An Angsty Late Night Fic. Experiment.

Ankh

Rating: PG13
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 20/10/2004
Last Updated: 20/10/2004
Status: completed

This is something that crept into my head while I was trying to write something with a smack of gothic romance. Harry's dissapeared and Hermione has drawn away from the world as a result. I'll think of a better name tomorrow.

Chapters

1. -one part only-

1. -one part only-

Disclaimer: I'm not JK Rowling; this does not represent her work. This is a non-profit work of fan fiction.

This is probably terrible, it's just gone midnight and my eyes hurt from squinting at the screen - whatever - hope someone enjoys it.

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Morning stretched over Hogwarts castle like a flimsy gossamer shadow. The bright branches of sunlight did little to dispel the chill that had settled into the ancient building's bones, making for a long stay. The weighty smell of rotting leaves and water-swelled tree trunks drifted from the forest in the stillness. It was an odd day; the autumnal weather was poised a hairsbreadth from winter but seemed reluctant to fade completely. The lake reflected the glassy sky, both mirrors of perfect tranquillity.

Hermione sat like an inexorable statue at the battered corner table. Only her eyes moved as she read from the text spread before her. Slowly, like some clockwork porcelain doll, she lifted a hand from her lap and turned the sepia toned page. Once again her eyes began to drink the letters. A muffled yawn seeped into the common room from the dormitories above. She stood almost soundlessly and closed the book with the same noiseless precision. It was time for her to be someplace else, the prospect of conversation didn't appeal and through late nights and early mornings she avoided it almost completely.

She walked to the window and leant on the stone sill. The air stirred her hair which had grown longer than it had been in a long time; she flicked the wild mass over her shoulder and leaned out a little further. The ground bellow called to her in gravity and sharp degrees, she let the vertigo dance about her cluttered head. It was good to feel afraid, alive - just for a few moments. Finally she stepped backwards and exited the room with brisk steps. The book would be perfectly safe left alone; no one would dare lay a finger on one of her things, through Harry's death she had become sacrosanct.

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It had been strange to begin with, almost innocuous. He'd simply failed to appear at the beginning of term. People had talked and rumours were rife on the lips of the hoi-polloi but nothing out of the ordinary. When asked she'd said that he'd turn up eventually, but gradually she'd come to realise that the only person listening was herself. The days went bye with a surreal slowness, nobody dared to voice what everybody was thinking. Everybody accept her. 'He's just late.' She kept saying, '… and when he turns up I won't speak to him for a month!' Even though she ached to hear his voice and burned for a sign or a scrap to feed the dwindling flames of hope.

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The school coasted by as her quick steps carried her through the empty corridors. The smell of strong coffee mingled with the sickly odour of sweetened porridge and squeezed orange juice invaded her pinched and dead beat senses. For a second the breakfast fare made her feel sick to her stomach but she pushed the feeling back down her gullet like she did every morning.

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The hope she had clung to had not been unfounded. It dangled from the scratchy lines of handwriting scrawled across a ripped out notebook page. Harry's handwriting and Harry's notebook. It had been such a nice letter, and, like the most pleasant of things, a complete surprise. Not even a day before the term began it had arrived in a plain envelope via muggle post. He'd told her he cared, told her lots of tender, sweet things. But not a word about why or where he was going.

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Hermione flicked the toast crumbs from her sleeve and headed to the library, timing her footsteps perfectly so that she avoided the early rush to the hall. Once surrounded by the concealing bookshelves she slowed down. As she walked she trailed a hand along the leather spines and the sharp shelf edges. Her finger flew to her mouth to suck away a rouge splinter; she tasted blood - a flavour she seemed to be learning well. Following a secret path through the books she came to her den, an old blanket draped over an ancient table and a moth eaten cushion on a rickety chair.

Like a cat about to pick apart some long-treasured jumper she stared both ways until she was sure no one was around. Once her curiosity was satisfied she slumped into the chair and pulled a thin book from beneath the blanket.

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Dumbledore's last announcement hadn't been entirely unexpected. To the majority, like his retirement, it had been long overdue. Unusually for the old man he hadn't bandied his words. It was a simple, but none the less cutting, couple of sentences. In short 'Harry Potter was missing, presumed dead'. And then, almost in passing, 'Harry Potter had also killed Voldemort'.

The awkwardness that followed was almost palpable, some people looked ashamed and then cheered, some people wept but then laughed. Some laughed and then wept. In all the commotion no one had seen her slip away by herself. And that was how she'd spent her time from then tile now - by herself.

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She opened the book at its carefully placed mark and pulled a quill from her pocket. She dipped it into the readied ink and began to scratch angrily into the paper. The title running across the top of each gilded page read 'The Biography of Harry Potter - A Daily Profit Exclusive.' With each dip and scratch of the quill she corrected and amended the shoddy document. The ink stained nib flayed the truth from between the sordid, close knit propaganda filled paragraphs. Once the book was either cleansed or illegible she threw it contemptuously onto the pile beside her and pulled out another book to correct. It was long work and it played merry-havoc with her sleep-strained eyes but she didn't stop until she sagged forwards into a fitful, exhausted sleep.

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Outside the castle a wind began to rise. For the shadowed figure traipsing through the forest it was a good omen. It meant change, and at present any change was good change. As long as it didn't involve him. In his wake a scrawny house elf followed; weighed down by a heavy improvised backpack. The figure stopped and so did the elf, together they looked up at the grey castle, crowned by its turrets and steeples.

Footman, that was the elf's name, tugged gently at the patch-pied robe worn by his master.

"We must hurry master, we are too near… too near." The figure ignored him and continued staring.

"Can you hear anyone?" He asked eventually. The elf shook it's head vigorously causing the rings in it's ears to click together madly.

"Good." Slowly the master picked his way out of the tree line and onto the neatly kept lawn. He un-slung and mounted his broom in one serpentine movement. Footman cringed from his hollow as the figure began to float upwards, silent as a tumbling feather. Before long he had disappeared through a waiting window.

Fearful of making the slightest of sound the broomstick rider walked through the library's ancient tomes. His ears caught the gentle sound of rhythmic breathing and drew him closer to the sleeping girl. He fingered the dark hood which shadowed his face and took a hesitant step closer.

"My dear heart…" He whispered, barley letting the words leave his lips. "You look so sad." Gently he swept away the few bangs of hair which covered her face. She continued to sleep, unaware of the strangers presence. For a poignant moment he stood over her sleeping form, resting his hand on her gently stirring shoulder. "Forget me…" He slid his wand from a torn sleeve and traced it over her brow, her expression fluttered and rested on a calm contented smile. "… Because I can't forget you."

Without looking back he sped back out onto the grounds. A part of him wanted to believe he wasn’t running but it was the part he was leaving behind with every step. If he started out walking hard he could be in London by dawn tomorrow. Of course he'd have to take a few dubious routes but those were bridges as yet uncrossed.

The hood slipped down as he hiked onwards perused by Footman with his baggage. Beneath the material was a pointed face, grotesque and leering from the back of his head. It's mouth was sown crudely shut and deep scars blinded it's eyes.

"I hope the irony isn't lost on you…." Muttered Harry to the dark lord before pulling the hood snugly back over his head.

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"Goodbye Harry…" Muttered the brunette girl sleeping on the inky book. Tomorrow she would start going back to classes. The day after maybe she could do something about her hair, after that… well, that was a bridge as yet uncrossed.

The End.

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Reviews would be great, if you found it really earth moving then recommend it but I doubt it's worthy of the annals of Portkey.

*sleeps*