Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I'm only playing.
A/N: So, once again, my heartfelt gratitude to everyone who took the time to read and to review--you guys make my day. And please remember that I'm always up for con crit too.
About this update, this is one of those chapters where nothing really happens, so I hope you don't get too bored. And there's a little detail here that might make you go 'huh?'; it actually ties up with something mentioned in Chapter One.
And of course, thank you miconic, Grammar Nazi, Tense Police and Regulator of Errant Commas. I'd be lost without you.
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Chapter Three
It was by far the longest train trip to Hogwarts.
The day started off well. She even smiled at him as he handed the box containing her knitting she had almost forgotten as they loaded the car with their trunks. She held out her right hand for it and cradled it in her left arm; the Head Girl badge gleamed through the clenched fingers of her left fist.
By the time they reached the platform, it was clear that all of Hogwarts knew that their Head Girl was mute. Temporarily, of course, she's a brave, brave girl, the brightest in her generation, and absolutely the most deserving person for the badge. She'll be back to normal soon. They're doing all sorts of high-profile examinations on her. So what happened? Does anyone know? Well, just between you and me, it seems that You-Know-Who took her. Ohhh, you mean because of… ? Yes, yes of course, why else? My, how horrible!
Once they managed to secure a compartment, Ron and Hermione donned their robes and left for the prefect meeting, followed by Ginny who had also been made prefect. Ron pinned his badge on, but Hermione still had it in her fist. A quill and the corner of a parchment poked out of her pocket. Her eyes flitted over Harry as she left but she didn't return his look.
Harry pressed himself to the furthest corner of the seat, his cheek glued to the window, ignoring Luna's steady gaze and Neville's fretful glances over his mimbulus mimbletonia.
Around midday, Ron stomped in. Harry straightened up.
"Where's Hermione?"
"On the way. She and Ernie McMillan, the Head Boy--" he made a face "--are planning the next meeting."
"And you left her there?"
"Bloody hell, Harry, Ginny's with her, they were going to the bathroom afterwards, I can hardly hang out there, can I?"
"How was it?"
Ron shrugged. "Could've been worse," he muttered without meeting Harry's eyes and plonked himself next to Neville.
"Ron."
"Well, Okay. I thought it went well--" he waved his hand, "--you know, considering. I mean, she had all these notes written out and Ernie was sort of speaking for her."
Harry snorted. "And?"
"Well, it was all well and good until that git Malfoy opened his--"
"What did he say?"
"Sit down, mate. He didn't say anything you can hex him for. Or I would have done it. He just kept asking all these bullshit questions about prefect duties and rounds and house points and all that. And Hermione--erm, she acted cool, writing out answers and passing them along, you know--"
"So what happened?"
"Nothing. That's what I mean. Nothing really happened but she looks like she's in a strop about something."
The door opened and Hermione walked in with Ginny behind her. One look at her face and Harry knew not to open his mouth. He looked at Ginny, who shrugged. Hermione walked over to where Harry sat, and he shifted closer to the window to make room for her. But she pushed his legs aside and Harry had to shift back in the opposite direction. Then she sat down against the window, careful not to touch him, her head turned resolutely away from all of them.
She sat that way for the rest of the journey.
The train sluiced through the increasing gloom and Harry watched the raindrops turn the window into runnels. He was glad when she fell asleep, because then, her body slumped against him and her head drooped on his shoulder.
**
Hagrid beamed to see them. Dumbledore nodded at him. The Quidditch team had been reformed. He was captain. There would be tryouts on Tuesday. He can choose his new team. Dumbledore gave a solemn speech. The Ministry had finally accepted that Voldemort was back. There would be extra safety measures within Hogwarts. It was still the safest place. The Defence Association would be made official. It would be part of their Defence Against the Dark Arts classes. They had a new teacher. He was blind. Congratulations to the new Head Girl and Boy. Dobby twitched his ears and presented two pairs of mismatched mittens. A welcome gift. People chattered endlessly. Everyone tried not to look their way. The floating candles cast nervous shadows all over the hall. He couldn't smell the food, only the wax. Sirius was dead.
And Hermione couldn't speak.
"Harry, Harry, are you coming or what? We have classes tomorrow."
**
Jorge Tiresias muttered a spell and touched the parchment before him, the names of his sixth-year Defense Against the Dark Arts class rising to meet his fingertips. It was his first class for the year. He half-wished he could see their faces; he might perhaps catch a glimpse of himself. But he had decided long ago that sight was a hindrance. The eye sees by distancing; it puts things in their place, it creates a vantage point at which everything else is always outside, nothing can ever get close enough. When something's too close, you cannot see it. Hence the ancient spell, the years of preparation, the pearl grey eyes. Without the distancing of sight, the world lapped at his skin, bled through his flesh.
He began to call out the names, noting the emotions around him swelling like the ocean in a storm. Curiosity shot with indifference. Bravery inhibited by lack of confidence. Fear. Beauty hidden by a plain face. Intelligence and arrogance. Kindness. Stealth. Mistrust.
"Susan Bones"
"Yes, Professor."
"Lavender Brown"
"Yes, Professor Tiresias."
"Seamus Finnigan"
"Yes, Professor Tiresias."
He paused, wondering whether to continue.
"Hermione Granger"
Silence.
How deep the abyss, how steep its walls.
She walks round and round its lip, her hands tight over her eyes. To look would be to fall.
She has courage, she has plenty of it, but it tastes coppery in her mouth. She has hope but it's melting in her hands like a page from an old, precious book that's been fingered too much.
Then a voice called.
"She's here, Professor Tiresias."
Weariness, trepidation. Fearangerconfusionhopeandhopelessness.
Then Tiresias sensed something else, something gentle and ferocious at the same time, roiling, rushing as if to fill the void before with the force of a cataract pounding down a precipice. It beat to the rhythm of blood pounding in a vein.
"Thank you, Harry."
**
On the first Thursday back at school, before dinner, Harry shuffled to Dumbledore's office for his first Occlumency lesson for the term. Over the summer he'd been informed that the Headmaster would be taking over; it had seemed like a good idea at the time, Occlumency, but now it was the last thing he wanted to do. Just as he raised his hand to knock, the Headmaster opened the door with a weary smile.
"Harry, come in. Have a seat."
Harry sat in the chair drawn up and felt as if he was under a bright light in the middle of a room full of hundreds of people, all eyes turned on him. This was exactly why he didn't want 'Legilimens!' shouted at him.
"How are you, Harry?"
"Fine, thank you, Professor." Dumbledore would see through him anyway; what's the point in telling the truth?
He expected more questions but the Headmaster got to his feet, wand in hand.
"Well, let's begin, shall we?"
Surprised, Harry stood up, his wand half-raised. He glanced around the room, at various objects ticking and whirring serenely as if nothing was amiss in their orderly existence.
"Is anything the matter, Harry?"
"No, not really, Professor. Erm, it's just that I haven't been able to practise during the summer and--"
"That's fine, Harry, I know."
Harry nodded, resigned. At least he wasn't Snape. He straightened and held his wand out.
Dumbledore called out the spell.
Harry teetered on his feet, nausea rising in him. It was as if he was in his very first Occlumency lesson. Dumbledore's spell seemed to wrench and heave to the surface the emotions wrangling just beneath his conscious mind and Harry thought he heard someone cry out--surely, that wasn't himself? All his nightmarish days from the past weeks began to thrash behind his eyelids and his whole body shook with their rage.
But then something else took hold.
It was as if a someone threw a bucket of water across a muddied floor; something swept through him and the chaos in his mind washed out, quicker than it had flared. He stared into the blank space beneath his eyelids.
"Open your eyes, Harry," Dumbledore said, his voice shot with disbelief.
Harry blinked. Dumbledore was watching him with eyes narrowed, wand held loose.
"I thought you said you didn't practise."
"I didn't, Professor." Harry stared at the Headmaster, perplexed.
"Well, you just performed an excellent bit of Occlumency. I don't think that would have been possible without practice, not just for you, for anyone."
"You mean, you didn't see any if that?"
"Any of what passed through your mind? No."
He crossed his arms, his direct gaze both troubled and thoughtful. Harry turned away and watched Fawkes preen his resplendent feathers. There were flakes of ash clinging to him; he must have just risen.
What just happened? In the aftermath of Sirius's death, Harry hadn't had the heart to even think of Occlumency. His guilt needled him about it, telling him that at least now he should do as Hermione said and practise closing his mind before something else happened, even though Voldemort may have abandoned that route. Just in case. But every time he attempted it, Sirius's face rose in his mind. And then, something else had happened.
"Well, Harry, let's try it again."
Startled out of his thoughts, Harry looked at Dumbledore, twisting a corner of his sleeve between thumb and forefinger. He felt drained but curiously alert.
"Yes, Professor."
Dumbledore straightend his wand again, and called out "Legilimens!"
Harry swayed a little on his feet; the Headmaster seemed to have increased the strength of the spell, but Harry held on. There was the initial rush of images as he found his bearings, but then he felt a stillness, an assurance, as if suddenly a raging storm had cleared. He realised that although he was still held by Dumbledore's spell, he could think his own thoughts without the Headmaster knowing.
Feeling relieved and triumphant all of a sudden, he decided to experiment. Without breaking eye contact with Dumbledore, he snatched the first thought hovering on the periphery of his veiled mind. He wondered what Hermione was doing.
The veil ripped.
Like wind rushing to fill a vaccum, all thoughts held at bay crashed back into his mind. His body shook and he collapsed against the table. His wand clattered to the floor.
**
When he opened his eyes there was a golden cloud hovering over his head. He blinked and Fawkes emitted a long high sound, flapping his wings.
"Harry, can you hear me?"
He struggled to get up, hand automatically reaching for his wand. Dumbledore picked it up and put it in his hand.
"What happened?"
"Your resistance snapped all of a sudden. And since my spell was stronger that time, your mind could not take it."
Harry sat up, and Dumbledore pulled him up onto a chair, a glass of water floated in front of him. Then the Headmaster walked around the table and took his own chair.
Harry took a sip of water, heart hammering. He chanced a glance at Dumbledore.
"Why did it happen? You said I was good before."
"You were, Harry. I'm afraid I'm quite puzzled myself." It was as if Harry wasn't in the room even though the Headmaster's eyes were fixed on him. Harry felt something move through his hair, and realised it was Fawkes's beak. Dumbledore smiled.
"Fawkes has been giving me unpleasant looks since you fell down, Harry."
Harry attempted to smile, but his face wouldn't cooperate. He set the glass on the table. Something strange was happening.
He held his forearms out and stared at them. It felt like he had ants crawling inside his skin, making their uninterrupted way through vein and bone.
"What's the matter, Harry?"
"N-nothing, Professor. I--just had this funny feeling like I had something running inside my skin."
Dumbledore pushed his glasses up and leaned forward in his seat.
"What do you mean, Harry? Are you feeling ill?"
"Oh no. I think it happens when I'm tired."
"You've felt this before?"
"Er, yeah, just during the summer. A few times when Hermione was, was missing."
Dumbledore gazed at Harry with eyes that vied the precision of the sharpest knife. Tense shoulders twitching, Harry rose from the chair.
"I should probably get going, Professor."
"Yes, yes, Harry, You must rest now," said the Headmaster, almost talking to himself.
Harry touched Fawkes's glossy head with a finger and the phoenix inclined his head. He pocketed his wand and left.
**
He made his way to the Common Room and dropped to the floor in front of the fireplace, head against the couch. With dinner still in progress, there was no one else in the room. Crookshanks sidled up to him. The low-burning fire kindled his weariness and he fought to keep his eyes open.
Moments later, the portrait hole burst open, the Common Room rattling with voices and the sound of feet. Harry glimpsed Ron and Hermione at the back of the crowd and waved.
As soon as she got near enough to see him properly, Hermione's eyes grew wide.
"Bloody hell, Harry, you look awful!"
"Thanks, Ron." He glared at Ron and tried to smile at Hermione. She dropped to the couch, making agitated motions with her hands.
"I'm fine, really. I--Dumbledore's spell was strong and I struggled a bit, that's all."
But Hermione wasn't done asking questions. Harry sighed.
"It was a bit of a strange lesson, really. Dumbledore said I was doing pretty well for someone who, well, hadn't practised much."
Instead of flashing him the reproachful look he expected, she leaned back against the couch, brow furrowed, lip between teeth. His heart soared painfully; she looked almost normal. Almost.
He turned away.
"Well mate, we--I mean, Hermione brought you food."
Hermione raised her eyebrows at Ron and handed Harry the covered plate she'd been carrying. Harry took it, grinning at the look on Ron's face.
"Thanks."
While he ate, Ron and Hermione spread out their homework. Ron sprawled on the floor next to the fire, and Hermione's quill scratched above Harry's head. A few glances flitted their way but for the most part everyone seemed occupied. Seamus and Ginny were having an animated discussion sitting on either end of the couch next to theirs. Neville was blushing under the attention of a fifth-year girl whom Harry had never spoken to. Neville had been one of the few people who hadn't goggled at Hermione. He wondered if he should go over and thank him. Parvati and Lavender were bent over what looked like a Muggle make-up set of the kind he'd seen in Aunt Petunia's possession. Dean was displaying something inside a neon yellow box to a group of fourth years. Harry vaguely recalled one of them from the Quidditch tryouts on Tuesday. He thought he had picked out a good team; he just couldn't remember their names properly. He looked forward to their first practice although being captain was somewhat strange. He became tongue-tied sometimes. But of course, he'd get used to it; what in his life wasn't strange at the moment? Food forgotten, he stared into the fire and wondered about what had happened during Occlumency.
It certainly seemed as if Voldemort could no longer get inside his head. But that was hardly a consolation; the damage being done, he might be hatching other plans. And he still hadn't told anyone about the Prophecy. Dumbledore hadn't said anything about it either, anything about how he might be able to prepare. And how come he was able to shut even Dumbledore out of his thoughts when he hadn't practised one bit? As far as he was concerned, the special powers he seemed to sprout were not very desirable. Parseltongue nearly turned the whole school against him. What if his sudden success at Occlumency was another disguised curse? And what was that strange feeling, as if he could almost feel and hear the blood pound through his veins? Why did it come back? Did it mean anything? What if it had something to do with Voldemort? Hardly aware of what he was doing, he laid his plate aside and turned towards Hermione, the questions rushing past each other almost out of his mouth.
He stopped himself in time.
But his head was raised towards her, his mouth half-open, and she looked at him expectantly. Harry shook his head. As he turned away, a strange look passed over her face.
He pulled out his books. The fire was too warm. The quill struggled, the parchment protested. The second years over by the table in the middle of the room were too chirpy. He leaned his head against the couch and closed his eyes.
Something began to move through his hair.
Her hand moved so slowly that it was almost still, merely resting on his scalp. She moved from front to back, fingertips gentle on his forehead, thumb caressing.
It was almost normal, the comfort.
But in a strange way that he didn't quite have the energy to understand.
He shifted a little on the floor and leaned his head sideways against her knee.
He missed the look on Ron's face altogether.
**
The days lumbered by. In his head, Harry maintained a fretful catalogue.
The first to be struck off was the hand that shot up before the question was complete.
Then, highlighted in red, the gradual waning of the frenetic scratch of the quill.
Then the irritable sideways glances over homework: marked as missing.
Listed after that, the box of knitting that hadn't even been taken out of her trunk.
Library books went unopened. But her bag was heavier than ever, like an anchor.
Essays became shorter. But scrolls of parchment multiplied, ink stains on fingers finally becoming permanent.
This was really not his thing, he had no idea how to keep lists, but it kept growing.
And of course, there was the voice, just the voice. Without the looping and spiralling that normally filled his day--exasperation, excitement, laughter, concern--he felt like he was in some other school, in another time, with people he'd never known in his life.
And he was someone else. Someone he didn't know very well.
Hermione's Head Girl duties became more and more onerous. In meetings she had to rely on Ernie's translation of her notes; accuracy wasn't his forte. And either Ron or Harry had to accompany her on rounds. On the days that Ron went with her, they both returned seething. To avoid having to put up with two equally foul moods, Harry volunteered to accompany her every time. Even then it wasn't easy; people seemed to forget they were facing docked house-points or detention. They gaped.
He soon realised that there was no right thing he could do.
She became irritated when he spoke for her, flustered when he didn't.
He tossed a sickle to decide which was worse; the wounded look or the trembling lip hastily hidden.
Sometimes he wanted to yell at them to stop asking her questions, to stop expecting her to answer. Couldn't they see how tired it made her to be called upon to talk but not be able to get the words out? Or how defeated she looked when she reached for the wretched ink?
If he had the right spell he'd curse them all. But then of course, she'd hate him for it.
The sickle rolled off the table and vanished under a bookshelf.
He sighed and looked at her across the desk.
The ends of her hair flipped back and forth over a pile of books. She was fidgeting on her seat, her mouth opening and closing in increasingly exaggerated shapes desperate to make Ron understand what she was saying. Her hands flailed, becoming knotted in the formations into which she was trying to infuse meaning. Next to her, Ron looked nervous. The look on his face was almost funny were it not for--well.
Harry waited. He pretended to not hear the whispering around their table in a corner of the library.
Finally, she dropped her hands, her shoulders drooping in tandem. "I'm so sorry, Hermione, I… just… don't," Ron trailed off, one hand through his hair. She touched his arm and shook her head. Then she turned away, looking out of the window. Harry bit down a sigh.
"She just wants you to get the copy of Ten Thousand Magical Plants and Fungi which is on the shelf just behind you, but on the other side, Ron. And she wants the extended version. It's got a dark blue jacket."
Ron left the table. Harry turned back to his potions homework, trying hard to not look at the ink-stained finger twisting and yanking a strand of brown hair.
**
She hears them, smells them at night. The putrid potion, the blood, the tear-drop shaped shadows strung like a menacing necklace around her feet. The cadaverous voice. She wakes up, huddles at the head of the bed and waits for Harry.
He comes in with his half-smile as if this is something he's done all his life, sheds his dressing robe and lights a candle.
It's much easier now that being the Head Girl she has her own room. At the Burrow in the days after the nightmares began, he had slept on the living room couch, so that she could come downstairs and stay with him without waking anyone else up and having to endure their curious looks.
He straightens the bedclothes she's kicked into knots and climbs onto bed to sit with her. For most of the night they sit like that, silent, her head against his shoulder. But sometimes, usually when he's tired, he talks endlessly, inconsequentially, until his eyes droop and his words slur. Then he scoots down in bed and falls asleep with his forehead pressed into her thigh. She stays up, hand straying to his hair, listening to the candlewick sputter, watching its shadowed flame lick her wounds around the room; untouched homework, books bearing bookmarks on the same page for days, abandoned elf hats, banished pillows. Then she scoots down next to him, drawing the sheets over their heads. She curls as close as she can, tucking her hands beneath his chin. Then she falls asleep, one thumb resting over his lip, his breath warm over her cold knuckles. As the hushed, haggard morning climbs the window, his sleep-heavy arms reach over her waist and she straightens to fit herself against him.
****