It has begun. It won't be a short path, or an easy one, or one that will be kind to them. But together, and along with clues and help from those alive and those long gone, they will slowly begin the journey on toward morning.
Author's Note: This is a short chapter, solely because it is the prologue. They will be longer. Chapter updates will not be as regular as they were with my last story, Devotion, because this story is not completely prewritten. I'm currently working on Chapter 4. Please, please review. I want to know what you think.
I don't own anything, and I'm not making any money from this. Please don't sue.
It had been a summer morning outside. The sun was shining, the sky a cheerful and encouraging blue. But in his world, the doors were locked, the skies covered in clouds and threatening storms. The demons haunted him, both of his own creation and of the creation of others. He had refused to see the light of the awakening outside his window, and resided in his self-made night. It was now evening, a summer evening of the type that painted colors across the vast, unending sky. If he would look out the window, he would see the glorious sunset. He instead shut it out, and locked himself firmly in his pitch-black midnight.
He sat there on his bed, or rather, on Dudley's old bed, staring into space. What else was he supposed to do, when he was completely cut off from his world? This summer, merely two weeks old, had been far longer than the rest. He knew the war was brewing, was hurting people close to him, and here was nothing he could bloody well do about it, and that infuriated him. The letters he received were few and far between, and those he did get were all the same. "'Take care of yourself,' -Hermione", or "'Hang on, mate,' -Ron." Great, he thought to himself. I can get people killed, but I can't do anything else.
That thought burdened his mind the most. He had been through many periods of grieving, from denial to deep sadness to fury. He hated Sirius for leaving him. He hated Voldemort for doing this to him, for cursing his existence. And most of all, he hated himself for being the way he was. For hurting everyone who loved him. For running into a trap and getting his second father murdered.
He kicked his trunk open in a burst of fury. He didn't know why. It wasn't like he was going to do homework, or write to anyone. No point in doing that. He reached in and pulled out anything he could get his hands on, throwing it every which way. He closed his hand around the mirror that Sirius had given him, and felt anger burn in his throat. Gripping it as tightly as his hands would allow, he hurled it forcefully at the wall.
It shattered into a million tiny pieces.
Harry stared at it as it fell to the floor, tiny bits of glass falling into the carpet. He wanted to find something else to throw... something to hurt... something that he could force to feel the same pain that he was...
It shattered into a million tiny pieces.
He snapped his head up. He'd seen this scene playing in his mind before. He knew that his mind wasn't being controlled. He could feel it. So why did this feel like deja vu?
Because it's happened before.
He forced his weary mind to think back to those painful days after the battle at the Department of Mysteries. He remembered trying the mirror... not succeeding... hurling it back into his trunk. It had shattered there.
He jumped off of his bed and knelt by the shattered bits of the mirror. He picked up the pieces in his hands, turning them over and over. If he'd shattered the mirror at Hogwarts, then how had it been whole just a few seconds ago? He was about to resign himself to insanity, when the pieces of the mirror that he held leapt out of his hand and onto the floor.
As Harry sat wide-eyed, the pieces of broken glass glowed gold and lifted off of the floor. In a tornado-like swirl, they danced around each other, settling into their former places slowly, until a whole mirror dropped onto the floor with a soft thud.
He was completely still. He was used to magical objects by now, but this was a little bit odd. He'd never seen something that put itself back together, completely on its own, without the use of a reparo charm. He was almost afraid to touch it, but he reached out and lifted the now-entire mirror off of the bedroom floor. He inspected it carefully, but saw no cracks or seams, no evidence that it had ever been broken. He turned it over in his hand, running his fingers over it carefully. His eyes fell to the message that Sirius had engraved in the back.
But it wasn't there.
He blinked, and opened his eyes again, as if to see if his eyes were betraying him. He touched the inscription that was now there, as if trying to read it with his fingers. The letters were a small, loopy, decorative script that he had never before seen. He didn't recognize the handwriting.
Now, Harry was no master at languages, but he was sure he'd never seen this one before. It didn't look to him like any of the modern languages, or even any of the ancient ones that Bill had shown him. Whatever it was, it made no sense to him. He was fairly sure, though, that it had to mean something. A mirror wouldn't go to all of the trouble to put itself back together and change a message that has been engraved onto the back if it didn't have a purpose. He quickly ran through his options as to what to do with the mirror, and finally landed on what he considered to be a logical one.
Leaving the room silently, he looked around to make sure that the Dursleys had left. They had gone to show Dudley off at some office party, which Harry was overwhelmingly thankful for at the moment. He dashed to the kitchen, and did what any logical person with a question of this sort would do. He rummaged through his trunk, in the pockets of his school robes. His hand closed around a tiny slip of parchment.
He dialed the number silently. Once he began dialing, he froze, hoping that they would be finished with supper. He didn't want to interrupt them. He'd never called them before, and at this hour... he stopped thinking when he heard a woman's voice at the other end of the line. Taking a deep breath, he said, "Hello, this is Harry, may I please speak with Hermione?"
"HARRY?!?!" was the shocked, and obviously pleased response.
"Hermione?" he sighed, relieved.
"Harry, why haven't you written? I was so worried about you... how are you doing? Are you alright? Are you being treated well?"
"Just fine, mum," he said, his spirits significantly higher than they'd been a mere ten minutes before.
She laughed. "I am just so happy to hear from you, Harry... to hear that you're alright... no one will tell Ron or I anything. We're so concerned. And you didn't write!"
"Yeah," he said dryly. "Hasn't exactly been fun and games."
There was a moment of silence. "I'm sorry, Harry," she said, softly. Another uncomfortable silence took hold of the moment, before she interrupted it. "Not that I'm not happy to hear from you- because I am, and it's made me feel so much better to hear your voice- but... did you have a specific reason for calling? You've never called me on the telephone before. Not that I didn't want you to call, you can call anytime--"
"Hermione," he said, cutting her off. "I called because I need your help."
"Anything," she said, without missing a beat.
He took a deep breath. "Last year," he paused, "he gave me a two way mirror, so that I could talk to him if I needed to."
"Yes," she said.
"I... I threw it into my trunk last year and broke it."
"Do you need help putting it together again?" she asked.
"Not exactly," he said slowly. "I... I don't think we should discuss this matter over the phone."
"Good idea, Harry," he heard her say, before the line cut out.
He took the phone away from his ear, staring at it, before he slammed it down onto the kitchen counter. Damn Muggle lines. He threw a chair away from the table, and fell into it, head in his hands.
Just then, he heard a loud crash above his head. He instantly jumped up, grabbing his wand and holding it at chest-height in front of him. He snuck up the stairs, and instinctively knew that the crash had come from his room. He took a battle stance, and threw open his bedroom door. Eyes burning fierce green, and his entire body prepared to fight, he pointed his wand toward the source of the sound.
Lying there, in a crumpled heap in the middle of his bedroom floor, was Hermione Jane Granger.