining dimly above it, and – along the very edge of the mirror – the corner of the open doorway to the empty closet. It was here where Harry finally focused his attention.

Squinting, Harry pressed his nose to the glass and gaped in astonishment.

Through the reflecting image, the closet was in fact not empty at all! On the contrary, there were boxes upon boxes heaped one on the other, their contents spilling abundantly over their large, square sides: old pieces of parchment, leather-covered albums, books in all shapes and sizes, along with stacks of yellowing letters tied with multi-colored ribbons – and there!

Harry pointed to the image of the top-most box, his finger making an imprint on the dusty surface of the mirror.

Stuffed into the corner of that teetering cardboard box was a purple envelope!