Tragic Little Hero

cheering charm

Rating: PG
Genres: Angst
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 09/08/2004
Last Updated: 09/08/2004
Status: completed

“You are so frustrating! I came here to help you talk about Sirius, to help you mourn his death. Maybe even get a little support from you for my own grief. Instead, I find that you are lying here in a filthy room, unshaven, unbathed and caught up in a self-centered pity party. Frankly, it’s a bit disgusting. I’ve had it.” Is this the end of Harry and Hermione's friendship?

Chapters

1. Tragic Little Hero

1. Tragic Little Hero

Author’s Note: This is the first in a four part series. The second installment, The Unasked Question, can be read
HERE
. The third installment, Affection, can be read
HERE
. The fourth, as of this update, is in progress. Thanks again to danielerin and Vicarious Leigh for betaing. This is so, so much better after they ripped it apart. Actually, I should probably give them co-authorship. But…nah. J

Tragic Little Hero

By: cheering charm

Harry lay in his bed drifting between sleep and consciousness. For the past two weeks, since his return to the prison that was Number Four Privet Drive, his preferred state had been sleep. After all, while asleep he forgot about Sirius and the Prophecy.

The one drawback to sleeping was Voldemort’s continuing invasion of Harry’s dreams. Since the Department of Mysteries debacle, Voldemort apparently decided that if he couldn’t kill Harry, he would torture him with the memory of his parents’ deaths. Over and over he relived the murder of his mother and father from the perspective of their murderer. It was an indication of the depths of his depression that he preferred to relive Voldemort’s vicious recollection of that fateful night at Godric’s Hollow to his own memory of Sirius falling through the veil.

No matter how many different ways Harry looked at it, he came to the same conclusion: he was to blame for his godfather’s death. He was the root of everyone’s misery — his parents’ deaths, Neville’s parents being tortured into insanity, the Dursleys being forced to give him room and board for 15 years (not that he particularly cared about their misery), Sirius’s death, Ron having lingering scars from the Department of Mysteries, Hermione taking multiple potions to correct whatever curse had been thrown her way. Everything could be traced back to him. It was no wonder that he preferred to sleep than to think of how many lives he had ruined simply by being born.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t sleep the entire day. He had tried.

At the moment, Harry was in the lovely in-between state: not quite asleep, not quite awake, where dreams or reality could not penetrate. His open window allowed noises of the neighborhood to drift on a breeze through the haze of his consciousness. A lawnmower starting…a car door closing…a dog barking…children laughing…a knocking on a door…the chich-chich-chich of a sprinkler…Aunt Petunia talking to someone…a garden gate opening and closing…Dudley pounding down the stairs…

Harry turned over and buried his head under the pillow, attempting to drown out the invading noises, only to be interrupted by a knock on his door.

“Go away,” his muffled voice said.

The knocking continued. Harry lifted his head and yelled, “GO AWAY!”

He smashed the pillow back over his head, but not before hearing the click of the opening door.

He ripped the pillow off his head and sat up, bellowing, “I SAID…”

The scream died in his throat as he saw Hermione standing in the open door. She jumped at his rage, her eyes growing wide with fear. Harry watched her take in the state of his room and the state of him, and he saw the look of fear replaced by a look of pity.

He didn’t want her pity, or her consolation. All he wanted was to be left alone.

“What are you doing here?”

She glanced at the deadbolt lock on the outside of the door before stepping in the room and closing the door behind her. She turned to him and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Nice to see you too, Harry.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I appreciate the effort, Hermione, but I’d rather be left alone.”

Hermione nodded and walked over to Hedwig’s cage. She stuck her hand through the bars and stroked the owl’s feathers, making affectionate cooing noises to Harry’s pet. Hedwig, pleased with the attention, hooted and nipped gently at her fingers.

“I figured as much,” Hermione replied.

“Then why are you here?”

“Because what you want and what you need are two different things. And you obviously aren’t in the right state of mind to make rational decisions.”

Anger boiled through Harry. “Oh, so you decided to take your know-it-all reputation to new heights by showing up here today, uninvited.”

Harry was pleased to note a flicker of hurt flash across Hermione’s face. She recovered almost at once and replied, “No need to be so cruel, Harry. Remember, I’m your friend.”

They stared at each other across the room, each waiting for the other to continue. “I came here today because I’ve been worried about you. I thought it might help if you talked to someone about Sirius.”

“And you decided that that ‘someone’ should be you?”

“Whom else would you talk to?”

That was a good question. Although the last thing he wanted to do right now was talk, he knew he would need to talk to someone. He couldn’t imagine talking to Dumbledore about it; he still held too much resentment regarding the Headmaster’s role in Sirius’s death. Lupin was a logical choice, but Harry imagined that he was having problems dealing with his own grief. That only left Ron and Hermione.

Harry knew Hermione had wanted to have this discussion two weeks ago while they were still at Hogwarts. Every time she attempted to broach the subject, Ron would silence her with a shake of his head. He had been thankful for Ron’s understanding at the time, but Harry wondered if Ron’s motives were rooted in an understanding of what Harry was going through or his own desire to not talk about the subject. Harry understood Ron’s position; if the tables were turned, he wouldn’t have known what to say either.

Apparently, Hermione thought she did know what to say.

“You don’t need to worry. I’m fine.”

Hermione looked at the clothes strewn across the floor and the remnants of the previous day’s lunch on his dresser. Harry became aware that he was wearing only boxer shorts and a t-shirt — the clothes he had worn to bed the first night back, and that he hadn’t taken off since. He grabbed his rumpled blanket from the bed and covered his lap with it.

Hermione walked over to the open window and looked out. “It’s a nice day. Much cooler summer than last, isn’t it?” She turned to him. “Want to go for a walk?”

“No.”

“Want to talk?”

“No.”

“Okay,” she replied, slamming down the lid of Harry’s trunk and sitting on it. She crossed her legs and propped her chin in her hand and smiled at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you to talk to me.”

“You’ll be waiting a long time.”

She shrugged. “Okay.”

Harry flopped back on his bed and rolled over on his side, away from her gaze. He stared at the blank gray wall, trying to block out Hermione’s presence. There was a part of him, he had to admit, that was glad to see her. It was rare to see a friendly face during the summer. Any other summer he would have been overjoyed. This summer, all of his ability or desire to feel anything had seeped out of him, leaving a hole where emotion should be.

He heard Hermione stand up and begin moving around the room. He thought for a moment that she was leaving until he heard the distinctive chink of cutlery on a plate. He turned over to find Hermione stacking his dirty dishes on his dresser. She then swept crumbs off the dresser into her hand and sprinkled them on the plate. He looked at the floor and saw his discarded clothes piled neatly at the end of his bed.

“What are you doing?”

“Tidying up a bit.”

“Stop. I don’t want you to.”

“Well, I do. This place is a fright.”

“I don’t know what you think you’re accomplishing. It’ll be a mess in a day.”

Hermione looked over her shoulder and gave Harry a sly smile. “You’re talking to me, aren’t you?’

Harry shook his head and repressed a smile. He had to hand it to her; she was focused. He knew that she would not leave until she achieved her goal. There was really no use in fighting her.

She sat down next to him and placed an arm around his shoulders. “How are you doing?” she whispered.

Harry ducked his head, the desire to talk conflicting with the instinct to keep everything bottled inside — a defense mechanism honed to perfection after eleven years with the Dursleys. He looked at Hermione and saw his best friend, one of the only two people in the world he could ever imagine talking to about this.

“I feel awful,” he murmured, placing his head in his hands.

Hermione rubbed his shoulder. “You’re supposed to feel awful, Harry. You lost someone you love.”

Harry pressed his hands to his eyes attempting to stem the flow of tears he felt fighting for release. He shook his head vigorously. “It’s not only that.” He looked up at her again, the air cool on his burning eyes. “I’m responsible for his death.”

“No. You’re not, Harry.”

“Yes, I am!” He stood up. “You know I am! Everyone knows I am!”

“No, they don’t,” she replied with irritating calm. “There are a lot of people that contributed to what happened, Harry.” She raised her hand and began ticking off points with her fingers as she talked. “Snape for not continuing with Occlumency lessons. Dumbledore for not telling you exactly how Voldemort could manipulate your dreams. Sirius for not staying at Grimmauld Place like he should have…”

“Don’t blame him!”

“Bellatrix Lestrange,” Hermione continued without missing a beat, “for actually killing him.”

“Well, all that anyone will remember is that I’m the one that was stupid enough to be lured into Voldemort’s trap.” Harry turned away and walked to the open window. He gazed out into the perfectly manicured back garden and interpreted Hermione’s silence.

“Go ahead. Say it,” he deadpanned. “I know you’re dying to.”

“Say what?” Hermione replied in a perplexed voice.

“I told you so.”

He heard her jump up from the bed and exclaim, “What?!”

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To tell me that you were right.”

“NO! That isn’t why I’m here!” She grabbed his arm and turned him to face her. “Is that really what you think of me?”

“Well, you were right, weren’t you?”

“Do you think I would gloat about something like that? This isn’t a bloody O.W.L., Harry! I was wrong about enough that night.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The people I mentioned earlier aren’t the only ones to blame for Sirius’s death. I share a large part of the blame.”

“What are you on about?” Harry asked, getting angry.

Hermione started pacing the floor, wringing her hands as she went. “I didn’t think of talking to Snape. I forgot that he was in the Order — not once, but twice! We could have gone to him after the incident in the forest, but we didn’t. I should’ve thought of it.”

“Snape wouldn’t have helped us. He probably would have been ecstatic at the thought of Voldemort killing Sirius and would have rushed off to see if he could watch.”

“Are you forgetting that it was Professor Snape that contacted the Order when we didn’t return? Of course he would have helped. I should have thought of him! I’m the one who is supposed to be logical and keep a clear head. I failed and Sirius died coming after us.”

“Sirius was coming after me.”

Hermione stopped pacing and stared at Harry for a moment before stalking toward him, eyes blazing. “Have you forgotten that you weren’t alone, Harry? There were five other people with you that night. Are you worried that if you share a bit of the blame with other people that you will lose your right to the ‘Tragic Little Hero’ title?” Hermione spat.

“What?!” Harry was stunned by not only what she said, but also the vicious way she said it.

“You are so frustrating! I came here to help you talk about Sirius, to help you mourn his death. Maybe even get a little support from you for my own grief. Instead, I find that you are lying here in a filthy room, unshaven, unbathed and caught up in a self-centered pity party. Frankly, it’s a bit disgusting. I’ve had it.”

Hermione turned and marched toward the door to leave. Harry ran behind her and slammed it shut before she had a chance to walk through it. Holding the door closed he said in a low, dangerous voice. “You come here, uninvited, under the guise of wanting to help me when all you are really doing is checking up on me. Who sent you? Ron? The Weasleys? Lupin?”

“No one sent me. It was my idea to come. Ron doesn’t even know I’m here. He thinks we should give you space,” she said with disdain.

“He’s right.”

“Is he?” She looked Harry up and down. “Yes, space is obviously what you need. Time to deal with your grief,” she said sarcastically, her voice rising with each word, “on your own. You seem to be doing such a good job of it, too. I’ll run back to Dumbledore and tell him to rest easy; the fate of the wizarding world is in good hands.”

Harry went completely still. The fate of the wizarding world? Had Dumbledore told Hermione about the prophecy? Dumbledore had assured Harry that he would be able to share the prophecy with whomever he chose when he was good and ready. Had Dumbledore already gone back on his word and told Hermione that Harry was the only person that could defeat Voldemort?

“What’s going on in there? What’s all the yelling about?”

Harry sighed and closed his eyes searching for calm. “None of your FUCKING business!” Harry replied angrily.

He heard two gasps. One was muffled, from the other side of the door. The other was from the witch standing in front of him, who also sported a look of amazement, shocked that he had been so disrespectful to an adult. Hermione whipped out her wand and narrowed her eyes at Harry. “Everything is fine, Mrs. Dursley. Sorry we disturbed you.” With an angry wave of her wand and a muttered incantation, Hermione performed a silencing charm on the door.

“Great,” Harry replied. “That’s all I need; another charge of underage magic on my record. Your visit is turning into a right good time, Hermione.”

“Oh, sod off. Dumbledore knows I’m here. I’ll take the charge.” She said, putting her wand back in the pocket of her jeans.

“So, Dumbledore sent you to check up on me.”

“No, I told you it was my idea. I asked Dumbledore’s permission and he agreed.”

“What did you mean before? The fate of the wizarding world…?”

“Well, it rests in your hands, doesn’t it?” she retorted, her sarcasm not diminished in the least by Aunt Petunia’s interruption. “At least that’s what you think, the way you’ve been acting the past year. Well, no I take that back. Your arrogance has grown steadily over the past five years. You’ve been acting like that ever since you saved the Philosopher’s Stone.”

Harry looked Hermione up and down, the thought flitting through his mind that this person standing in front of him, although she looked like Hermione, was an imposter. The Hermione he knew would never talk to him like this. Sure, she was usually the one to stand up to him (he still hadn’t forgotten the ‘stop feeling all misunderstood’ statement from the previous Christmas) but this…this was confrontation on a completely different level.

“Tell me Hermione. Where has all of this animosity come from? You didn’t seem to mind my ‘saving people thing’ when I saved you from the Dementors.”

“I guess having a near death experience gave me a different perspective on things,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“And this new perspective includes hating me?”

“I don’t hate you. If I hated you, do you think it would bother me one jot to see you self-destruct?”

“Self-destruct?” Harry said incredulously. “I’d hardly call a messy room and tatty underwear self-destruction.”

“I’m not talking about your personal hygiene, Harry. I’m talking about your mental state. You’ve spent the last year moping around in there,” she said, tapping his forehead with her finger, “feeling angry and misunderstood. What you have been through is horrible, Harry. But it’s time for you to pull yourself together and take charge of the situation instead of letting it take charge of you!”

Harry turned from her. “You don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I don’t, do I? What are you going to do, Harry? Sit around and let Voldemort lure you into another trap so he can finish the job?”

“Well, you know, lately death doesn’t sound too bad,” he retorted.

Hermione stalked across the room to face him, rage emanating from every pore. “You are a self-centered bastard,” she hissed. “You don’t care about anyone’s feelings but your own. You talk flippantly about dying…”

“How can you say I don’t care about other people’s feelings?” he said over her continued tirade.

“…but here you sit, drowning in the depths of depression, because Sirius is dead. Can you not see what that would do to the rest of us, Harry? Are you so wrapped up in yourself that you haven’t even considered anyone else and how what you do affects them?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing for the last two weeks, Hermione?” he shouted, his face burning with rage. “My mere existence has ruined more lives than I can name,” he said, spittle flying out of his mouth.

“Your existence has saved more lives than it has ruined, Harry,” Hermione retorted.

“Well, that’s jolly great for everyone then! What do I get out of it, Hermione?” he asked, punching himself in the chest with his thumb rather harder than he intended. “Where is my family? Where is my happiness?” He turned away from her and discretely rubbed the spot he had just punched on his chest.

”Just because you don’t have family doesn’t mean you aren’t loved,” Hermione said softly. “I came here today to try to help you, not fight with you. You show the classic signs of depression, Harry.”

He whirled around. “Did you read that in a book, Dr. Freud?”

“Don’t be smart with me,” she said, poking her finger in his chest at the exact spot he had punched. It took a great effort to not wince. “My affinity for reading books has saved your hide numerous times. I’m trying to help you now but you are too stubborn to listen. Being depressed is natural considering what has happened to you.”

“Thank you for your permission to grieve.”

“Why won’t you let me help you?” Hermione said, completely ignoring Harry’s sarcastic remark. “Why won’t you share any of the blame for what happened?”

“How you can twist not letting other people take the blame for my idiotic actions as a shortcoming on my part is beyond me!”

Hermione squeezed her eyes closed, raised her fists to her temples and let out a growl of frustration. “Because you don’t have to take all of the blame! The weight of the world doesn’t have to rest on your shoulders. Your actions aren’t the only ones that matter — they don’t affect the outcome of abso-bloody-lutely everything BAD THAT HAPPENS!” she said, the final words coming out as a aggravated shriek.

He turned away from her, hoping he could resist the urge to scream at her, to tell her how wrong she really was. “There is a lot you don’t know, Hermione,” he replied through gritted teeth.

“Then tell me so I can help you,” she pleaded.

He reeled around, ready to spew the prophecy at her. He was eager to see the pain and suffering he knew the words would bring. Her defiant expression – her confidence that she was always right — stopped him. He reveled in the power. He was in control of knowledge she did not have but she wanted desperately.

“No.”

“You are the hero of your own little world, aren’t you, Harry? Well, guess what? Everyone is the main character in his or her own life. You are a supporting player in everyone else’s,” she concluded. With a final steely gaze she turned on her heel and walked out of the room.

Harry stood there as the slamming of the door echoed throughout the house.

“Have a good summer, Harry?”

Have a good summer, Harry repeated to himself. He looked at Neville Longbottom sitting across from him, the steam from the Hogwart’s Express billowing past the window of their car. Harry looked at the open, guileless face of his friend and did a quick inventory of his summer.

My godfather died trying to save me.

I had to live with the Dursleys for three long, torturous weeks.

I had a blazing row with my best friend, who I haven’t heard from since.

I spent a month in my dead godfather’s house, surrounded by reminders of him.

My other best friend worked at his brothers’ shop all day every day, leaving me alone in said house to relive my great folly over and over.

My best friend didn’t show up for my birthday party.

Dumbledore gave me Hogwarts: A History as a birthday present and made me read it to “understand the roots of the differences that divide the wizarding world today.”

I had to endure Occlumency lessons with Snape every other day for a month.

Instead of listing his litany of problems, Harry simply replied, “Fine. Yours?”

“Oh, it was good. I got a new wand.” He pulled it out of his pocket to show Harry. “Ash, 7 ½ inches, dragon heartstring. Apparently a great wand for Transfiguration.”

“McGonagall will be happy to hear that.”

“I don’t know about that. I can’t wait to use it, though!”

Harry smiled. “Was your grandmother upset about your dad’s wand?”

“No, she was thrilled that I faced Death Eaters and made it out alive. Apparently, I gave a good showing for the family name. I tried to explain to her that I didn’t do much besides get my nose broken, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“You did a lot, Neville. You were great,” Harry replied.

Neville grinned, and Harry could almost see his confidence building. “So, where is everybody?” Neville asked.

“Prefects meeting, I expect. You know, Ginny is a prefect this year.”

“She told me. I think she was a bit surprised.”

“Me, too,” Harry said, grinning. “How was your birthday?”

Neville started. “My birthday?”

Harry squirmed a bit. “Yeah, didn’t you have a birthday in July?”

“Yeah, but how did you know when my birthday was?”

“Ginny mentioned something about it,” Harry lied.

Satisfied with that answer, Neville replied, “Oh, it was good…” and went off on a description of his party.

As Harry sat there and feigned listening to Neville, his mind began to wander back to the subject that had been plaguing him all summer: his fight with Hermione.

She’d probably think I’m being self-centered, not listening to Neville. And she’d be right. But, try as he might, he couldn’t tear his mind away from the subject, or the thought of seeing her for the first time since the argument.

Once the initial shock had worn off — the idea that Hermione had pretty much torn into him—he had been angry, as angry as he could ever remember being. Ignoring any inclination that what she said had merit, he spent the better part of two weeks envisioning the scene when he saw her again. In each one, she came to him, teary eyed, pleading for his forgiveness. She had been rash…emotional…didn’t think about what she was saying. Of course, he was grieving for Sirius! He was right to be so upset about his role. He wasn’t self-centered at all! She would be devastated if their friendship was ruined because of the stupid things she said. Please, please forgive her.

Each time, the scene had various endings with the same theme – very reluctant forgiveness. In a couple, she even got down on her knees, which, near death experience or not, Harry knew would never happen. It was his favorite daydream, nonetheless. Every version was basically the same. She would show up at Grimmauld Place for his birthday. She would beg. He would forgive.

Imagine his surprise when not only did she not beg for his forgiveness, but she didn’t show up for his birthday party at all. When he asked Ron where Hermione was as casually as possible so as to not arouse suspicion, he was clueless. Harry couldn’t help but notice Ron’s nervousness on the subject of Hermione, and how quickly he changed the subject.

Harry hadn’t told Ron about the row with Hermione. At first, it was because he never saw him. Ron worked at his brothers’ joke shop all day every day. When he did have the opportunity, on Ron’s odd day off, the last thing he wanted to do was relive the scene with Hermione. As furious as Harry was with her, he didn’t see any need for Ron to be angry with her, too. Which Harry was sure he would be. Later, he would wonder if his hesitancy to tell Ron wasn’t more of a fear that Ron would agree with Hermione.

Ginny resolved the mystery of Hermione’s whereabouts when she handed Harry his present from Hermione, telling him that Hermione gave this to her just before she left on a trip across Europe with her parents. Apparently, the Grangers were adamant about the family holiday to make up for how little time Hermione had spent with them over the past few years. As Harry stared at the present before him, he wondered if there would be an apology in the card. Possibly she had written it before coming to see him and it would contain a completely normal “happy birthday” greeting. He slid his forefinger beneath the envelope flap and pulled the card from it.

“Happy Birthday, Harry.”

He turned it over, expecting to find something more personal, at the very least her name. Nothing.

It never occurred to him, until that moment, that Hermione might be as angry with him as he was with her. It was a shock to his system. How can she be angry with me? I’m right after all. He held the card loosely in his hand, staring into space, wondering if this was the end of their friendship.

Dazed, he looked around at the boisterous people around him. The twins were in an animated conversation with Mundungus. Ron and Ginny were talking to Tonks. Mrs Weasley was flitting around the kitchen, tidying up. Kingsley, Lupin, Mr. Weasley and Dumbledore were at the other end of the table deep in conversation about something, probably Order business. No one was paying any attention to Harry at all. He was a supporting player in this scene. He stared back at the card as that thought flitted through his mind and it hit him. She was right.

To everyone in this room their role in the fight against Voldemort was just as important as Harry’s. No one but Dumbledore and Harry himself knew the full content of the prophecy. And, even if they knew the prophecy, Harry realized with some astonishment that each of their roles would be just as important as his. Harry couldn’t do it alone. Granted, when it came right down to it, it would be him against Voldemort, winner takes all. But, to get to that point, Harry needed everyone’s help. The last thing he needed to do was to alienate the people that cared for him and wanted to help him succeed.

Astounded at the clarity and peace these thoughts brought, he looked up and saw Dumbledore staring at him. Dumbledore nodded once and gave Harry a slight smile in understanding…

“Anything off the trolly?”

The interruption by the witch with the trolly was the end of Harry’s opportunity to reminisce about the past few weeks. Soon, Dean, Seamus, Parvati and Lavender were crammed in the car with them. An hour or so and many stories later, Ron, Hermione and Ginny arrived. Ginny plopped into Dean’s lap while Ron squeezed in and grabbed a pumpkin pasty from Harry.

“You don’t mind, do ya mate?”

“Not now,” Harry replied as Ron ripped the wrapper off with his teeth.

Harry took a deep breath and looked over to the door where Hermione was standing, talking to Lavender and Parvati, who were commenting on her tan. She looked up and caught Harry’s eye and paused for a beat, an unreadable expression on her face, before continuing with a brief rundown of her summer for the two girls. Harry looked away toward Neville, who was engrossed in conversation with Seamus. Harry heard all the voices, but nothing was coherent.

Not even a hello. Obviously, in her case, absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder.

“Are you listening to me?” Ron asked.

“Yeah, sure,” Harry lied. He was trying to listen to Hermione recount her summer without seeming to. Giving up, he turned his attention to Ron whatever it was he was prattling on about, when Hermione’s laughter interrupted his concentration. He turned to look at her again and felt a surge of anger at the sight of her happiness well up in him.

He stood up. “It’s too crowded in here. I need some air.” He made a point of pushing past Hermione without a glance and walked down the corridor and into the next car of the train.

Two cars down, he walked into the loo and bolted the door with more force than necessary. Harry looked around at the small space and immediately regretted his choice of hiding spots. He felt more cramped in here than in the crowded compartment. Standing in the middle of the space, he could touch each wall without straightening his arms. The gentle motion of the train swayed him back and forth, his shoulder hitting one wall, and his hip hitting the lavatory on the opposite wall. Small or not, at least here he was alone.

He slammed the toilet lid down and sat, burying his head in his hands, taking a few deep breaths to curtail the anger welling inside of him. Concentrate, concentrate, he chanted to himself, focusing on breathing in and out instead of the emotions roiling within his abdomen. After a few minutes he felt himself calm, and his mind began to empty. His stomach still felt queasy, but that had been a constant for the last month. He knew that would only change after setting things right with Hermione. But he couldn’t do that right now, feeling like this.

As much as he had despised the idea of continued Occlumency lessons with Snape, he had to admit that he was finally making progress. Although in his opinion, Snape could take no credit whatsoever. His instructions still consisted of, “Clear your mind! Ready? One, two…legilimens!” Harry had decided that if he was going to be forced to endure Snape, the least he could do is make Snape more miserable than he was. The only way to do that, he had decided, was to excel. Snape hated for Harry to thrive at anything. It gave Harry great pleasure to watch Snape seethe each time he successfully repelled an attack. It had occurred to Harry after their fifth lesson (one every other day for a month — pure torture) that the sooner he mastered this skill, the sooner he would be able to discontinue the lessons. At the very least, the frequency should decrease perhaps after a demonstration to Dumbledore.

So he had learned to clear his mind of thought and his heart of emotion. The first was easy. The second was almost impossible. He was learning, and with the raging emotions he had been feeling all summer, he had been learning a lot. With only a slight squirming in his stomach, Harry lifted his head and opened his eyes to deal with the memory of what had just happened. She hadn’t looked the least bit upset or distraught by the fact that they hadn’t spoken in six weeks. In fact, Harry couldn’t ever remember her looking better…or happier. That was what triggered his anger. While he had been miserable for six weeks (well technically four since he spent the first two stewing in his righteous indignation), she had, by all accounts, enjoyed a raving good time on holiday with her parents. By the look of her, the ocean must have swept all her worries away. The fact their friendship meant so little to her made his stomach turn to stone. A sense of loss he hadn’t felt even with the death of Sirius swept though him.

He heard a girl’s laughter from the next compartment and, before he could rein in his emotions, he kicked the door to the loo.

“Is everything alright in there?”

“Fine,” Harry replied, jolted from his thoughts. He stood up and faced the mirror over the lavatory. He was pale, paler than usual, and had dark circles under his eyes. He removed his glasses and splashed cold water on his face, hoping the shock of cold would revive the color in his face. It didn’t. He stared at himself for a moment and decided that if he couldn’t empty himself of emotion through mental toughness, he would do it the old-fashioned way.

He opened the door and found Ernie Macmillan standing outside, waiting.

“Hiya, Harry. Alright?”

“Yeah, alright,” Harry replied walking back to his compartment. He turned before Ernie closed the door to the loo and asked, “Do you have a spare bit of parchment handy?”

The creak of the leather chair told him that she had sat down.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” he ventured.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Harry opened his eyes and looked at Hermione. She had chosen the chair to the left of the sofa in front of the fireplace, which was full of dying embers. Her legs were pulled up underneath her and her arms were across her chest protectively. He was lying on the sofa, his head propped against the right armrest, his arms entwined across his chest, facing her. An uncomfortable silence settled in the air between them. They stared at each other for a long time, neither knowing quite what to say.

If you want to talk, I’ll be in the Common Room at 1 a.m. Slipping the note he wrote to Hermione had been more difficult than he anticipated.

She wasn’t in the compartment when he returned, and he didn’t see her for the remainder of the train ride. They shared a carriage to the castle with Ron and Neville, but she had been the last one on and the first one off. She sat three people down from him at the Welcoming Feast, and on the same side of the table so he couldn’t catch her eye. Realizing she was better at avoiding him than he was at getting her attention, he left the feast a few minutes early and dropped the note on her plate, turning to leave before getting a reaction.

“How are you feeling?” Harry asked patting his stomach.

“Queasy.”

Harry bolted up. “Is that normal? Did Madam Pomfrey say when that would go away?”

“Madam Pomfrey?”

“Well, yeah. I would think she would tell you when your symptoms would go away. I can’t believe they’ve lasted this long. It’s been over two months.”

“Oh, you’re talking about the curse! No, everything is fine.”

Harry heaved an inward sigh of relief. The possibility that Hermione or Ron would suffer lasting problems because of what happened had weighed heavily on his mind. “Good. I’m glad to hear that.” He looked away to the other end of the room. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask about it when you came to see me.” He looked back at Hermione who gave a slight shrug of her shoulders in acknowledgement. “Why do you feel queasy then?”

“I’m waiting for you to tell me off. Isn’t that why you asked me down here? A clean break from our friendship?”

“No!” Harry said, his stomach plummeting to his feet at the mere thought. “Is that what you want?”

She shook her head. “I just thought…” she paused and cleared her throat. “I said some rather harsh things to you.”

“Yes, you did.” Harry stared at her, a small part of him still wanting an apology. She returned his gaze and he saw her lips tighten, as if struggling to stop something from tumbling out of her mouth.

“Right, then,” he began, rubbing his sweaty hands on his trouser legs. “I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?”

“Making me miserable for the past month.”

“Harry, I…”

He held up his hand, stopping her mid-sentence. He leaned forward and looked down at the ground, grasping his hands together. “I was furious with you, Hermione. I felt that you betrayed me. How could you not understand what I was going through? Why, of all times, did you choose this one to call me out, to tell me how little you thought of me? It was apparent to me that the curse you were hit with had muddled your brain because the Hermione I knew would have never said what you said to me. I just knew you would send me an owl, telling me how sorry you were, begging for forgiveness.”

Hermione let out a huff and stood up. “If you’re waiting on an apology, you’ll be waiting a while…”

Harry looked up from the floor and met Hermione’s gaze. “I’m not waiting for an apology.”

“Because, although I know I handled the situation wrong…” she stopped and gave him a bewildered look. “What did you say?”

“I said I’m not waiting on an apology.”

“Oh,” she replied. She glanced around, apparently surprised to find she was standing, and returned to her seat

“As much as I didn’t want to admit it, you were right, about all of it. It’s all I’ve been thinking about for the past month. The low point came when I asked myself why I was so determined to go to the Department of Mysteries that night — to save Sirius or to finally see what was behind that door?”

Hermione gave a slight gasp. “Harry, I never questioned your motives!”

Harry shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. The answer to that question was too confusing and painful for him to answer truthfully, to himself or Hermione. But he felt a bit lighter just confessing this doubt, this dark aspect of himself, to Hermione, whether she thought him guilty or not.

Not wanting to dwell on it longer than necessary, he continued. “When you didn’t show up at Grimmauld Place I realized you were as angry with me as I was with you.”

“Harry, I wouldn’t have been there even if we hadn’t had that row. I was spending time with my parents.”

“I know. Maybe I should say it was a combination of you not being there, you not telling me anything about your holiday, and the less than warm greeting in my card.”

Hermione looked at the fire and squirmed in her chair. “I wrote that the day after we talked. It was the best I could do.” She returned her gaze to Harry. “But when you opened the present, surely then you knew that I could never stay mad at you forever.”

It was Harry’s turn to squirm. “Er, well to tell the truth, I haven’t opened the present yet.”

“What?”

“Reading your card triggered something. What is it called?”

With a puzzled expression she replied, “An epiphany?”

“Yes! An epiphany. That’s it,” he said, clapping his hands together and smiling. “I looked around at everyone there and realized that we’re all needed to defeat Voldemort. Everyone else’s role is as important as mine. I’ve been targeted, but that doesn’t make me special, really. It means that I have to work extra hard to make sure that I fulfill my responsibilities, because other people are depending on me, just as I am depending on them. I can’t do it alone.”

“You don’t have to,” Hermione whispered.

“I don’t want to.”

Harry looked away, allowing Hermione to wipe away the tears that had pooled in her eyes. He felt as if he should hug her, but the logistics of getting from sitting across from each other to standing and hugging was a bit much for him. Instead he stared into the embers and searched for a subject that might take her mind off her tears.

“I like your tan,” he said a bit too vociferously.

She sniffed loudly and looked at him with astonishment. His stomach clenched with worry that he had done something wrong, possibly not let her cry long enough. But, how was he to know how long was long enough? Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned her tan? He had no idea. He was struggling. He shifted in his seat and saw Hermione’s mouth turn up in a lopsided smile.

“Thank you.”

“Did you have a nice holiday with your parents?”

“For the most part.”

“Tell me about it,” Harry encouraged.

Hermione spent the next few minutes telling Harry about her holiday. He had the impression that she kept the specifics to a minimum in an effort to spare his feelings. Either Hermione was sensitive to the fact that Harry had never been on a proper holiday, or she had the dullest time known to man. Harry guessed the former.

Soon, she was quizzing him about his birthday, his time at Grimmauld Place and Snape’s Occlumency lessons. Her eyes lit up when he told her about the progress he was making, and his motivation for said progress.

A brief disapproving look crossed he features before breaking into a small smile. “Well, whatever motivates you. If it works, then who am I to complain?”

“Wait a minute!” Harry exclaimed sitting forward. “You are going to chastise me for being motivated by my hatred of Snape?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Wow, that near death experience did change your perspective! Do you hate Snape now?” Harry teased.

“Don’t be absurd. I try not to ‘hate’ anyone.”

“Even Malfoy?”

“Okay, he is an exception.”

“That’s a relief.”

She smiled and looked down at the arm of the chair, picking at a scratch on the leather. “So, why didn’t you open your present?” she asked nervously.

“Oh,” Harry replied, completely forgetting in their easy camaraderie the earlier conversation and its roots. “Well, I didn’t want to open it and feel guilty about being so mad at you. I felt bad enough as it was. I wanted to talk to you first.”

“Do you want to open it now?”

Harry eyes brightened. “Yeah. It’s been killing me not opening it. I had to shove it in the bottom of my trunk so I wouldn’t look at it every day.” He bounded up from the sofa. “I’ll go get it.”

He ran up the dormitory stairs, two at a time, his heart lighter than it had been in weeks. He still felt a hollow place where his affection for Sirius had been, but that was slowly being filled with the love of his friends. A love that he knew would survive anything. He crept into the sixth year boys’ dorm room to a cacophony of snores. He opened his trunk and rummaged around for the flat present. Ron gave a snort when the lid of his trunk closed with a click and Harry froze. After a minute, he crept out of the room and ran back down the stairs. Hermione was standing with her back to him, facing the fire.

“I’ve got it,” Harry said. At those words, he heard a loud sniff and saw her arms move in what Harry could tell was a move to wipe away more tears. Hermione turned toward him, a bright smile forced on her face and her eyes rimmed in red puffy circles. “What’s wrong?” Harry asked, placing the gift on the sofa and moving to stand in front of her. He had hardly stopped before Hermione threw her arms around him in a fierce hug.

A bit stunned, Harry tentatively moved his arms to hug Hermione back and said into a mass of hair. “Why are you crying?”

“Oh, Harry, I’m just so relieved you don’t hate me,” she whispered into his shoulder.

“Hate you? I could never hate you. I was good and angry with you, but only until I realized what a prat I had been; then I was good and angry with myself. I couldn’t imagine you ever doing anything to make me hate you.”

“Even calling you a ‘Tragic Little Hero?’” she sniffed.

Harry pulled back and looked at her with a grin. “Okay, maybe that.”

“I don’t really think that.”

“Yes, you do,” Harry chuckled. “You meant every word you said.”

“Harry…”

“Listen, Hermione, it’s in the past. You gave me a lot to think about and I’m working on it. I need my friends to be honest with me. I’m tired of being tiptoed around. But you should expect a bit of honesty in return.”

“Okay,” Hermione said warily, bracing herself for a tirade.

“Not right now. Just … you know,” Harry said waving his hand, “sometime in the future when you irritate me.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I can’t wait.”

“Me, either,” Harry said with a grin. “Now, can we open this present? I’m dying here.”

Hermione’s eyes lit up and she nodded her head. They sat on the sofa side by side and Harry held the flat present in his hands, bouncing it up and down, testing it. He looked at Hermione and shook it with a grin. “Let me guess…a book?”

Hermione punched him in the arm. “Just open it.”

Harry ripped the paper to reveal a black leather bound book with his name, Harry James Potter, written in gold script on the front. He opened the cover and the first page folded out into a square that was twice the size of the book. Brows furrowed, he looked from the blank page to Hermione, who had pulled out her wand and had a huge grin on her face.

“It’s a good thing you didn’t open it. I forgot that I wiped this blank. You wouldn’t have understood the rest of it without this page. Well, you would have, but this puts it all in perspective. And I wanted you to see this.”

She tapped the wand to the page and said, “Ostendo Progenitor.” Harry watched as his name was written in green script at the bottom center of the page. Tendrils of ink spread throughout the page, swirling and curving into each corner of the parchment, creating what at first appeared to Harry as an abstract drawing. Upon closer inspection, he saw that in fact the drawing wasn’t abstract at all. Order and organization was revealed from the chaos and with some astonishment he realized what he was looking at: his family tree.

“Hermione, how…what?”

He looked up at Hermione, whose eyes were shining with excitement usually reserved for top marks in Transfiguration. He was thankful that she seemed fit to burst with information since his mind couldn’t form a coherent thought at the moment.

“When I met you I got curious about your family. I wondered why you lived with Muggles for eleven years, so I looked into your family background. When I started, we weren’t friends, and I knew you would think I was weird for even caring. It was so interesting, looking back at your wizarding heritage and the history of your family. I just kept doing it when I needed a bit of a break from studying.”

“You’ve been doing this since our first year?”

“Well, not technically. I was just looking stuff up then, wondering how far back your wizarding blood goes. I don’t know when the idea took root to make this for you, but somewhere along the way I started keeping notes and planning it. My mum helped with your mother’s side of the family. She loves geneology and wanted me to go back further. But I couldn’t. It was time to give it to you.”

“Wow,” Harry murmured, looking at the top of the page. “How far back?”

“How far back what?” Hermione asked.

“How far back does wizarding blood go in my family?”

“At least 500 years. That’s as far back as I went.” She turned the page. “Back here are short histories of the different families. You are very, very distantly related to Ron through Molly’s side.”

“Wow.”

Harry flipped the page back and stared at the names of his ancestors. He had been without family for so long that the sudden appearance of hundreds of people that could claim a part, however small, in making him the person he was, was very overwhelming. He felt Hermione’s arm drape across his shoulder and felt her rest her chin on his shoulder.

“You see Harry, no matter what you think, or how you feel, you have never been alone,” she whispered.

He turned to look at her and she sat back with a small smile. “And you never will be.”

Harry reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”

Hermione waved her other hand in dismissal. “You’re welcome.” She stood up and stretched. “I’m off to bed. It’s past two already.” She began walking towards the staircase leading to the girls’ dormitory. “Good night.”

“Hermione?” Harry called.

She turned around. “Yes?”

“Thanks. For everything.”

Hermione tilted her head and smiled at him in such an endearing way that Harry’s heart jumped. She walked back to stand in front of him and quipped, “What are friends for?” She reached up, placing her hands lightly on his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. “Happy Birthday, Harry,” she whispered in his ear before turning to walk up the stairs and out of sight