Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I'm only playing.
A/N: Just to address a question that keeps popping up, yes, they are in sixth year, and yes, normally Hogwarts Head prefects are chosen in seventh, so I guess you could say I'm claiming writer's licence. I did mention this in Chapter One, but hey, I can get terribly vague sometimes.
Second, for those who might've read Comma--when I uploaded it I forgot to change 'In Progress' to 'Completed' (Ack!) which had caused some understandable confusion--so sorry about that. Comma is just a one-shot that might have a sequel of sorts…one day.
So, onto this update. Thank you so much, everyone who continues to read and review, hope I've done a good enough job with this chapter. And of course, thanks to my beta miconic, who's been very…pushy this week.
*****
Chapter Four
The Quidditch pitch was deserted. Practice had finished almost fifteen minutes ago but Gryffindor-hued shapes still darted across her vision. From where she sat, on the foot-high wall opposite the entrance to the changing rooms, she could see the Forbidden Forest, alight in the eerie glow that fell between bouts of rain. Hermione rubbed her eyes and pulled the Cloak firmly around her, trying to coax some warmth out of the silvery material.
Harry would have noticed it missing by now, she thought, although he hadn't said anything. He wouldn't. She wished he would.
Anything but wear that patient, calm look he now wore all the time. Harry wasn't calm, never was. And he wasn't patient. Not her Harry.
But you fall into him--the patience and the calm--like into a safe, deep sleep.
Who are you trying to fool, Hermione?
After she'd nicked the Invisibility Cloak from his bag one night, she'd hunted for the Marauder's Map but was unable to find it. The paths within the castle were familiar but she didn't want to venture outside without a guide, especially when her spells were unpredictable without sound.
She sighed and slumped against the stone wall.
"Hermione."
She stiffened. The voice had a strange timbre; if you didn't know who it was you couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman. Hermione turned her head. Of course he would be able to 'see' through Invisibility Cloaks; that much she'd read from the book that later lay abandoned on the table next to her bed.
Tiresias sat next to her. Hermione glanced resentfully at his alert form, the hair that matched his grey eyes, the strange face that looked twenty years older than the rest of him. He turned to her and smiled. His eyes were fixed at a point near her forehead. Hermione lifted a corner of her mouth.
"So how did the new Gryffindor team do in their first practice? Up to usual standards?"
Hermione shrugged. The Cloak slipped off her shoulder and she yanked it back. How long had he been around?
"Well, I'm sure the new Captain will take good care of that. From what I gather, he seems more than capable."
Hermione pulled the Cloak tighter. The players were beginning to straggle out of the changing room. Some of their faces were unfamiliar.
"You should let them know you're here, you know."
Purple clouds swelled like welts across the sky. Wind stirred the grass at her feet. She twined a thread hanging off her schooltie around a finger, tugging until the fabric crinkled.
"You are not the only one who is lost."
Hermione stared straight ahead. That stupid lump in her throat, it was becoming a permanent fixture. Just like Harry's patience.
Tiresias stood up and gathered the high collar of his cloak tight around his neck. Then he walked away.
She tugged harder and the thread snapped. She yanked the broken strand out and stared at it, blinking rapidly.
Her hand reached the clasp of the Cloak just as Harry emerged from the changing room, broomstick slung over shoulder. She bundled the Cloak and pushed it in her pocket. He was walking quickly, an urgent look on his face. When he was halfway across the courtyard, he saw her.
His face cleared.
"Hermione!"
Her breath stopped. She dug her heels into the wall. Has he ever smiled like that?
He walked over and sat down next to her, dropping the Firebolt on the damp ground. He was still in his Quidditch robes. The wind lifted his hair and his eyes were full of the light that barely seeped through the clouds.
"What're you doing here?"
Hermione gestured at the hoops, hopelessly caught in his smile.
"Oh. Were you here the whole time?"
She nodded.
"So, what do you think? Are we doing well?"
She smiled. 'Doing very well, captain,' she mouthed, head dancing. He blushed.
"It's weird, actually. I don't know what to tell them half the time. It doesn't help when Ron keeps telling me I sound like Wood with a sore throat."
Hermione smiled and touched his arm, forming words on her lips again; 'he's just being a prat, you make a great captain'.
"Yeah, thanks." He grinned, settling himself more comfortably on the stone wall. A little refrain had started in his head; she's smiling she's smiling she's… Hermione shifted closer. The overcast sky was disappearing fast into the night. The air around them was growing sharper.
Harry bent to pick up his Firebolt and leant it against the wall. As he straightened he glimpsed something silvery hang out of Hermione's pocket, elbowed by her ever-present quill and parchment.
He made a note to put the Marauder's Map away in the safest place he could find.
If she was going to hide, he needed to have the means find her.
The door to the changing room opened again and Ron emerged. As he locked the door and turned around, Harry waved.
"Hey, Hermione! Did you see us practising?" Ron dropped down on her other side. She nodded.
"Did you see how far I hit that last bludger? It almost went straight into the Forest like a blasted Fizzing Whizzbee, and heavier than Hagrid it was! And Harry, mate, I'd rather stick knitting needles in my ears than listen to you one more time--Oy! That really hurt--I mean seriously, if Wood hears you he'd think he'd left himself behind at Hogwarts! Hermione, I'm telling you, you won't be laughing if you heard him--arrrgh! Okay, okay, I'll shut up but can we go inside now? I'm starving…"
They picked up their broomsticks and headed towards the castle, the glow of fires from inside the castle casting faint shadows under their feet. Since night had swallowed the clouds, the only remaining hint of rain was the sweet smell. Ron walked ahead of them. Harry looked surreptitiously at Hermione; her cheeks had colour and there was a smile on her lips. He felt lighter than he'd felt up in the air an hour ago and a weight like a warm hand lay over his heart.
**
Her homework piled up.
Her wandwork fell behind, her potions became unpredictable, she was no longer taking notes in History of Magic. Healers came and went.
Soon, she began to skip classes. The castle and the grounds were so huge, surely she could find someplace where she wouldn't be stared at?
The Invisibility Cloak acquired the faintest of creases.
The Marauder's Map became dog-eared, the parchment more veined and transparent than it ever was.
A couple of Tuesdays towards the end of August, the Gryffindor Quidditch team practised without their captain.
**
Ron had just about had enough. It was all wrong.
It was as if the earth had tilted a bit more and dropped off-centre, spinning the two poles around. And here he was, scratching his head, wondering exactly where he stood between them.
The two of them.
They both looked more and more like those birds that burst in through the castle windows and flapped around madly, flying into walls, tangling in cobwebs, trying to find a way out. And not knowing who to ask.
It made some nameless thing inside him ache to see them like this. And, and…he hated how he couldn't do anything. Except crack jokes--but Harry laughed less and less. Or make sure Hermione got the quietest corner in the library--but she hardly ever went there anymore.
It was all very wrong.
Harry shouldn't have to nag Hermione to do her homework and he shouldn't have to remind Harry to go to Quidditch. He shouldn't have to lie to his dormmates about why Harry's bed is never slept in and he shouldn't have to put up with their questions about the two of them.
The two of them.
Look at them walking along now, so close together, almost touching but not really. What was going on there? They were hardly seen apart now, well, except when Hermione disappeared on her wanderings. He wished somebody would explain it to him. He wished they would tell him what was going on. And he wished that everyone else would bloody stop whispering about it behind their backs.
Honestly, how can they be just friends? Bullshit! Do you reckon they've snogged already? Dunno--maybe even more. Merlin! Really? Well, I don't know but that's what everyone's saying--I mean, look at them, they look pretty much like an item to me--
Ron swung around.
"WHAT THE FUCK IS IT TO YOU IF THEY ARE?"
Stunned silence slapped against the walls. The group of fifth years who'd been walking behind Ron stared.
"Ron?"
Great.
Ron turned towards Harry whose eyebrows had vanished under his fringe. Hermione's eyes were wide.
"Err. Ahem, Harry, could you tell Flitwick that I--that I had to run back to the Tower to get my, um, quill? Right, then… I'll be back."
He turned and fled.
**
Harry walked into dinner one night after Occlumency to find Ron sitting next to Dean, a large plate of chicken in front of him. The Hall was filled with the usual chatter and candlelight.
"Where's Hermione?"
Ron mumbled through a mouthful. "Fought she wash wi'you?"
Harry uttered an impatient noise and turned on his heel, pulling the Map out of his pocket. This was the moment he dreaded most, the moment of opening the Map. What if she didn't show up on it? After a few frantic seconds, he spotted her inside McGonagall's office. He glanced back at the staff stable; McGonagall wasn't there.
Relieved, he made his way upstairs.
He reached the door just as Hermione stepped out, closing it behind her.
"There you are!"
She looked unsurprised to see him; she never did anymore. She seemed exhausted as she always did on the days when she had to see her Healer. He wanted to just hug her and stroke her hair.
He'd had to go hunting for her again that morning while the Healer waited in the Hospital Wing with Professor Tiresias. And again, he'd found her in that dank hall in a forgotten corner of the third floor--the hideous stony place over which the Map often displayed her name--tripping over her shoelaces, stumbling into walls.
She offered him the collapsing edges of a smile and shifted her bag from one shoulder to the other. Although she was skiving off classes and avoiding the library, her bag hadn't become any lighter. He stepped close, slid it off her shoulder and slung it over his own, stifling a groan.
"Everything okay?" His eyes swept over McGonagall's door.
She nodded. There was a strange, expectant look on her face, almost defiant. She seemed to be biting the inside of her lip. Harry shifted on his feet.
"Do you want to go to dinner then? There's still time."
She nodded and began to walk. Harry fell into step behind her.
They made their way down the dimly lit corridor, Harry thinking morosely about the pile of homework awaiting them. He wondered if she'd be in a mood to be wheedled tonight. One relief among all his troubles however, was that after that first night, his Occlumency had remained consistent. Dumbledore had hinted that he'd be able to move on to other things soon. And for a reason he didn't understand, his wandwork had improved too. He was nowhere near Hermione's standards (or what used to be her standards) but he no longer had to spend hours and hours to perfect a single spell.
They were halfway down the stairs when it hit him.
He stopped and dropped the bag.
"Hermione!"
She turned. He glanced at the front of her robes, heart in his throat. Surely, surely not--
"You handed your badge in."
Disbelief echoed off the towering walls.
She looked at him, her eyes lit up, mouth set. She noted the edge in his voice with satisfaction. Finally.
The torches in the brackets along the stairs cast an oily glow. In their light his eyes were black.
Now he'd yell at me.
Now he'd scream that I should be ashamed of myself.
He'd scream until the veins stand out in his forehead, until I can't bear to look at him for the loathing in his eyes.
He'd scream:
This is not you, Hermione, you never hang your head and give in.
Not you.
He'll shake me and grab me by the elbow and drag me back upstairs.
You're going to beg to have that badge back! I'm going to make you!
Now.
But he didn't.
They were standing so close with her on the lower step and she could feel his body clench like a fist ready to punch. But he only stared. A vein throbbed in his jaw but when he spoke, his voice was quiet.
"Let's go. Dinner'll be over soon."
He picked up her bag and walked down the stairs.
Hermione stared at his back.
A silent scream raked its vicious nails down her throat.
**
"Surely, Tiresias, they are too young!"
"Yes, Headmaster, but it's not unheard of. We all know Harry's powers are beyond his age."
"Yes, but for something like this?"
"I'm aware it doesn't explain everything, but it does explain the protection. It also explains why his magic has strengthened."
"But how was it transferred? As far as I know one needs a carrier when the conditions are weak?"
Suddenly, Tiresias stopped listening. He stiffened and rose from the chair.
"He's outside, Headmaster."
"Tiresias--"
"Harry. He's outside the door."
He strode towards the door and opened it.
Harry burst in.
Dumbledore rose from his chair.
Harry's hair was wilder than usual, his jaw clenched. His throat worked and he gripped his wand in white knuckles. His long, thin shadow lay like a whip behind him over the open doorway.
"I want to do something." The portraits on the walls sat up.
"Harry, is anything the matter?"
"I have to do something! Anything. I am sick and tired of just waiting for things to happen--"
"Harry, calm down--"
"I WON'T CALM DOWN! SHE'S BREAKING INTO PIECES AND YOU'RE ALL SITTING HERE DOING NOTHING!"
"Harry!"
"SHE'S NOT GOING TO CLASS, SHE'S NOT DOING HER HOMEWORK, SHE CAN'T CAST HER SPELLS PROPERLY, SHE STAYS UP ALL NIGHT, SHE'S NOT--!"
"Harry, listen--"
"HERSELF! DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH SHE'S HURTING? DO YOU KNOW HOW HORRIBLE IT IS TO WATCH HER? I CAN'T SPEND ANOTHER DAY PRETENDING IT'S GOING TO BE OKAY WHEN I KNOW IT--"
"HARRY!"
His breath jammed in his throat. His eyes stung. He glared at Dumbledore.
"Listen to what you're saying, Harry! You say you want to do something but you sound as if you've already given up!"
Dumbledore's eyes glinted like ice under the sun. Harry dropped his head. His knees felt weak and a pit in his stomach had opened up. Tiresias reached out a hand and led him by the elbow to a chair.
Dumbledore silenced the portraits with a glance. Fawkes stood still on his perch. His feathers were haggard.
A glass of water was set in front of him. Harry stared at the droplets gathering on its surface.
"What happened, Harry?"
Maybe if I don't say it, it won't be true. None of it.
"She handed in her badge." His head was too heavy to lift.
"Oh."
Dumbledore's blue robes swept past him towards the window. Harry tried to breathe evenly, counting the droplets on the glass. Each droplet gathered at the top of the glass, ran in a ragged line to the bottom and disappeared. Then a new one bloomed.
"Harry, look at me."
He raised his head.
"I know this is very difficult for you. But you must know we're doing everything, and more than what's possible."
Harry dragged his voice from the emptiness inside.
"Why isn't she getting any better then? What's wrong with her? Why haven't any of those Healers been able to do anything? All they do is make her more and more tired!"
"I don't know the answer to any of those questions, Harry, but it doesn't mean we have given up. We won't. In fact, this is why I hired Professor Tiresias."
Harry reached for the water and took a sip. The slick surface and his own sweaty hand made him almost drop the glass.
"Professor Tiresias belongs to a very highly regarded group of international Healers. He's known as a Sense." Dumbledore leaned forward. "That means he can 'see' things the naked eye can never see."
Harry felt feverish, he was hardly listening to Dumbledore. He glanced at the man standing over by Fawkes's perch. Just as Harry wondered if Tiresias could now sense his gaze, a faint smiled appeared on the Professor's lips. Harry looked away.
"Professor Tiresias is also proficient in certain types of Muggle medicine. In fact, he's what's known as a qualified psychiatrist among Muggles. So, we're hoping he would be successful where magic has failed."
Dumbledore slid his glasses up his nose.
"So, you see Harry, things are being done. There's no reason to give up hope."
Harry fingered the damp glass.
He felt tired. So, so tired.
"Harry." The Headmaster's tone was gentle. Harry swallowed.
"You are doing everything you can, and you know it. Hermione is hanging on because of you and Ron. You have to remain calm and strong like you've been so far."
Harry sighed and pocketed the wand he still clutched in his hand. Then he stood up.
"I must get back to the Tower, Professor." He could barely speak. "And--I'm sorry I yelled."
Dumbledore nodded. Tiresias hadn't moved from where he stood. Fawkes made a gurgling noise and Harry smiled faintly at him. As he turned towards the door, Dumbledore spoke.
"Harry, I shall arrange for Hermione to keep her room though she doesn't want her position. That should be a relief for her, shouldn't it?
"Er, yes. Thanks, Professor," Harry stammered. Then he turned and left, trying not to drag his feet.
**
The next day, Harry sat next to Hermione in Potions trying not to scream.
Snape shouldn't be allowed to teach.
While all the other teachers had shown sympathy at Hermione's plight and had been lenient on her, Snape hadn't budged one bit. He expected her to turn up to class and hand in her work. When she didn't, he'd docked housepoints.
To make matters worse, Hermione seemed more agitated during Potions than at any other time. She dropped her ingredients and mixed up instructions. Her hands were unsteady and once she'd sliced her finger while cutting up roots. Most of the time, Harry ignored Snape's glare and helped her, but today she was shunning him. She'd refused to let him measure her ingredients and now her cauldron was emitting strange noises and slime-coloured smoke. Snape stood next to it, arms crossed, a vile smirk on his face.
"Well, Miss Granger, I must say your work is spectacular either way--full marks or no marks at all. You certainly never do things halfway."
Hermione continued to stir her potion, head bent. Whispers coiled around their table like the smoke from her cauldron and Harry thought he heard a few snickers. He wished Ron was taking Advanced Potions with them; he himself had no energy to create a distraction.
"Well." Snape uncrossed his arms. "At least now you will have time to catch up on your work, I expect, since you no longer have the… burden of your Head Girl duties."
Hermione's head snapped up.
"Wouldn't you Miss Granger?"
Harry felt sick at the look in Snape's oily eyes. But his attention was soon taken up by Hermione.
She had straightened in her seat, head held high, eyes glinting. She reached for her remaining dried billywig and dropped it in the cauldron.
Snape's eyes flashed. "Miss Granger?" his voice was dangerously low. "Your potion is a disaster as it is. If you--"
Hermione reached for her excess nightshade root and dropped them in the cauldron too. It shook on its spindly legs.
Snapes's voice rose. "Continue doing that, I will have to put you in detention!"
She dropped the powdered occamy shells in the cauldron. Searing droplets splashed out.
"Hemione!" Harry hissed.
"Insolent girl! Did you not hear what I said?"
"Hermione!" Harry gripped her hand as she reached for the horned slugs, but she wrenched it away. People stared openly, some rising from their seats. She threw the slugs in. Foot-high flames shot out.
Snape thundered.
"Miss Granger! I will not tolerate such behaviour in my class! I have had enough of your disobedience! You will be in--"
Harry knew what was coming. He stood up and his chair toppled over. He yelled above Snape's voice.
"Professor Snape, please don't yell at her--"
"SIT down, Potter. Don't make a scene in my class!"
His blood boiled hotter than the calamitous potion but he knew he had to play it right. He couldn't afford to land himself in detention too.
"Please Professor, she's just upset! Let me just talk to her!"
"Potter!"
But Harry had grabbed Hermione's hand and pulled her up from her chair. The cauldron shook violently. He turned and rushed through the desks and chairs with Hermione's wrist in an iron grip. He reached the door before Snape could react and kicked it open, almost tumbling outside.
**
He dragged her by the wrist down the corridor, his feet echoing loudly on the stone floor. She let herself be pulled along like a rag-doll; curly brown hair, large brown eyes and no voice. Her face set in a triumphant, adamant line, concentrating on putting all her weight on her wrist so that he had to make an effort to keep his angry pace while pulling her along.
This is her Harry.
This is her Harry, not the being of infinite patience who's endured all her transgressions in the past weeks. That was all a mask, a mistake, one more landmark in a place all wrong and crooked. But this, this livid, out-of-control Harry is the real Harry, and everything will soon fall into place. Soon.
They reached the top of the stairs that lead to the ground floor and he ignored her stumbling on the last stair. The stairs led into an open corridor lined with a series of stone arches looking on the grounds sloping away into the Forest. The trees looked sombre and unaffected by the wind and the heavy grey rain.
He swung her by the arm and faced her. Green eyes flashing, jaw clenched.
"What the hell did you do that for?" he grated out.
She stared back. At least he can't accuse her of being willfully silent.
"Snape could have landed you in detention for a month!" His thumb dug into the crook of her elbow and she bit the inside of her lip to keep her face from betraying pain. "What would you have done then?"
She refused to look at the worry lines etched into his forehead as of late, of which she knew she was the cause, and which now emerged from behind the blindness of his rage. She imagined herself sitting in Snape's office, engaged in some menial, repetitive task. Crushing nightshade root into a fine powder. Cleaning oily toad-skin. Again and again and again, while Snape sat at his desk, his mean, satisfied eyes framed by his greasy hair.
And she thought of Harry pacing outside the dungeons, hands fisted, face drawn, counting down the minutes until her detention came to a close night after night, his anger at Snape twisted around his concern for her.
She did this to him. He has a whole life riddled with anxiety but she etched the furrows of worry in his brow. She, who was supposed to stand and fight at his side, who was supposed to make him stronger.
So you made him snap, Hermione.
Congratulations.
What now?
She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. Nothing more painful in the world than trying to cry without sound. Almost.
The wind took a sudden sharp turn and a spray of cold rain shot over them both through the open arch. The anger left him in a sudden rush. He sagged, head drooping, hands raking hair.
"I'm so sorry, Hermione, so sorry. All this… all of it, it's my--"
But he didn't get to finish the sentence. Hermione's eyes widened and something sharp-edged passed over her face. He was thrown off balance by a sense of familiarity as she stared at him, but before he could wonder what it meant, she lunged at him, her hands digging into his shoulders. Too surprised to act, he found himself slammed against the hard, damp stone wall. Her eyes were knife-points piercing his as she stared at him for a second. Then her mouth pressed against his ear.
"Don't you dare, don't you dare, Harry!" she hissed, her words no more than insistent, scratchy puffs of warm air desperate to push themselves into sounds.
"Hermione--"
"You will not blame yourself--I will not let you--"
"Too late, Herm--"
She pushed her palm over his mouth, her breath frantic just as much from the rage as from the effort of trying to speak. He was pinned beneath her shaking body, her hands pincer-like over his upper arms and one of her knees digging into his leg. His breath was constricted by her weight and her hand over the lower part of his face. His teeth cut into his lip. He felt something salty against his upper lip beneath her palm, and realized the tears belonged to him.
She made a strangled, squeaky noise and removed her hand, nervous all of a sudden. Her hand fluttered over his cheeks. She mouthed his name again and again and he tried to speak, to reassure her, but his mind was entangled in the way her waist pressed against his and the heavy warmth of her body that sighed into a hollow inside him.
Then she became still and he opened his mouth to speak in earnest.
She kissed him.
Icy wind, grey rain and warm skin.
Heated breath.
He kissed back.
It was a lost, misshapen kiss at first, lips unable to find their point of perfect, seamless contact, noses in the way. Then they both drew apart, gasping for air and pressed back in, unable to put up even a pretence of gentleness. Hands fisted painfully in hair, lips and tongues pulled, pushed, probed. Pleasure sparked at the pointed ends of pain, bones dug into flesh, the softest pressure leaving marks of neediness. Taste, taste and feel. Don't think, not now.
Lips, jaw line, neck all etched with a hunger that's only just glimpsed itself.
Ragged, they pulled apart. His glasses were knocked off--he was going to need his wand to find them--and his left hand was coiled in her long hair. She leaned even more heavily into him and he held her up with his right arm around her waist and one of his legs wedged between hers, his hips pushed into hers. If it weren't for the stone wall at his back, they'd both be on the floor now.
"Hermione, oh god, are you okay?"
He removed his hand from her hair and touched her cheek, his thumb rubbing the corner of her bruised mouth. "I… I'm… I hurt you, I'm so sorr--" He stopped when she began to shake her head vehemently, her own hand over his.
'Don't ever be sorry Harry, never.' She mouthed.
The rain fell steadily outside, and the grounds were awash in a greenish-grey haze. The wind had steadied too. It drifted in without any of its former ferocity, merely a drape of fresh air around their heated bodies.
He leaned his forehead against hers, breathing hard and tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear.
"Was that supposed to happen?" he whispered.
She smiled and lifted a shoulder. 'Maybe, maybe not. Does it matter?'
"It doesn't matter. I--it felt…"
'Good Harry, it felt good. It felt right.'
She touched her nose to his and their lips met again, this time a mere touch, the lightest of breath. She felt a hundred miles away from the cold air, closeted and bundled safely in a warm, warm place.
She pulled her hands away from where they clutched his school-shirt and slid them around his neck, hugging tightly. He tucked his face into her shoulder. Her mouth found his ear: 'I'm sorry, Harry, so sorry I made you lose your temper, so sorry I made you beg from Snape'.
"Shhh, don't be sorry, never be sorry for this."
****