Roundabout Back In D Minor

Rating: PG for imagery

Title: Roundabout Back In D Minor

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred.

Spoiler Alert: Books 1—5 for one sentence.

Summary: She was Hermione Granger. She gave him strength, she gave him courage. She was the bravest person he had ever known.

Pairings: Harry/Hermione

Author's Notes: This is a quick one-shot, done without much in the way of editing. Yes, another one of those. Not really a song fic, but another “heavily inspired by”. The image of Achlys (or, Akhlys), from The Shield of Heracles, played a part in this as well. That being said…the one-shot of the winner’s choosing (scary stuff, careful now) goes to the first person that names the song this was inspired by. Was that overweening or what?

My second shot at Hermione’s viewpoint (no old jokes, RONIN10) done as a single-player POV. This is Harry/Hermione. As Goldy has kindly noted, “the H/Hr is very subtle.” No snogging here, sorry. Thanks to Goldy for giving this a read and for giving me a bit of a nudge to post this here.

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ROUNDABOUT BACK IN D MINOR

[] OR, TO KNOW WISDOM, YOU MUST ALSO KNOW MADNESS AND FOLLY...

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“And beside them was standing Akhlys, dismal and dejected, green and pale, dirty-dry, fallen in on herself with hunger, knee-swollen, and the nails were grown long on her hands, and from her nostrils the drip kept running, and off her cheeks the blood dribbled to the ground, and she stood there, grinning forever, and the dust that had gathered and lay in heaps on her shoulders was muddy with tears.”

Hesiod, The Shield of Heracles

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“Hermione...you are the bravest person I have ever met,” he told her. His face was smiling at her, his green eyes filled with sincerity. “I can’t think of anything that you’re afraid of.” He reached out with one hand; a hand that was slender yet strong, and gently touched the top of hers. “You give me strength. You give me courage. Thank you.”

She wasn’t certain of what to say to that. So, she gave him a half-smile and nodded silently. She shifted position so that she could hold his hand in hers. She gave him a reassuring squeeze and he grinned at her.

She would be brave for Harry Potter. She would allow him to think her implacable, invincible. It was what he needed. And who was she to deny him what he needed most?

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Hermione Granger had many fears. Most of them surfaced in the late of the night, the early of the morning. Hermione was many things, but a fool was not among them; an added benefit to studying to all hours of the night was the avoidance of these fears. If she did not sleep, she would not have to awaken. But, exhaustion called to her slumber quite strongly. If she had sufficiently tired herself, her mind would not wander to those fears, and she would be safe.

Hermione knew that it was a childish thing, but she needed to be strong. It was easier to make a show of her Gryffindor courage if she did not face her child’s fears.

There were times, growing more frequent, where it seemed as though no amount of studying and reading would stave off the memories. Every painful recollection, from every year of her life were beginning to swell, breaking on her carefully constructed mental barriers like so many waves.

During her waking hours, Hermione would find herself wondering if this is what Harry was forced to endure as a result of Lord Voldemort’s nightly trespasses.

It was also during her waking hours that a mantra began to materialize in her mind. Endlessly repeating, increasing in volume, a lost memory demanding to be reclaimed.

One morning, as she readied herself for class, in the midst of the vague melody a random fact detached itself from recall and settled itself in the forefront of her psyche.

According to Greek myth, he was the greatest musician and poet. His songs could charm wild beasts. His name was Orpheus. He was the son of the King of Thrace. His mother was a Muse, the Muse of Epics. Her name was Calliope.

The name led to a feeling that led to a sickness that led to a sound that led to her clasping the banister of her four poster bed in terror.

She heard it. She remembered it.

Calliopes screaming.

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She had never liked carousels, not even when she was a young child.

Especially as a young child.

They had always seemed...wrong, to her.

Not quite right.

She remembered clambering upon a large, garishly painted hen. It was blue, a bright shade of blue. The comb was a lurid red, and its eyes were red as well, glittering crimson cabochons that glared at her.

She remembered turning to look at her parents. They were watching her. She had to be brave for them. She had to not be afraid.

She remembered the feel of hands, as she was strapped onto the back of the grotesque hen. She remembered her stomach trembling in sudden panic. Her hands were instantly moist and her legs clenched the sides of the caricature.

She looked to her left. A great dragon sat there, a violent shade of green, gold ridges glistening, scarlet carbuncles for eyes, the same scarlet eyes as the hen, staring at her.

She remembered thinking that it wanted to swallow her.

She remembered feeling a flood of anxiety wash over her. She turned to look behind her. Her parents were smiling at her. Their eyes were shining with pride at their little girl. Their brave little girl. Their brave Hermione.

Who was she to deny them what they wanted most? She would not disappoint.

Her hands twisted around the leather straps of the harness. The tips of the toes of her feet set themselves on the metal stirrups, stirrups she could not quite reach, not yet.

The carousel shifted into motion and she felt her heart skip a beat. On reflection she knew that this was not physically possible, but she would still swear that it had missed a beat.

The centre of the carousel was clad in mirrored panels. Hermione looked past the dragon, rising, flying, to the reflection.

Her face was distorted due to the shape. She looked, via the mirror, at the faces of the other children on the carousel. They all appeared to be misshapen, monstrous toddlers.

As the carousel swung round, she saw the reflection of her parents come into view behind her. Their image was pulled and taunt. The appearance frightened her and she felt the sting of tears in her eyes.

Hermione’s eyes glistened again on remembrance.

The calliope music, garish and shrill, began. The carousel began to whirl faster. She could hear the whirr of the motor just above the viciously piercing paint box tune.

She looked to her right and caught sight of her parents, their features blurred due to the motion. She felt as though she had lost her anchor; her head begin to swim. Hermione turned her gaze ahead and to the left of her, to the snarling horse painted in a vile and lurid hue of yellow.

Her gaze frantically shifted back to the mirrored panels. The colours and the shapes began to swirl together in a sickening miasma of sight and sound, the melody harsh and insistent.

The distorted images of the creatures and the children and the adults reeled in her mind, making her uneasy, making her afraid.

But she would not disappoint.

Hermione was a brave girl. She was well read. She was clever. She would make her parents proud.

She would make her parents proud.

She would –

The colours and music made her feel as though her insides were being sucked out. She fought against the tears that begged her eyes for relief. She fought against the scream building itself in her stomach, clawing its way up her throat, threatening to choke her if she did not open her mouth to release it.

Hermione was a brave girl. Hermione was a proud girl. She would grit her teeth and grimace a smile and she would not cry.

She would not be weak.

Hermione was a brave girl. Brave little Hermione Jane. She was the brightest witch of her age. She was a Gryffindor. She was a Prefect. She was a part of the Trio. At the Department of Mysteries, she was valiant in the face of death. The valiant don’t show fear. The valiant certainly don’t weep. To admit her misery at her inability to stay the fear from her mind would cripple her, making her useless to him. So, Hermione would not cry. She would make certain that heart would break before she cried. She would go mad first.

She would be strong and she would fake it once more. She would use her weakness; wear the layer of ash that was her fear, the fear resultant from the reminiscences of her innumerable failures of will, beneath her skin. She would fashion it into a hair shirt and use it to harden her spirit. She would stand resolute, with him, supporting him. If she had to, she would smile forever, just for Harry. She would choke back the tears and fashion her face into a masque of valour, just for him.

After all, who was she to deny Harry Potter?

She was Hermione Granger, the bravest person he had ever known.

And she was afraid.

∞