Disclaimer: Harry and his friends don't belong to anyone but J.K Rowling herself, and if Stoneheart was making any money off of this story, he would be giving it to me. Right, buddy? ~Fae Princess (Posting girl).
Author's Note: Dreadfully sorry for the delay. My boss keeps messing with my schedule, changing off-days to work days with little or no advance warning. Next week looks to be equally skewed, but I'll do my best, I promise. Your patience (not to mention your generous feedback) is greatly appreciated.
Hermione slept very little that night. Every time she closed her eyes, the same horrible scene kept reappearing. Try as she might, she could not shut it out.
As often as Harry had described his dreams of his parents' deaths at the hands of Voldemort, Hermione had been able to offer sympathy, but nothing more. But that sympathy had become empathy. The cold beads of perspiration clinging to her face as she shot upright in the pregnant darkness, the mournful wail on her lips, the feeling of helplessness...yes, now Hermione knew what Harry had endured in his own troubled dreams for so long.
The night was warm as only August nights can be, but Hermione shivered as she sat hugging her knees to her chest. She was grateful that her outcry had been muted and brief. Ginny stirred in the darkness with a soft muttering, but did not awaken. How Hermione wished she could sleep so peacefully.
A single shaft of moonlight, penetrating the leafy branches of the tree outside Ginny's window, fell on Hermione's bedside table. The pale beam flickered off and on as the leaves danced in the light breeze, alternately illuminating and obscuring the objects resting on the table. As if acting on its own, Hermione's hand reached out and fell upon a milky rectangle lying upon the dark wooden surface. It was her enrollment card. She held it in front of her, reading the words and symbols which her enchanted quill had written thereon: Granger, Hermione 7 G H.
Hermione's eyes lingered on the number 7. Her hand began to shake. She was remembering another number 7, on another card. A number printed in blood-red ink.
Holding the index card to her bosom, Hermione rose and approached the open window, her feather-light nightgown drifting above her knees. A small, padded bench seat stood beneath the window. Hermione pulled the seat out and sat, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the window sill, her hands cupping her face. The tiny shaft of moonlight just brushed her left shoulder as it winked off and on like the beam from a pocket torch. She stared alternately at the lawn, bright in the moonlight; at the hypnotic waving of the tree branches; at the millions of stars which fought a valiant but losing battle for supremacy in a sky dominated by the brilliant moon.
Tears clouded Hermione's eyes as she damned herself for all her years of reading, for the expanded vocabulary which had resulted in the metaphor which had sprung unbidden to her mind. A valiant but losing battle...
"Harry..." she whispered. "Are you ever coming back to me...?"
Blinking away tears, Hermione's eyes fell on the index card, which lay on the window sill between her arms. She moved to take it up, but her hand drew back suddenly, as from a poisonous spider. As she stared down between her hands, her breath trapped in her lungs, the number 7 after her name seemed to burn into her soul with an intensity to equal that of the basilisk from the Chamber of Secrets, whose terrible gaze had nearly ended her life more than four years ago.
With a defiant exhalation of breath, Hermione reminded herself again that she did not believe in fortune telling. It was unscientific claptrap...a shell game to ensnare the feeble-minded.
But, a tiny voice in the back of her mind countered, would not Muggle scientists say the same thing about magic? Hermione herself had not believed, not until the day her Hogwarts letter arrived. Even then, her logical, ordered mind refused to accept it. She, Hermione Granger, a witch? Rubbish! Ultimately, it took a visit from Professor McGonagall to convince her that it was not all some elaborate prank being played on her by a schoolmate. It was standard procedure for a Hogwarts representative to visit a Muggle-born, who would likely have no knowledge of Hogwarts or, indeed, of the very existence of magic. Had not Hermione seen Professor McGonagall change herself into a cat before her very eyes, removing her last vestige of doubt, she might never have boarded the Hogwarts Express on that fateful day nearly six years ago. She would never have become a witch. She would never have met Harry Potter.
And, not having met him, she would never have fallen in love with him.
And now, having done so, was she to lose him?
The dark confines of Ginny's bedroom began to close in on Hermione, its walls shrinking in dimension until they formed a narrow space thick with equal portions of Stygian shadow and heavy, perfumed air. The pale moonlight without the window hemorrhaged, becoming the baleful eye of a lurid red lamp. Illuminated in that crimson halo, the window sill before her expanded to the proportions of a small, round table, and the index card lying between her hands shrank to half its former size. As her eyes fixed on the card, Hermione's name blurred, the ink swimming and swirling until the letters faded away to nothingness, leaving only the number 7 -- no longer black, but red. In the time it took Hermione to blink, the card had expanded once more to its previous proportions. But no -- it was not one card, but two. Nor were they identical; where the accusatory number shone upon the first card, its fraternal twin bore a letter: a bright red W. Hermione blinked hard in an effort to dispel the images before her, but though they blurred through the mist of her gathering tears, they did not fade away. If anything, the red ink intensified, the letter and number quivering like freshly spilled blood upon the pale bosoms of their pasteboard canvases.
It simply couldn't be, Hermione told herself again. It couldn't. And yet, how else explain it all?
A pragmatist from her bushy brown hair down to the soles of her feet, Hermione trusted to facts. But facts had a disconcerting way of asserting themselves insolicitously in situations where fancy was clearly the more desirable option.
Fact: Voldemort was back -- "greater and more terrible than ever he was," to quote Professor Trelawney's prophesy -- nor could all of Hermione's wishing unmake that verity. Harry was a member of the Order of the Phoenix, whose sole reason for existence was the elimination of Voldemort. That also was incontrovertible fact, though Hermione would have given fully half the years of her life to erase those words from Reality's slate. Having been disbanded upon the destruction of the Dark Lord sixteen years ago, that clandestine society, like Voldemort himself, had been resurrected, its purpose unaltered. Now, as then, it was dedicated to the downfall of the Dark Forces, no matter the cost. Those last four words rang in Hermione's mind like a claxon. No matter the cost. She had heard that grim qualifier so many times in the last two years. From Professor Dumbledore. From Arthur Weasley. From Harry. She had always shrugged it off as hyperbole. But now those words were cold steel, piercing her heart like a rapier.
In the deepest recesses of her logical, rigidly-ordered mind, she had always known what those words implied. Since that day at Grimmauld Place when Molly Weasley had seen the dead bodies of her family (and Harry), as represented by a boggart, Hermione had known that what those false images represented was all too possible. When Harry had described the incident to her, she had coolly pushed it away, locked it behind the stout door of reason. Harry was not dead. He was too young to go off and face Voldemort. That he someday would be old enough was tomorrow's worry, not today's.
But ultimately, with every tick of the clockwork universe that was humanity's cradle, even the most distant tomorrows awoke to discover that they had become today. And suddenly, the images Hermione had so systematically locked away were become more than possible -- they were probable.
And the prediction in Diagon Alley? Was that not also just as probable -- even plausible?
As Hermione stood poised to begin her seventh and final year at Hogwarts, she found that denial was a luxury she could no longer afford to entertain. The signs were too manifest for her to ignore them any longer. The battle which she and everyone else had dreaded for so long would come; whether soon or late, it would come. Nor could she any more pretend that Harry would not be at the very center of that terrible maelstrom. When the battle lines were drawn for the final skirmish, Harry would not cower in the shadows with the likes of Malfoy; he would be no paper mascot for the Order of the Phoenix -- he would stand with his companions as an equal, his eyes forward, his wand held resolutely before him. He would fight bravely, with purpose of heart, employing all the skill and power at his command. He would fight for his parents. He would fight for Sirius, and for Cedric, and for everyone whose spirit cried out for justice -- and for vengeance. All this Hermione knew as surely as she knew the sun would rise over the English Channel on the morrow.
Yes, Harry would fight. But -- again Hermione shivered in spite of the viscous breath of night caressing her shoulders through the open window -- would he win? Could he win? Could a 17-year-old wizard -- even Harry Potter, the Boy of Prophesy -- prevail against the most terrible Dark wizard in history? And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives. And as those words reverberated in the corridors of her soul, Hermione came to the inescapable realization that Harry could not win.
And with that realization came a succession of images, playing out in Hermione's mind like scenes from a Muggle movie, speeded up so that everything shifted in rapid bursts. As Hermione stared unblinkingly into the eye of the blood-red moon, her nightmare burst before her waking eyes, stark and terrible, nor could all her force of will turn them aside from the Grand Guignol of her mind.
Upon the ruined grounds of Hogwarts, amidst a litter of dead and dying wizards, two figures faced each other. One was tall and spare, his eyes red and unwinking as those of a serpent. The other stood defiantly on shaking legs, his wand held loosely before him in quivering, palsied fingers. Eyes of emerald green glared defiance even as they blinked through the haze of blood matting his raven hair to the jagged outline of his thin lightning scar. The tall wizard laughed, a sound to chill the marrow of the dead. He raised his wand, pointing it at the heart of his defeated foe. Harry Potter did not look away. As had his father before him, he faced death without fear. Voldemort opened his fleshless mouth and hissed, Avada Kedavra!
Hermione acreamed as a flash of green light enveloped Harry. He crumpled to the ground, his eyes staring sightlessly toward the sky. Amidst the triumphant laughter of the Dark Lord, Hermione rushed forward, heedless of her own life. She gathered Harry in her arms and cradled his lifeless form to her bosom, rocking back and forth as her tears spilled out of her in an unchecked river.
It was at this point where Hermione would awaken in the night, a scream of horror in the back of her throat and an icy chill playing along her spine. But this waking dream did not end as those before. As she sobbed mournfully, clinging to Harry's lifeless body, she felt strong hands on her shoulders. Those hands gently but firmly drew her upright. A pair of arms wrapped themselves around her, and she clung to her comforter with desperate, trembling hands.
Ron Weasley held her gently but unrelentingly, his voice soothing in her ear, as she wept onto his chest. She could feel his own tears stream down his cheeks and onto her face. He was the the only one who understood, the only one who loved Harry as deeply as she. Their grief mingled in concert with their tears. Hermione clung harder, her arms a vice around Ron's waist. As waves of heart-rending agony washed over her in a smothering tide, she knew in her soul that there was none save Ron in whom she could find the comfort without which she would surely curl up and die herself. They had shared too much over the years, she, Harry and Ron. The hordes of humanity could live an entire lifetime never knowing the depths of the bond the three of them had forged in six brief, tempestuous years. With Harry torn inexorably from her, who but Ron could fill the gaping chasm that had once been her heart? Who but Ron?
To the accompanying note of a trembling sob, all strength flowed from Hermione's body. Her elbows slid apart, her arms forming a pillow on the window sill onto which her face sank. Tears flowed in a torrents, spilling over her arms to blur the ink on the index card underneath.
"Don't go, Harry," Hermione sobbed quietly, hopelessly. "Don't leave me. I love you so much. Please, Harry...please don't die..."
The late morning sun glinted off the vanity mirror and into Hermione's eyes. Awareness came slowly. Her face was pressed against her pillow, which was cool with dampness. She lifted her head, stared at the window through which the sunlight was streaming in a hundred dancing beams. The wind rustled the leaves of the branches tickling the window glass, causing the sunbeams to cavort across the wall like fairies at a bacchanalia.
Squinting at the brightness, Hermione lowered her eyes. Sight of the bench beneath the window brought a flash of recollection. The last thing she rememered, she was sitting at the window, her head on the sill. A smile crossed her lips. Ginny must have found her and carried her to her bed, even tucked her in. It would be like Ginny to do something like that.
Though a lingering memory of her night-fears remained, Hermione found them less monstrous in the clear light of day. Stretching like a panther until her joints popped, she cast a glance at the alarm clock -- had she slept through its clamor, or had Ginny thoughtfully shut off the alarm? -- and nearly fell out of bed.
"Eleven-thirty? Bleedin' Merlin on a hang-glider! Half the day is gone!"
Throwing on her robe, Hermione burst out of Ginny's room and made straight for the bathroom. To her great relief, it was empty.
One advantage to being a sodding layabout, Hermione thought as she dived under the shower, the warm water making her moan in ecstasy. No queue for the bathroom this late.
Fifteen minutes later, Hermione raced down the many flights of stairs, her still-damp hair flying about her shoulders. As she landed with a thud on the ground floor, she caught a whiff of the most delicious aroma she had ever encountered coming from the kitchen.
"You should have woken me, Mrs. Weasley," she said, sprinting into the kitchen and kissing the plump little witch on the cheek.
"Ginny was of the opinion that you needed the sleep, dear," Molly said. "Enjoy it while you can. Your days of sleeping late will be over when school starts. According to Bill and Percy, the Head Boy and Head Girl have it even worse on weekends than on class days."
"At least let me help -- " Hermione began. But a quick glance around the modest kitchen revealed that all was going smoothly as only a wizarding kitchen could. Every burner on the small stove was occupied. One large skillet was filled with succulent sausages, which were being turned by a pair of tongs which darted about as if held by an invisible hand. Another skillet was bursting with eggs, some of them sunny-side up, staring with wide yellow eyes like a house-elf, others scrambled, portions of them leaping up like the surface of a boiling cauldron. A large pan of fried potatoes was hissing softly on a back burner as a floating spatula prodded them gently, while a fourth skillet was sizzling loudly as a dozen strips of bacon curled in every direction, leaping up like tadpoles before landing with a wet smack.
"Isn't it a bit late for breakfast, Mrs. Weasley?" Hermione asked as she opened a drawer and took out a spare apron. "I would have thought lunch would be coming up."
But Molly, who was magically directing oranges to squeeze themselves into a large pitcher of juice, jerked the apron out of Hermione's hand with a sharp, "Accio." She gave Hermione a look that said, "You are a guest in this house, and guests don't work," as distinctly as if she had spoken the words aloud. Banishing the apron to the drawer whence it had come, she turned back to her juicing chore before addressing Hermione's question.
"You'd think so, wouldn't you? But on our last trip to London, Arthur found one of those Muggle restaurants that serve 'breakfast 24 hours a day,' and he's been after me ever since to have a go. And I reasoned that, as today is a -- ahem -- special day, I'd have a treat waiting for Arthur when he got home."
"Mr. Weasley is home?" Hermione said, her heart leaping in her chest. "Does that mean..."
"Why not go outside and see?" Molly prompted, a very pleased look on her round face.
Exploding like an uncoiled spring, Hermione burst through the screen door and into the Weasleys' back garden. In an instant her eyes took in the familiar surroundings -- the vegetable garden, the pond, the dilapidated garage -- and she froze. The picnic table where they had all dined under the stars the Summer of the Quidditch World Cup was sitting in its usual place. The benches on either side of the table bore three occupants: Arthur Weasley, Percy Weasley, and --
"HARRY!"
Charging like a runaway Patronus, Hermione slammed into Harry with a force that sent his glasses flying through the air and nearly sent the two of them tumblng to the ground.
"Whoa," Harry gasped, trying to smile through the pain in his ribs as Hermione crushed them in a vice-like hug. "I'll have to go away more often if I can expect a welcome like this every time I come back!"
But Harry's smile quickly faded when he realized that Hermione was crying softly onto his shoulder. Even without his glasses (which Percy was now handing back to him), Harry could see that these were not tears of happiness. Harry had seen Hermione weep for joy numerous times, as when she would unwrap a Christmas or birthday present, or when he and Ron made up after a particularly virulent row. If he was not mistaken, these were the same sort of tears she had cried the day they they had received the news of Buckbeak's impending execution. What was this all about? Looking back over his shoulder as he pulled his glasses on one-handed, Harry cast a searching glance at Arthur and Percy. But they seemed quite as bewildered as he.
"What is it, Hermione?" Harry asked, his hands gently rubbing her shoulders and back. "What's wrong? You act as if -- as if you thought you'd never see me again."
"I -- " Hermione choked out, her face still buried in Harry's shoulder, " -- I thought -- Oh, don't go away, Harry! Please, don't go!"
Giving Hermione a reassuring squeeze, Harry said, "Not bloody likely. School starts next week, and I still haven't opened my pouch from Hogwarts. Uh -- do you think you can give me some help there? I haven't got a flippin' clue about my duties, and I don't want Dumbledore to regret making me Head Boy."
"H-Head..." Hermione gasped, her head jerking up so that her eyes fixed Harry's piercingly. "Head...Boy?"
"Of course!" Harry laughed. "What, did I forget to tell you in Diagon Alley? I admit I wasn't focusing much that day, what with the new brooms coming in and all. I think some days I'd forget my bum if it wasn't attached to the end of my spine. But even so, who else were they going to give it to? Malfoy?"
"B-but..." Hermione stammered, "...the -- the roster -- Hogwarts -- y-your name -- not -- "
Harry's eyes went wide, the color draining from his face. He jerked his eyes at Arthur for a split-second before returning his attention to Hermione.
"Bloody hell," Harry rasped, self-reproach in his voice. "The Hogwarts roster. Dumbledore must have -- we never thought -- "
"You mean," Arthur said, a pained look spreading across his face, "Hermione thought you were -- "
"Seems so," Harry said, regarding Hermione with eyes suddenly tender. "I mean, what would anyone think, given the circumstances?"
A very confused and distraught Hermione was now looking back and forth between Arthur and Harry. "Wh-what's going on?" she said in a trembling voice. "Where were you all this time, Harry? Mr. Weasley?"
"We can tell her now -- can't we, Arthur?" Harry asked hopefully.
"Yes," Arthur smiled. "It's a done deal now. No need to keep the lid on the cauldron any longer."
"Will someone please tell me what in the bloody hell is going on?" Hermione demanded, her face reddening from more than tears.
"Let's go inside and have a sit-down, shall we?" Harry said, his right arm encircling Hermione's shoulder in a guiding manner. "It's a long story."
Author's Note: Well, by now nearly everyone in fanfic-land knows what Harry's news is (I knew you were all too bloody clever for me). But, in a last desperate attempt to snatch back the reins, I leave you with this to ponder until next time: What Harry has been up to is not nearly as important as WHY he is doing it. If everyone figures that out as well, there's nothing left for me but to be nibbled to death by a horde of rabid nifflers. Not the worst way to go, I suppose -- the fur tickles, so I'm told. Always go out with a laugh, as Fred and George would surely agree. See you soon, and thanks for reading.