A/N: Sorry this chapter took so long; things just have a way of getting crazy. I want to thank everyone who reviewed the first four chapters. Hugs and chocolate kisses to all of you! I also want to give a big thanks to my lovely new beta reader, Babygrrl, for her help and encouragement- not to mention all of the corruption.
Dramatic irony occurs when the audience or the reader knows something important that a character in a play or a story does not know.
Chapter 5: Dramatic Irony
Hermione woke to find her head on Ron's shoulder, her neck bent at an impossible angle. As she slowly lifted her arms above her head in a luxurious stretch, jerking her head from side to side to relieve the tension in her neck, she took a look around the room in which she found herself. Her feet were propped up on a low coffee table, considerably scuffed and with deep scratches embedded in the wood. Hermione reached down and ran her fingers lightly over the dark gashes that ran across the surface of the table, wondering vaguely where they could have come from. Shrugging her shoulders in a gesture of puzzlement, she lifted her head to scan the rest of the room. Across from the faded red couch on which she sat there was an immense picture window facing out into the heart of Muggle London, devoid of any curtains. Four stories below, she could hear the vague noises of what few cars there were on the road this early in the morning. The only other sound came from Ron, who was snoring slightly to Hermiones left. She wrinkled her nose in silent laughter as she watched her old friend bat his hand absentmindedly at a fly that had landed on his nose. Shaking her head, Hermione rose from her seated position and began to pace around the living room. The hard wood floor felt cool to her bare feet. She walked over to the window and leaned her forehead up against the glass, looking straight downward into the city below.
"Great view, isnt it?" asked a sleepy-sounding Ron from behind her. Hermione turned around and gave him a small smile, making her way back to the couch.
"Sure is," she said, plopping herself down next to him, slowly sinking into the soft red cushions. She leaned her head back and let her eyes fall shut, feeling sleepy yet at the same time exhilarated. Hermione thought back to where she could have been waking up this morning, in the completely beige bedroom of James' house, and a smile unconsciously found its way onto her lips. That smile was quickly replaced by a grimace when she thought of James all alone. Ron must have spotted it, because his next words were,
"What are you thinking about?" He reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder, causing Hermione to lift her head.
"James. And my parents. I wonder what they're going to do to me once they realize I've called off the wedding," she answered, shuddering at the thought of telling her father his money had been wasted. Worse would be her mother, who had held high hopes for a grandchild in the near future. Hermione's parents had married very late on in life, a fact which left them with just the one daughter- they placed all of their hopes and dreams squarely on Hermione's shoulders. She didn't mind this normally, recognizing that her mother and father wanted the best for her, but a marriage was quite different from being a good student. It wasn't so cut and dry, black and white. This was really the first time in her life Hermione had found herself going against their wishes, and the thought frankly terrified her. Her concern showed plainly on her face; her eyes clouded over and she began to chew on her lower lip methodically.
"Youll be fine," Ron said reassuringly, his hand now patting her arm in a friendly way. "I'm sure they'll understand. They have to, right? You can't marry someone you don't want to; there's no way it could work."
"Ron, maybe your parents would understand. Mine...mine want my life to be easier than theirs. They think that marrying James will give me security, and...Ron?" she asked, cutting her thoughts short when she saw the look on her old friend's face. He had gone slightly pale, his eyes overly bright. "What's wrong?" she asked, anxiety in her voice.
"Hermione, you know that my-my parents...they're dead, Hermione," he said. He had withdrawn his hand from her shoulder, had hung his head down so that he was looking into his own lap.
"Ron-" Hermione began, reaching out a hand to her old friend, her concern showing plainly in her face.
"I'm not Ron. I'm Harry," he said, raising his head to look her in the eye.
Hermione sat, letting these words sink in. She thought that her friend just may be losing his mind in his obvious grief for his lost best friend...but that couldn't be right- Harry had been dead for years, and Ron had seemed to come through the grieving process relatively unscathed. Hermione wondered for a brief moment whether this was some spell...then something amazing happened, and all thoughts were wiped from her mind, having been replaced with pure awe. Ron's face had begun to shift and contort, almost as if he were in terrible pain. The eyes squeezed shut, and the mouth was drawn into a tight grimace. She was forcibly reminded of the effects of Polyjuice Potion as she watched his features melt away entirely. For a second, there was just a blank lump of pale flesh where his face should have been. Then the features started to fill themselves in; first a pair of lively green eyes, big and glittering like emeralds. Then came a nose, not as sharp or long as Ron's. The nose was followed by the hair, jet black and very messy, on top of the head. Last came the scar, standing out lividly on the boy's forehead, shaped like a jagged bolt of lightning, the scar that she remembered so well and that haunted her dreams.
"Hello Hermione," said Harry, his voice low and soft, almost tender.
"Oh my-" she stammered, instinctively reaching out a hand to this boy's face. She wanted to touch him, needed to feel his skin underneath her fingers. She needed to know that this was real, not an illusion, that Harry had in fact returned to her after so long. Her eyes glazed over with tears as her fingers made contact with his cheek. Harry closed his eyes and raised his hand to cover hers, their fingers interlacing. Tears fell freely from Hermiones eyes now, rolling down her face and splashing onto the front of the t-shirt she'd slept in. She closed her own eyes, bowing her head as she continued to weep with joy. She felt a pair of lips lightly graze her forehead in a tender kiss, and sighed. Raising her free hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks, she raised her head and opened her eyes, her face breaking out into a broad smile as she strived to express everything she was feeling- her joy, her relief, her love- without saying a word.
Then, she noticed something about the face she was looking at, the face of her childhood love. He didn't look as she remembered him; his face had changed somehow in the brief time she'd closed her eyes. His skin had become deathly pale, with tinges of blue. His eyes lacked the sparkle they had held back in the days of Hogwarts. His veins were showing clearly through his face, but they looked...stagnant. The lips had turned pale purple. His hair was falling out in clumps, and covered in moldy-smelling dust. This was not Harry Potter. This was some...some thing. Tears of frustration now stung Hermione's eyes as she backed away from the thing that, moments before, had assumed the shape of her childhood friend. How had a moment so perfect turned into this nightmare? She had had Harry back, for just one fleeting second. Now all that was left was this foul, monstrous corpse. Hermione's heart beat faster in her chest, adrenaline now coursing through her veins as she remembered dreams from her early childhood of the most horrible, disgusting things that hid in graveyards and old attics. Her stomach dropped, mimicking the feeling she got the first time she saw a grub, lurking blindly in the soft earth. Then she screamed.
"Why are you screaming, honey?" it asked, its pale violet lips parting to reveal a rotting, bloated tongue. Its voice was grainy and hoarse and monotonous. Harry had never called Hermione "honey" in his entire life.
"Get-get away from me!" Hermione yelped as the monstrosity reached over, as if to hug her. But the gesture was not one of tenderness; it suggested evil and harm to come.
"C'mon. Gimme a kiss!"
"Hermione! Hermione, wake up!" came Ron's voice, sounding slightly panicked. Hermione became aware that he was shaking her, his hands gripping each of her upper arms. Her eyes fluttered open to the site of a very flustered Ron, wearing a pair of boxer shorts and an anxious expression. "Are you okay? You were screaming and-" he began, trailing off.
Hermione remembered the dream, remembered the feel of Harry's lips against her forehead, remembered the grating voice of the corpse he had morphed into. Her eyes welled up and she collapsed against Ron's chest, her head buried in his shoulder. Ron put his arms around her and started patting her hair, which was even bushier than it had been the day they'd met aboard the Hogwarts Express.
"It was so real," she said after a few minutes, her voice shaky as she raised her head and began to wipe the tears from her face. "It was him."
"Who? Who was it, Hermione?" Ron asked, guiding her back to the couch and then sitting down next to her.
"Harry."
"In your dream, right?" he asked.
"No, Ron. Harry just happened to come back from the dead and decided that his first order of business was to scare me out of my wits," she snapped, all of a sudden angry. She shrugged her shoulders free of his arm. "It was just a nightmare." With that she rose from the couch and walked to the bathroom, shutting the door rather forcibly behind her. Ron just shook his head and stumbled back to his bedroom to get dressed. Picking up his bedside clock, he shut his eyes and groaned. It was only 5:30 and it looked like he was up for the day.
He opened his closet door to find a shirt and was nearly impaled by the sword. It had been leaning precariously against the inside of the door, and it fell directly at his feet, missing him by mere inches.
"Bloody sword wants me dead," he mumbled, picking up the offending weapon and tossing it onto the bed. He'd moved it from the coffee table in the living room right after Hermione'd asked to come stay with him; he didn't see any point in opening that can of worms. Hermione didn't know much about the circumstances surrounding Harry's death- she hadn't wanted to know, and Ron hadn't wanted to tell her.
He heard the sound of running water coming from the bathroom; Hermione must be taking a shower. Trying hard not to think too long about his childhood friend in his shower, he hastily got dressed and walked out to the kitchen with the vague idea of fixing the two of them a nice breakfast. Ten minutes later, having discovered that his refrigerator was close to empty, containing half a carton of milk and a brown head of lettuce, he was surprised to still hear the water running in the bathroom. Hermione must have been showering for more than twenty minutes...what was she trying to do, drown herself?
Hermione stood rigid under the hot spray of the shower, the water mingling with the salty tears on her cheeks and washing them away. She slowly ran her hands through he hair, then raised them to her face again in a fresh outburst of tears. She was more frustrated than anything else; she just couldn't believe that she had let her guard down, had dared to believe that her wildest fantasies had finally come to life. She was Hermione, the sensible one. How, then, did she convince herself that something that was never going to happen, could never happen, just might be possible? It was preposterous. Harry was dead; she'd watched his coffin as it was lowered into the damp earth that day five years ago. With that thought, she shook her head and turned off the water.
As she pulled back the blue plastic curtain and stepped out onto the cool tile floor, she thought of James. She grabbed a towel from the pile of clean linens that Ron had placed to one side of the bathroom sink, no doubt on her behalf. As she wrapped it around herself, she had a very frightening thought, perhaps one even more frightening than the idea of Harry stuck in a box underground for all of eternity. What if she had made a mistake? Harry Potter was dead and gone, but James Silverton was alive, alive and ready to marry her. Had she just made the biggest mistake of her life?
Hermione shook her head once more, as if with that one motion she could dispel all of the uncertainty and doubt that had somehow managed to creep up on her, and resolved herself to spend a pleasant day with Ron.
"Morning," she said to Ron as she padded lightly into the kitchen, stopping to lean against the counter as she ran a comb absentmindedly through her hair.
"Oh, so we're in a better mood now?" he asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "I had been planning on cooking us a lovely Sunday breakfast, but if you're going to yell and cry all day, you'll go hungry."
Hermione started to apologize, then recognized the familiar glint in her old friend's eyes as he began to laugh at her penitent expression. "That wasn't nice, she said, giving his shoulder a playful shove. He shoved her back, and all of a sudden Hermione had the painful realization that she was wearing nothing but a white cotton towel, one which just might give in to the forces of gravity if this horseplay went on much longer. She stepped backwards, her hand gripping the towel tightly around herself.
"Don't worry, I wouldn't let my guest starve," Ron said.
"Great. What are we having?" she asked, her embarrassment of a moment ago forgotten at the thought of breakfast; she hadn't realized just how hungry she was till now.
"We'll take whatever we can get at this hour. Quick, get dressed; we're going out."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Harry stood up with difficulty, tentatively raising his arms above his head as he arched his back in a vain attempt to get out all of the kinks and muscle aches that had come from spending the night curled up on the floor of the entranceway to Malfoy Manor. He ran a hand through his hair and picked up his glasses from where hed placed them on the floor last night. Putting them on, he looked around at the room in which he found himself.
Green eyes trained to note and remember the slightest detail quickly took in the black marble, the windows with the red hangings, and the staircase with the banister made to look like a serpent. Harry sighed, thinking to himself that Draco really had been destined for Slytherin if he'd grown up in this house.
Not wanting to stay long, fearing Draco's return, Harry headed for the backdoor. He paused at the closet, however, thinking that a good cloak would be useful- and Draco probably had one to match every outfit, so what did it matter if Harry just borrowed one? That's right, it wouldn't matter. Opening the closet door, Harry was surprised to find a mirror attached to the back of it- but what surprised him even more was the sight of his own reflection.
The boy who lived was hardly impressive to look at. His jet-black hair was flecked with gray in places, and there were dark circles under his eyes that no amount of rest would get rid of. He'd acquired muscle to go with his height over the past five years, making him seem less lanky and disproportioned. His hair still stuck up at crazy angles no matter what de did to it, and that bloody lightning bolt on his forehead still made its presence known, seeming to taunt him from the glass of the mirror. Harry shook his head, turning away from his reflection to pick a cloak.
His first impulse was to take the most expensive one there, just to annoy Draco. Then he thought better of it, thought that if one of Malfoy's fancy cloaks was stolen, the authorities were likely to get involved. Better not to risk it, he thought, as he moved his hand from where it had been resting on the hanger of a beautiful deep green velvet cloak with sterling silver fastenings. Grabbing a plain black wool cloak from the very back of the closet and putting it on, he headed for the backdoor.
He set off down the sloping lawn of Malfoy Manor, not quite sure where he was going but knowing that he had to get there fast. The sky was a washed out gray color, with dark storm clouds gathering in the distance. Harry figured he had two hours, maybe three, before he was tracked down. That was okay; it was more time than he needed. Drawing the heavy black cloak tightly around himself, he bent his head against the wind, which had picked up in the last few minutes, and continued his way down the path. It was as he was leaving the Malfoy property and turning onto the main road that lead down to Hogsmeade that he heard an all-too familiar squawk from behind him.
He turned and was greeted by the sight of Aurora, one of the Hogwarts school owls, flapping towards him, a letter tied to her leg. Cursing, Harry stood and waited for her to descend. She landed on his shoulder a moment later, her talons gripping his skin slightly harder than he felt was really necessary. At the risk of being gored, he untied the letter as fast as he could and shooed the bird off of his shoulder with a wave of his hand. She clucked her beak indignantly and flapped down to the ground, where she sat eyeing him with a look of utmost superiority.
Harry opened the unmarked envelope with shaking hands, knowing very well what it would say. There, written in the emerald green ink particular to Hogwarts teachers, was the message:
H.- You will return to the school immediately. I'm sorry, but you know well the consequences of your actions.
Prof. Dumbledore
Harry's eyes shone with tears of frustration as he balled up the letter and pitched it as hard as he could into the air. He even aimed a kick at poor Aurora, who fortunately saw the attack coming and leapt into flight before being harmed, before he realized it was pointless to be angry. "Besides," he said to himself, "it's wrong to kill the messenger."
With that he reached out a hand to pat Aurora, who had landed a few feet to his left, looking very rumpled, on the head, scratching her beak in a way he knew she liked. She appeared to forgive his outburst, nipping at his finger affectionately. Then she took flight, flapping off in the direction of Hogwarts, Harry's home- but Harry didn't feel compelled to follow, despite the contents of the letter. Instead, he drew the heavy black cloak even tighter around himself and continued on his way down to Hogsmeade, determined to do what he'd come here to do.
Before entering town, Harry ducked behind a tree near the side of the road. Pulling his wand from the pocket of his jeans, he murmured a few choice words under his breath. "Caeruleus oculi!" he began, turning his bright green eyes to a dark, hazy blue. Next he aimed his wand at his chin and muttered, "Barbatus claresco!" which gave him a thick, black beard and mustache. Last came a spell of Harry's own invention, one which was extremely useful: "Cicatrix abeo!" With that, the familiar lightning bolt on his forehead faded into smooth, pale skin. Now, blue-eyed and bearded, he entered Hogsmeade, fully confident that no one would recognize him.
Harry walked to the train station, the one where the Hogwarts Express came to a stop every year. He sat down on a hard iron bench and looked about at his surroundings, silently taking in all of the sights and sounds of the bustling wizard town. He was surprised to see a large group of school-age children wearing the black robes of Hogwarts come out of Honeydukes, laughing as they exchanged various candies and popped them into their mouths. Among them he recognized the red hair and vibrant expression of Julia Weasley, Bill Weasley's oldest daughter. She'd just started school this September, which meant that she would be in plenty of trouble when she returned to the castle; first years weren't allowed in town on Hogsmeade weekends. Harry smiled to himself as he watched the young Julia talking excitedly with her friends.
At that moment, a jet-black steam engine pulled into the station and ground to a halt, billowing thick gray smoke in all directions. Harry stood up and sauntered onto the train, seating himself in the very last car after handing his ticket to a bored-looking attendant.
A few hours passed by uneventfully; Harry dozed off a few times, but was too nervous to slip into a deep sleep. However elaborate his disguise, and however brave the face he put on was, he was terrified of being recognized, terrified of what Dumbledore would say to him when he returned to Hogwarts. Harry'd run away before, on three separate occasions. Once he'd just gone to his parents gravesite; he'd come back after a little over an hour. The other two times, he'd simply disguised himself as he had done today and walked down to Hogsmeade, just to get out of the castle and into the fresh air. But always before now, he'd gone home as soon as he'd received the summons from Dumbledore.
Today Harry had a purpose; he was going to London, to Diagon Alley, specifically. He'd been thinking about this day for five long years, and now that the event was upon him, it was almost scary. Scary, it was horrifying. As he disembarked from the train at Platform 9 3/4 at King's Cross, he gave a silent nod to the attendant who'd taken his ticket. The young man- he couldn't have been more than twenty- waved back at him, flashing a rather toothy grin. Stepping casually out from the barrier between platforms nine and ten, Harry checked hastily to make sure that his wand was still lodged safely in his pocket. Giving a small sigh of relief when he found it where he'd left it earlier, he sauntered out of the train station and into the bustle of Muggle London.
Squinting up into the early-morning sunlight, he made his way to the entrance of the Leaky Cauldron. A glance at his wristwatch told him that it was early- only about 8:30 in the morning. He continued on his way through the London streets, keeping his eyes on the concrete sidewalk in front of him as he navigated the crowded street, trying to keep from jostling his fellow pedestrians.
Passing by a florist's shop, Harry paused and ducked inside. The store was small, tucked in between a grocers and a used bookstore. The walls were covered in signs that said things like, "God made dirt, and dirt don't hurt." Harry quickly grabbed a bouquet of a dozen white roses and walked up to the cashier, a short little old lady who could barely see over the countertop. She had frizzy gray hair that stuck out in all directions, but a sprightly glint in her deep brown eyes. Taking Harry's flowers, she carefully wrapped the stems in cellophane, then pale pink tissue paper. As she performed these operations, she chatted with Harry.
"These are for your lady friend, no doubt," she said, grinning. She even gave him a small wink from behind her thick, pink-framed glasses.
"No, not exactly," Harry replied, trying to smile back and finding it difficult. He wished she'd just let him pay for the flowers and leave.
"Oh? So theyre for someone else's lady friend?" she asked, now positively giggling.
"They're for my mother," Harry lied, feelings his palms grow slick with sweat. Please just get me out of here, he thought to himself, glancing down at his watch again- 8:45.
"Well aren't you just a dear?" she said, handing him the roses and walking the few feet to the cash register.
"How much will that be?" Harry asked, his voice impatient.
"Oh now dearie, I couldn't charge a nice young man like you. Not many boys nowadays would buy flowers for their mothers. You just go ahead and take those," she said, smiling almost as if she were proud of him.
"Well, er...thank you. Really, thank you very much," Harry replied, his impatience melting away as he flashed the old lady a genuine smile of gratitude. "This is really very nice of you."
"Don't you think anything of it, dear. Now you go on and bring those to your mother; she must be very proud to have a son like you," she said, shooing him back outside with a wave of her hand.
I dont know about that...Harry thought, wondering briefly what his mum would think of him now as he left the flower shop. He didn't dwell on it, though. Instead, he picked up his pace and, clutching the bouquet tightly in his hand, made his way to the Leaky Cauldron. He arrived outside of the run-down pub a few minutes later. Before going in, he unfolded the cloak, which he'd been carrying in the crook of his arm, and put it on, pulling the hood up to cover his head. He also touched his chin gently to make sure that the beard had not disappeared. The course bristles met his fingertips, and he was once again confident in his disguise- confident enough to open the door to the Leaky Cauldron with a steady hand, even though his heart was beating faster than he'd thought possible.
Harry meandered through the darkness of the pub, carefully avoiding the eyes of anyone who looked his way. He walked to the brick wall that separated the Leaky Cauldron from the rest of Diagon Alley and pulled out his wand. Tapping the bricks in that special order, he stood back and watched as they shifted themselves to make an opening. When the opening was big enough, Harry stepped through it and into the bustling row of shops that was Diagon Alley.
Ignoring the curious looks that came his way from more than a few shoppers and passersby, Harry walked slowly and deliberately past Madame Malkin's, past Ollivander's wand shop, and past Quality Quidditch Supplies. He continued in his determined stride until he reached Gringotts, at which point he walked to the side of the immense white building and stopped abruptly.
He was facing an immense white marble wall, built into the side of the snow-white bank building, into which hundreds upon hundreds of names had been carved; they were the names of those who had lost their lives in the war. One name, however, was set apart from the rest, carved in large, ornate letters in the very center of the memorial wall, Harold James Potter: the boy who lived. Harry snorted upon seeing this, appreciating the irony of the phrase they'd chosen. He didn't pause to wonder over why, even in death, he was granted special favor by the powers that be.
Strewn about at the base of the memorial were ratty, weather-beaten stuffed animals, large framed portraits of the lost, a multitude of small white candles, and of course flowers. Harry ran his fingers lightly over the cool surface of the marble, absent-mindedly tracing a name he must have recognized in some long-forgotten recess of his heart: Colin Creevy.
A sudden image of the eleven-year-old Colin, wide-eyed as he held up his camera, flashed in Harry's mind. It was followed closely by an image of the same young man, now taller but with the same innocent expression, falling to the ground amidst a fog of bright green light. Harry shook his head, then slowly moved his finger down the list of names until he reached the ground. There, at the very bottom of the first of three columns, was the name hed come to see, the name that had haunted his thoughts and his dreams for the past five years. Placing the bunch of roses onto the ground, Harry whispered something to the wall, almost as if the marble could somehow hear his words and convey them to the owner of the name. Then, his task completed, he turned on his heel and left the memorial, a single tear making its way slowly down his cheek as he disappeared once more into the crowd, once again became invisible.
Not fifteen minutes later, a small woman wearing a deep violet cloak approached the memorial. She wore wire-rimmed spectacles on a glittering silver chain around her neck. Her long hair, once a deep honey brown, was now swept into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, the light gray catching the sun's rays. Tears glinted in the corners of her deep blue eyes, but she hurriedly wiped them away and put on her glasses. Stooping to clean away the litter and dead flower petals from in front of her sons name, as she did every Sunday morning, she was surprised to find a fresh bunch of lovely white roses. Mrs. Finnigan lifted the bouquet from the ground and, inhaling the sweet scent of the flowers, wondered what friend of Seamus' had been there.