(A/N: Well, this is it, the last installment. I want to thank everyone who's encouraged me with their comments as I unfolded this short tale… you'd be surprised how much it helps me.)
(Disclaimer: These are Ms. Rowling's characters, and her universe; I've only borrowed them for the occasion.)
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"Buckbeak's Flight"
by Paracelsus
* Part III *
She was cold. Never mind that it was summer, and never mind her jumper: at that hour of the night/morning, at that altitude, in that wind, Hermione was cold. She blew into her hands to warm them, one at a time (the other hand kept safely wrapped around Harry's torso). If Harry was cold, he showed no more awareness of it than he had of anything else.
As it turned out, the second leg of their journey was less than half the length of the first leg. They hadn't reached the Border, but Hermione judged that Buckbeak was looking more tired already. Like a willing horse (which half of him was), he'd go on until his injuries absolutely forced him to stop. She wanted to land before that happened, and let Buckbeak rest longer once they'd landed.
And once they'd landed, she'd have to decide whether to implement the plan she'd come up with to help Harry.
"Look for a secluded spot," she shouted to Harry - uselessly perhaps, but he might obey her words even if he didn't consciously hear them. Besides, she still couldn't help it: when she was nervous or upset, she covered it with talk. And her plan had her very nervous indeed.
Because after thinking hard, Hermione realized that Harry would respond… when someone needed help.
When Buckbeak was hurting and needed to land; when she needed light to treat Buckbeak's wounds; when she took his hand to climb on Buckbeak's back. She had no doubt that Fred and George had used Buckbeak's impending execution to convince Harry to leave the Dursleys'. It was Harry's "saving-people-thing," as she'd called it during their terrible fight last month - and though she sounded disparaging at the time (and oh, how she wished she could turn back time and redo that day), it was one of the qualities that made Harry so very special.
And she winced at the thought that she was now planning to exploit it.
All I have to do is let my pain show. Reveal the extent of my injuries to him. I won't even need to exaggerate… the plain truth will do all too well.
The problem was that, while she was sure he'd respond, she wasn't sure how he'd respond. Oh, he'd be right there to help her if she faltered or flinched, or even if she so much as groaned. But as soon as he realized the source of her pain, he'd be reminded of the battle in the Department of Mysteries… and of Sirius's death. She'd avoided all reminders of that night until now.
Would he grow angry and shout at her? Feel even guiltier and turn away from her? Hermione felt sure that once Harry started reacting to his surroundings, once he could actually hear her words, she could lead him by reason through his problems.
All right, that hadn't worked when he'd had the vision of Voldemort holding Sirius - but this was different. His mind wasn't being lashed into an angry frenzy - rather the opposite. She could help him if she could just reason with him…
But it's a huge risk, she warned herself. In trying to draw him out of his shell-shock, I could cause him to withdraw deeper into it.
And she didn't, she truly didn't want to admit to him how badly she was hurt. But what else could she do? She had to do something!
The air had grown warmer… they were nearly to the ground now. Buckbeak had again found an isolated woodland area… he'd certainly enjoy returning to the Forbidden Forest. Had they passed through Yorkshire? The landscape looked hilly enough…
Buckbeak's landing this time was smoother than his last one… he trotted for a ways before coming to a halt. Hermione dismounted quickly, tugging on Harry's sleeve for him to follow. Swinging the pack off her shoulders, she knelt and began to rummage through it for the jar of salve. Maybe after treating Buckbeak's wounds, she'd have a chance to eat some of the food Mrs. Weasley prepared… maybe she could persuade Harry to eat some, too…
Maybe you're putting off having to follow through on your plan.
With a start, she realized that Buckbeak had begun walking again… heading for the trees, again! This was getting repetitious. She stood up, prepared to confront him once more - and in the most ungraceful possible manner, she tripped over her own knapsack.
The stab of pain through her chest nearly caused her to cry out… for an instant she was dizzy, disoriented. She pushed herself to focus past the pain, focus on the task at hand… she scrambled to her feet as quickly as she could, looking around for Buckbeak…
But Harry had already moved to stand squarely in the hippogriff's path. Like her, Harry'd forgotten to bow... or, perhaps, didn't bother about bowing. Neither did Buckbeak seem to care, with his attention on the woods behind Harry.
And then, miraculously, Harry spoke. "He's not here, boy…" he said in a voice hoarse from disuse. "He's not here…"
He raised his hands and placed them gently on the hippogriff's breast. Buckbeak stopped looking at the woods and turned his attention to Harry as he continued, "He's… he's gone, Buckbeak... I'm sorry, but he's gone…"
Comprehension struck Hermione so forcefully that she almost cursed aloud. How could I have been so blind?! He's not trying to escape - he's looking for Sirius! He misses Sirius just as much as anyone else, but he doesn't understand...
Oh God. Maybe he does.
Harry's hands were still on Buckbeak; Buckbeak was still staring at Harry. Neither had moved. After a tense pause Harry spoke again. "I'm… so sorry. He's gone, and it's my… I'M SORRY!" he suddenly screamed - not at Buckbeak, but at the sky. "I DIDN'T MEAN… I'M SORRY!!"
Whatever else Harry might have shouted was drowned out - as Buckbeak gave a long, loud guttural shriek, painful to hear. He reared on his hind legs and expanded his wings, and furiously slashed downward with his forefeet. "Harry!" cried Hermione in a panic, too late fearing for his safety.
Harry ignored her cry. He ignored the razor talons. He stepped closer, within their sweep, risking disembowelment as he addressed Buckbeak more quietly. "I know, boy, I know. He's gone… he's not coming back… I'm sorry…" Buckbeak came down on all fours again… Harry's speech broke apart and stopped. After a moment Buckbeak began to keen, an ugly hraak, hraa-a-ak that was obviously a hippogriff's cry of sorrow.
Even as Hermione ran as fast as she could to join them, Harry wrapped his arms around Buckbeak's neck and buried his face in his breast feathers. Buckbeak lowered his head over Harry's shoulder. Hermione though she saw tear tracks on Buckbeak's face… the poor beast was crying. And Harry…?
But Harry never cried. Even after Cedric's death, when Mrs. Weasley comforted Harry in the Hospital Wing, Harry hadn't cried - he looked like he needed to, but he couldn't. And, though Hermione had her suspicions about events in Dumbledore's office, she hadn't seen Harry cry the night Sirius died… or any time thereafter.
Nor was he crying now. He was gulping for air, taking great heaving breaths as though he'd been hit in the stomach by a Bludger - he was shivering uncontrollably, so that his teeth chattered - but there were no tears.
Without pausing to think, Hermione rushed up behind Harry. She spread her arms and, as Harry had, wrapped them around Buckbeak's neck, embracing him… and embracing Harry between them. "Don't cry, boy," she told Buckbeak, more gentle and soothing than Harry. "It'll be all right, don't cry, shhhh…" And then, with no change of inflection, she continued, "It's not your fault, you can't blame yourself… it's not your fault…"
She continued in that vein for a long while: no rational arguments nor fancy spellwork, but simple words of comfort, straight from her heart. It took a long, long while for Buckbeak's sobs and Harry's shivers to subside, and she stayed there the whole time, her arms around them both, whispering to them what they needed to hear.
Eventually, Buckbeak lowered himself onto the ground and lay there, his head on his front legs. As he let himself down, Hermione released her hold on him… while Harry kept his arms around Buckbeak's neck. He was drawn down to his knees, still breathing raggedly, with Hermione standing just behind him.
She was thoroughly confused. Her so-clever plan had proven totally unnecessary: it had been Buckbeak's pain, not her own, that had broken through Harry's fugue. And in the end, a few heartfelt words from her… had done more than any arguing could have done. Not just tonight, she suddenly realized. All last year! Ron was right, I argued with Harry - no, honestly, I nagged him - when all the time he needed something simpler.
Better late than never.
Tentatively, she reached out and stroked his hair. "Harry?" she said softly.
He nodded. He didn't speak to her, but at least he responded.
She waited a moment. "What are you feeling?" she finally asked.
After a pause so long she wondered if he'd heard her, he answered. "Tired."
She continued to stroke his hair. He made a movement to stand, then suddenly fell back to his hands and knees. She started to cry out his name before she saw what had happened: Harry couldn't stand because Buckbeak had snagged a talon on his jumper. The great beast was trying to pull Harry down and cuddle with him, like a toddler with a favorite blankie. Hermione smiled and tried to make a joke of it. "I think he wants you to stay with him, Harry."
His head came up, and she stopped breathing. For the first time that night, his eyes shone with a spark of life. Those brilliant green eyes saw her.
Once more she gave herself no chance to think, no time to overanalyze and possibly decide against it. She sat down with her legs curled under her… right next to him, bumping elbows. She eased Harry into a sitting position, and together they leaned back against Buckbeak's good shoulder.
As usual, it was Hermione who broke the silence. "Buckbeak needs to rest before we finish our trip. We should try to get some sleep."
He shook his head.
"I thought you said… Harry, you do look tired." She caught herself at once. Don't pressure him. No more nagging. Let him find his own way. At least he's responding. The image came to her mind of Harry steering Buckbeak, controlling him in his flight… not through brute force, but with hands carefully pressing his neck, gentle but steady.
Gentle. Steady.
So she waited patiently through another long pause, while he tried to recall the techniques of human speech. "I can't sleep," he said at length.
"Oh." Hermione gave him a chance to say more. When no more seemed forthcoming, she said, "I'm sure Madam Pomfrey could arrange for you to have some Sleeping Potion…"
Harry shook his head with more energy than he'd shown all night. "No! I can't sleep. I… mustn't." He fell silent and bowed his head wearily.
He's never been a sterling conversationalist, thought Hermione with a touch of impatience, but this is like pulling teeth. With a great effort she contained all her questions. There would be time for questions later… what Harry wanted now was a confidante, not a critique.
"Because… when I sleep… he comes," Harry whispered. He sounded ashamed, as though confessing a mortal sin.
"Who comes…?" Hermione started to ask, then realized She Knew Who. "Lord Voldemort?"
His head snapped up as he looked at her full on. "Yeah. He still… wants the prophecy. He attacks… in my dreams. He…" Harry drew a deep breath… he seemed to recognize that, if he didn't say it now, he'd never say it. "He made me relive the fight in the Department of Mysteries. Every night since leaving school, I had to relive the whole fight start to finish… always ending with Sirius dying. Again and again."
"Oh Harry," she murmured.
He shook his head dully. "Wasn't that bad. No worse than my memories during the day. It went on for about a week, and I thought I could handle it… I really thought…" His words stumbled and fell silent.
She waited a moment, then asked gently, "Then what happened?"
Harry grimaced in pain. "Dudley… killed a stray cat."
Her surprise must have showed in her face. Harry squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "HCouple of weeks ago. It was only a stupid stray, but it looked… it looked just like Crookshanks." He opened his eyes and looked at her with the most agonized expression she'd ever seen. "And that night, the dreams started changing. They didn't just replay the fight - they showed what might've happened. At first I watched Neville die under Crucio - then I saw Ron die from the brains. Then I had to watch you…" He swallowed convulsively. His throat constricted and his voice grew tight. "I've watched you die from that curse. Every night, again and again and…" The words were choked off.
"Oh," was all Hermione could say. She was very glad now she'd not followed through with her original plan.
When he spoke again, he'd regained some control of his voice… it now sounded totally flat and uninterested. "And every dream ends with the prophecy smashing… and I know, I can tell, that's when Voldemort's really listening, I can tell. He wants to hear what it said." Harry looked at his hands, which were lying in his lap, deceptively relaxed. "So I had to stop sleeping. That's all."
So many questions crowded on the tip of her tongue: How can you talk so casually about deliberately going without sleep? How long has it been since you've slept? How have you managed to stay awake all this time? And far and away the most important questions: Why didn't you tell someone?! Did you think no one would care that you're being tortured?! She kept her peace. Time for questions later, she reminded herself…
"Neville said there was too much noise," she said instead. "No one could hear the prophecy when it smashed. It was lost. Voldemort's been wasting his time."
Harry said nothing to this. He wouldn't meet her eyes. Hermione immediately knew what he was trying so hard not to say. "Except it wasn't lost," she added softly. "Was it?"
Instead of replying, he turned away from her. His breathing had gone rapid… he was beginning to shiver again. She was half-expecting a reaction of this sort - the physical signs of shock - and acted at once: She took him by the shoulders and pulled him over to her, so that he partially lay on top of her. She cradled his head between her breasts and held him, tight enough to feel even through his numbness.
Gradually his trembling died down. His breathing became less labored… his skin no longer felt clammy under her hands. Hermione began to gently stroke his hair again… it seemed to calm him. Or maybe fatigue is finally catching up with him, she thought. After that cathartic scene with Buckbeak, I shouldn't be at all surprised.
"Dumbledore had a copy of th' prophecy," Harry murmured eventually. "Played it for me."
When? Hermione wanted to ask. But she could answer this one for herself: there was only one time it could have happened. The morning after the battle - about an hour after Sirius died! I can't believe the Headmaster would be so… so callous!
"And…?" she prompted gently.
"It predicted my birth," he mumbled. "Said I'd have the power to defeat him, power he doesn't know about. And then it said…" His voice took on a cadence, reciting from memory: "'And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives.'"
Her breath caught in her throat. Divination was a woolly subject, and even genuine prophecies were notoriously hard to interpret - but there seemed to be only one way to read those words. Dear God… on top of everything else that happened that night, to have this dropped onto his shoulders!
Hermione wanted desperately to dissect the prophecy word by word and discover all its interpretations; she wanted to ask what else Harry knew or suspected about Voldemort, about his links with Harry, through the prophecy, through his scar. A myriad logical points raced through her mind, ready to be argued… and she put them aside.
For any argument would, at this moment, be too much like confrontation. At worst, it would send Harry back into his shell-shock, and at best only make him stubborn. She could debate her logic points later: right now, amazingly, logic wasn't what she wanted. She took her time, choosing her next words carefully. Gentle but steady…
"Voldemort has all his Death Eaters."
"Uh huh," he mumbled.
"He's got all that help."
"Yuh."
"Did the prophecy say neither of you could have help?"
Once again there was a pause. Hermione knew the answer, of course, but he had to reach it for himself…
"No."
She continued stroking his hair. Even more softly, she asked, "Did it say you had to face him alone?"
A longer pause. "No," he finally whispered.
Her smile showed in her voice. "Oh good," she said. She nestled his head to her breast and held him there. For tonight, Hermione wouldn't argue. She would assume the prophecy was true… and that anything it didn't forbid was permitted. But she wouldn't argue that she be allowed to help Harry, or to stand with him to the end. If she argued the point, after all, he could argue back.
No, instead of arguing the point, Hermione would simply treat it as fact. By acting as though it were a fait accompli, Harry perforce would have to act that way too.
Eventually he'd allow others to help him, she knew. She was certain Ron would stand with Harry, and probably others would as well - possibly the whole of Dumbledore's Army - but Hermione could only speak for herself, and tonight she swore she'd stand with him. She'd never leave him, never.
A gentle snore interrupted her thoughts. She looked down to see Harry asleep, his head still cradled between her breasts. She almost laughed… any other teenaged boy, lying in that position on a teenaged girl, certainly wouldn't be sleeping. They'd be drooling, perhaps, or… or something… she blushed in the darkness. But then, no other teenaged boy would ever have survived what Harry had.
At least for tonight I can be your pillow. I'm glad. Tenderly she ran a hand through his hair… stroked his face with a fingertip. Sleep now, beloved. I'll be here… when you wake up. In repose his face no longer sagged… it was, in fact, seraphically peaceful now. He was actually smiling slightly. She hoped that meant no bad dreams tonight.
And as she too slipped into slumber, she couldn't help but notice: for a wonder, for the first time in a month her scar didn't hurt.
*
Hagrid always rose with the dawn, even in summertime. The longer days meant that much more for the Keeper of Keys and Grounds to do. This morning he was busy spreading jarvey bait in the vegetable gardens (couldn't have jarveys about when the students returned, after all - rude li'l buggers, they were), but he couldn't help looking up in the sky every few minutes, hoping to spot Hermione and Buckbeak when they arrived.
In the end, though, he heard her calling his name before he spotted them: "Hagrid! We're here!" He scanned the sky and quickly spotted Buckbeak's silhouette, with Hermione on his back, waving. Hagrid strode quickly back to his hut, arriving there just as the hippogriff touched ground.
"Beaky!" he cried happily, ruffling his head feathers. "Ah, Beaky, 'sgood ter have yeh back! Thanks fer bringin' 'im, Hermione… er, and Harry?" He stopped, puzzled, as he noticed Harry's presence for the first time.
"Harry joined me at the last moment, Hagrid," Hermione said, holding out her arms to be lifted down from Buckbeak's back.
"Oh. Oh, yeah… On'y I was wonderin' why Professor McGonagall didn' mention it…" He turned to Harry, still mounted on Buckbeak, quietly watching them. "How yeh doin', Harry?"
Harry nodded. After a second, he seemed to realize that wasn't enough of an answer. "Better," he said raspily.
"I'll bet yeh are. Soun's like yeh're getting' over a summer cold there. Well, anythin' that gets yeh away from those Dursleys, righ'?" Hagrid chuckled as he pointed to a paddock behind his hut. "Harry, I've made a place fer Beaky over there - why don' yeh take 'im there an' throw 'im some ferrets? An' then we can all go inter the hut fer a bite ter eat, eh?" He smacked Buckbeak's rump, and the hippogriff trotted over to the paddock.
"Actually, we should get back soon," said Hermione. "Harry's aunt and uncle don't know he's left, so we need to slip him home as quickly as we can."
Hagrid looked at her sharply. "They don' know he's here? But… but wha' 'bout the pertections?"
"If we can get him back soon enough, they won't have been breached," she assured him. She wasn't looking at Hagrid as she spoke, but at Harry and Buckbeak. They'd arrived in the paddock, and Harry was in the process of sliding off Buckbeak's back. Not that Buckbeak was cooperating; he kept raising his wing at just the wrong moment, almost like he wanted to keep Harry on his back.
"Buckbeak will bear watching for a while, Hagrid," said Hermione. "But he should be all right soon enough. Mrs. Weasley sent some ointment, but I suppose you'll have some medicine of your own…?"
"If Molly's med'cine's bin helpin', I'll keep on with it," Hagrid promised.
"It seems to help his wounds, yes." She continued to watch Harry as he finally managed to dismount. "Of course, he misses Sirius… I don't think any of us understood how much. And he's been acting oddly..." She stopped a moment, then continued slowly, "He hasn't been very responsive since Sirius died."
"Well, tha's on'y ter be expected," Hagrid said with a knowing nod. "Bin grievin', I reckon - we all have. He'll recover. Takes time, is all. Time, an' knowin' he's not alone." He was watching Hermione out of the corner of his dark eyes, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Long as he understan's how much he's still loved, he'll do all righ'. Takes time, is all."
"Yes," said Hermione. "Of course."
"Mind, the ruddy great brute's pretty thick. Had a mort o' work trainin' him when 'e first came 'ere. Gettin' him ter pay attention t'me." He chuckled again. "Yeh jus' gotta stay wi' him, tha's all. Don' leave 'im alone ter brood, d'yeh see?"
Harry had fetched a couple of dead ferrets from the fencepost by now, and had brought them over to Buckbeak. He didn't offer them, though, and the hippogriff didn't seem interested in them. They stood facing one another, Harry stroking Buckbeak's neck with his free hand, Buckbeak nuzzling Harry's head. Hagrid kept expecting that the beast would knock Harry's glasses off, but somehow that never happened.
"Never stop lovin' him… and never leave 'im. Yep, tha's the ticket," finished Hagrid. "That'll bring Beaky outta 'is funk right 'nough."
"Beaky?" Hermione gave a start and finally looked at Hagrid. "Oh… oh, yes, Buckbeak." She looked back at the paddock, but not before Hagrid could see her blushing. He kept his amusement to himself. "Yes, um… yes," she said. "I imagine that's just what it will take. You're right, Hagrid." She glanced up at Hagrid and gave him a shy smile. "Thank you," she said softly.
He nodded, then raised his voice. "Oi! Harry! Are yeh comin' or what?" He turned to Hermione as Harry gave Buckbeak a last pat and left the paddock. "Well, if I can' talk yeh inter stayin'…"
Hermione slipped the knapsack off her shoulders as Harry came up to them. "No, we really have to get back. I've a Portkey here that'll take us back…"
"Wait," said Harry, his brows suddenly furrowed. She looked at him curiously; he returned her look. "Back?" he asked after a moment.
"Yes, back to Grimmauld…" She stopped, her mouth open in dismay. "Oh no! Malfoy will have taken possession of the house by now! We can't go back to Grimmauld Place!"
"Whoops," Hagrid said expressively. "Well, yeh'll have to see Dumbledore 'bout some new Portkeys. Come on, you two…" He started for the castle, saying over his shoulder, "Maybe yeh can get summat ter eat after all!"
Harry maintained his unblinking look at Hermione. It no longer disconcerted her as it had during their trip to Hogwarts - at least now she could be sure that he was seeing her. She gave him a smile and took his arm. "Shall we?"
He hesitated. "Dumbledore?"
"I imagine he's the only one the Ministry will allow to make new Portkeys. Don't worry, Harry, at the moment I'm none too eager to talk to Professor Dumbledore either. We'll keep this brief."
He nodded. Together they followed Hagrid up to the castle. "I am sorry you have to go back to the Dursleys, though," Hermione continued. "Maybe the Headmaster will give you permission to leave early this year. As a birthday treat." She tilted her head, considering. "The Burrow, or a room at the Leaky Cauldron - anyplace other than with those dreadful people. And I… we could visit you there…"
He didn't respond immediately, but she wasn't concerned. She'd learned her lesson…
"I'd…" Harry cleared his throat. "I'd like that." Was that her imagination, or had he squeezed her hand with his arm? They continued in a silence far more companionable than when they'd left London.
They were halfway to Hogwarts' front steps when, unexpectedly, Harry spoke again. "Will we have to tell about the prophecy?"
"Ron and Ginny deserve to know," said Hermione, thinking aloud. "And probably Neville and… and, all right, Luna too. More than that… no. No, I don't think anyone else needs to know. Do you want me to tell them for you?"
He shook his head. She could read his thought in the way he held himself: My problem, my responsibility, it's up to me to tell them.
Well, if he can tell everyone about the prophecy, the least I can do is come clean about my scar. "I, um… I have a few things to tell you, too. You and them, I should say. We can do it all at once, if you like…" She smiled encouragingly. "We'll deal with it, Harry," she assured him.
"We will?" he asked, and there was actually a ghost of a smile on his lips. It came to Hermione that, while she'd only meant they'd talk to their friends, in the long run she could have meant so much more.
And he understood that.
"'Course we will," she replied, and for once found her next words perfectly appropriate. "We're Gryffindors, aren't we?"