More than a year after graduating from Hogwarts, Hermione reflects on the past. Writing to a lost loved one telling them why she never revealed everything she should have. This is a multi-genre fic, read and find out what I mean. Flashbacks set before and in sixth year. Rating may change eventually...not too sure yet!
From the Unofficial Portkey Archive: https://portkey-archive.org/story/4051/
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything relating to it…if I did I would not be worrying about how much my tuition is going to be next semester!
I know this may be a bit confusing at first…but I believe in you, you will get in the flow of things. This is just a sort of “teaser” chapter, so let me know if you want me to continue…which means REIVEW PLEASE!!
So, on with the story…
>> 19 July, 1998
The sky is slowly morphing. It is twilight—one of my favorite times of day. The edges of the horizon are dancing with a scattered spectrum: reds, oranges, yellows, pinks and a small bit of light translucent blue. It takes my breath away. Every time I see a sunset it makes my breath catch and my eyes water. I know that it sounds corny—but it still blows my mind. I can still remember one night as I was watching the same scene play out; I truly believed that it would be the last time my eyes would bear witness to it. As I sit here, staring at the darkening sky, I find it so hard to believe that I am still alive. <<
Mocha colored eyes look up from the parchment journal perched on her lap. Shifting slightly she pulls out her wand—light, beige colored wood, with a vine pattern creeping its way gradually up the base—and said an incantation to light the lamp sitting next to her on the rooftop.
>> For so long I have not been able to get along. The memories still haunt me endlessly. They replay again and again in my subconscious. For some reason, they are wrestling with my resilient mind more vehemently than usual tonight. I feel as if I cannot get away. Maybe I should just stop running, Stop trying not to feel. Just open up and let my heart break, let the tears flow and become truly vulnerable for the first time in my life. <<
A noise inside the room beyond the window at her left startles her out of her reverie. She turns toward the window, the moonlight bathing the shroud of the bed with an eerie, luminescent glow. With quill still perched in her light, fragile seeming hand—violet ink dripping melodiously onto the rooftop—she stands. Setting her journal beside the lamp, the quill on top, she slowly crawls through the window and into the small, harboring decadence of the room.
His coarse, rapid breathing resounds harshly in her ears; making her heart stop and her steps quicken to his side.
The lamplight mixed with the glow of the moon, casts long shadows on the floor and walls; creeping slowly, gently as an infant into the room and onto the sleeping figure in the bed. His raven hair gives off a soft aura as the waning lamplight seizes the darkness incessantly. She reaches his side, kneeling slowly by the bed—she reaches out her hand, shaking as her brown eyes glisten with the unshed longings of her heart.
Her hand reaches toward him, coming to rest gently on his forehead; the smooth porcelain skin of her palm and fingertips gracing his chiseled, yet boyish, features.
She frowns slightly and runs her hand slowly through his mass of untidy raven-feather hair. Her hand falls back gently to her side as she exhales the breath she did not realize that she was holding. She stands—slowly, trying not to wake him with any quick movements. She walks back toward the window, turning back slightly just to ease her mind, and crawls out of the window once more onto the rooftop. She picks up her deposited quill. Dipping it in the violet ink, once again she puts quill to parchment…
>> The nightmares still come. Some nights are worse than others. Sometimes we switch off. Tonight his dreams are more stoic, whereas mine were nearly earth-shattering. I will never become accustomed to waking up in the dead of night with a cold sheen of sweat on my face. With terror in my heart, hoping—praying, even—that when I wake up he will still be there; that the past year has not been a dream. There is a distinct difference between us however: he has come to expect the nightmares. He has become as accustomed to them as is humanly plausible—while I have yet to learn that wonderfully useful skill. My nightmares truly began when I was thirteen, after the Chamber of Secrets, but they became incessant after fifth year. I was sixteen, nearly seventeen when my world began to shatter, by the end of sixth year it had become something completely unrecognizable to anyone, most especially myself.
He does not realize how much strength he has—I know that I could not handle the pain he has been forced to endure, the burden that our world placed on him at such a young age. I am beginning to fear that I may not be able to help him. This man, my best friend, my love, the one person who knows everything about me, does not know how I worry about him. I have come to realize over the past nearly eight years that to know and to love Harry Potter—is to worry about him.
He hates it. He hates all of the attention. He hates people, especially me, worrying about him all the time. I know that he resents people for treating him as if he will crack at any moment; walking on eggshells around him for fear that they may end up on the bad side of the man that defeated the most evil wizard in the world. He was only seventeen. I still cannot believe everything he has accomplished. Although, he still feels as if it is not enough. He does not know that I can hear him crying. His sobs echoing through the hollow halls of our flat; making my tears flow and the pain push up to the surface once again.
The memories are haunting, and of course, so are the nightmares. Oh, the bloody freakin' nightmares. At times I can imagine what he must be seeing in his mind's eye as he trashes around on the bed. He screams sometimes, others he just moans. It breaks my heart every time to hear it, to see it, and not truly be able to help him. I wonder if that is how you felt sometimes.
I promised myself that I would reveal everything to you one day. There was so much that I never told you—fearing that you would be hurt. I guess that point is moot now, huh? Now my dilemma is: where do I begin? I suppose I should start with the most important part of what I hid from you—what I should have told you in all of my letters, but was too afraid to. So this is my journey—my attempt to find peace, hope, safety and love in a world torn apart by war. <<
A/N: See that pretty little box at the bottom of the page? Please leave some nice words in it and let me know if I should continue this little story of mine, or if I should let it die a rightful death!
Disclaimer: see chapter 1
Here is the next chapter…please read and review…I would REALLY like reviews!
I am going to try to update every Saturday being that it is usually my most uneventful day. So, anyways, on with the story…
Chapter 2: Storms
>> That September had been a stormy one—do you remember? I did not get much time to see you, because of Harry. Or, more accurately, because of Voldemort. He decided to get a little more impulsive that summer. The Ministry and the Daily Prophet were finally admitting that Harry had been right all along and that Dumbledore was no more crazy than usual. So the Death Eaters were insidiously going around killing Muggles—intermittently so as not to arouse too much suspicion. Remember the morning that I had to leave? Remus and Tonks had to come and get me. I never really told you the reason. They were afraid of what Voldemort would do to me if he found me. The Weasley's had already been moved to Grimmauld Place. I found out later that two days after they left Death Eaters had found out The Burrow. They searched it relentlessly, and when they found nothing of any use—they burned it. Molly, Arthur, Ron and Ginny were all so devastated. I saw Bill, Charlie and the twins a couple of days later…I felt so awful for them.
That was when they decided to go and get Harry. They knew it was just a matter of time before Voldemort tried something at Privet Drive. Remus was worried sick. None of us had heard from Harry in almost a week, and the atmosphere in the Black Manor was becoming one of fear and anxiety very quickly. It was the third weekend in July when Harry Potter finally graced number twelve Grimmauld Place with his presence. I watched from the kitchen door as he walked up the stairs almost as if he were in a trance. I knew why, we all did. He was blaming himself for Sirius' death.
He stayed upstairs for the rest of the day and on into the late night. It was after midnight when I finally got fed up with him…<<
Soft footfalls echo gently on the hollow walls of the stairwell. She stops in front of the large wooden door. Hand on the doorknob—she takes in a deep breath—readying herself for the scene that would very likely be waiting for her on the other side of the door. She slowly turns the knob.
“Bloody Hell.” She curses her best friend softly for actually being clever enough to lock the door for once.
She pulls out her wand. Pointing it at the doorknob and chanting “Alohomora” as she has at least a hundred times before. She smiles and returns her wand to her pocket. She places her hand back on the doorknob, but stops short before opening the door. She raises her right hand and gently raps on the door.
“Go away,” is the only response from the moody fifteen year-old boy who sits beyond the door. Steeling her resolve, she opens the door and walks into the room, closing the door softly behind her.
Her eyes scan the room—white-washed walls now seem almost grey from the shadows that are cast about from the moonlight, and the years of mistreatment. An old wardrobe and chest-of-drawers sit along the wall to the right of the door; while a large writing desk sits under the window right across from the door bathed in moonlight. One wall is completely lined with bookshelves, stuffed to the gills with tomes that—she notices upon closer inspection—all pertain to the practice and study of the Dark Arts. Her soft mocha eyes finally fall on the figure sitting on the floor beside the queen-size bed.
His eyes are downcast, staring at his hands which are clasped in his lap. His glasses are shadowed from the shroud of darkness that hangs over the room, but she can still see the pain and emptiness that fills his eyes.
“Harry?” She says softly, waiting for him to respond.
“I thought I told you to go away?” he retorts; anger and pain lacing the tone in his voice.
“If you think I am actually going to listen to you—you don't know me very well.”
She walks toward him slowly—her eyes silently asking him to open up to her. She sits down on the floor beside him, hugging her knees closely to her chest. She looks to her right, surprised to see that he is looking right at her.
“Hermione, just leave me alone okay. I just want to be alone.”
“Well, if you keep acting that way you will be,” she replies. “Besides, even though you say you want to be alone, your eyes, your demeanor, say something completely different.”
“Bloody hell, Hermione; stop patronizing me, alright! Just leave!” he retorts, his ire rising.
“Listen, don't you dare get snippy with me Harry Potter. If you think getting angry and yelling at me will get me leave you—you are sorely mistaken.”
“Hermione read my lips. Leave. Me. Alone.” He gasps out almost incoherently as he turns away from her gaze. He stands resolutely, feeling her gaze on him as he walks toward the window. He stands gazing out into the nighttime, the moonlight giving him an innocent looking luminescence that steals her breath and brings tears to her eyes. She can see the silver streaks that weave red lines delicately, privately making their way unhindered down his cheeks.
>>I just sat there, staring at him. I did not know what to say, if anything I said would make a difference. We all missed Sirius and felt awful about his untimely death. Yet, it was natural that Harry and Remus were taking it the worst out of everyone at Grimmauld Place and in the Order of the Phoenix. He just stood looking out the window for nearly an hour. The time ticked by so slowly, the minutes felt like hours creeping by, imbedding the pain and intensity in them so that I could hardly stand up from my position on the floor. The emotions were palpable in that room that night. That was truly the first time I had seen Harry so unashamed of his emotions. He was crying, and though he tried to hide it from me, when I stood and walked to the window he looked at me with so much raw emotion in his eyes that it nearly knocked me off of my feet. All I could do was reach out. I wrapped him in my arms and cried. I could feel his arms wrap around my waist and I could not help but notice how it seemed to calm me. Then I noticed that he was calming, also. Almost as if each other's touch was giving us the energy to continue on in the face of everything that we had lived through and all we were about to face.<<
She pulls back, mocha eyes glistening; meeting emerald orbs that shine with the same intensity. They both know. This is a special moment, not meant for anyone but the two of them.
“Harry, please. Will you just talk to me?”
He slowly turns away from her, his hands moving up to remove his glasses and wipe away the tears that still sting the edges of his eyes. He sits haphazardly on the edge of the old desk, looking up he locks her gaze with his. She takes in a deep breath, hoping that whatever is about to come, she can handle it.
“Did Remus tell you why they had to come and get me from Privet Drive so soon?”
“No. We just figured that it was because your Uncle had completely disregarded the threat given to him by your guard at King's Cross at the end of last term. Then, there was what happened to the Burrow, and I know that Dumbledore was worried that Voldemort would try something.”
“That was only part of it.”
“Harry, what happened?” she asks gently as she moves closer to him; stopping just in front of her best friend with her arms folded softly across her chest. He avoids her scrutinizing gaze; he can tell she is searching his eyes for the answers that she seeks. He does not want her to see what is in them, to discover the cowardice and anger that reside there. He shifts his position on the desk, turning to look out of the window, examining the stars. After a while he finally breaks the silence.
“We were having dinner. My cousin said something particularly clever, for the first time in his life, and made me angry,” he recalls as he shifts once again, this time to look at her. “He was finally kicked out of Smeltings last term. Uncle Vernon has been livid ever since I got back. I know that the incident at King's Cross did not help matters very much.” He says, a soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He looks up, meeting her gaze for the first time since he began speaking.
“My anger nearly got the best of me—I broke a window in the kitchen” his voice is low and almost fearful as his eyes question his best friend to see if she is going to lecture him about his temper and using underage magic outside of school. When the lashing and subsequent lecture are not forthcoming he continues.
“I ran out of the room fast as I could to try to keep from getting yelled at. I went up to my room, after I closed the door I noticed this faint green glow hanging over the walls, the ceiling—everything. I turned to the window, and there it was. I never thought I would see the Dark Mark at Privet Drive.”
[Author ID1: at Sat Mar 26 15:29:00 2005 ]
A/N: So there's a little more H/Hr action for you guys! Maybe some of ya'll can figure out who they killed ;)
Please review…would love to know what the readers think…