Soul Schism

Soul Schism

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer : I am not, nor have I ever been, the genius known as J.K. Rowling. Therefore I do not, nor shall ever, own Harry Potter and its subsidiaries.

Summary : After Harry’s Soul is split apart, Hermione must enter his mind and attempt to reassemble his soul, and discover the dark truth behind Harry’s life before it’s too late.

Pairings : Harry/Hermione (duh)

Spoilers: Books 1-5

AN: If any of you are familiar with MapleMountain, FYI, he’s my dad, and I will have him review all chapters of this story before I post, because he has me read all of his before posting too, so read his fantabulous story, “Keeping A Promise ” and leave reviews! Because he actually pays attention to them, and responds too.

Chapter 1: Release

It was all too much.

He couldn’t stand it.

Images flashed through his mind as he lay on his bed at number 12, Grimmauld Place.

Dudley advancing on him with raised fists. His uncle dragging him by the scruff of the neck and throwing him into the cupboard under the stairs. His aunt standing over him as he scrubbed the kitchen floor. The old feeling of helplessness that had plagued him nonstop for 11 long years at Privet Drive, until the day he found out the truth. The day Hagrid had found him and told him he was a wizard, when he had felt something he had never felt before - hope. He knew then that the Dursleys had only acted as they had because they were afraid of him.

Afraid. Like he was now.

He still remembered the events of a year before as though they had happened this morning. The ropes that bound him to the headstone of Voldemort’s father, preventing him from escaping the nightmare that still haunted his dreams. Voldemort’s voice as he taunted Harry, telling him all the details of the events that had brought about his rebirth, only because he didn’t think Harry would be alive much longer anyway.

He then recalled the panic he had felt a few months ago, when he was so sure Sirius was going to be murdered, his determination that no matter what, he would not allow that to happen. And the fear he had felt, not for himself, but for those with him when the Death Eaters told him it had all been a ruse to lure him to the Department of Mysteries. Guilt washed over him as he recalled how closely his friends had come to death, because of his stupidity.

Why did they not abandon him? They had all been hurt by the results of his actions that night. Why did they stay by his side, choose to continue being his friends when doing so put them in so much danger? He remembered Neville’s screams as Bellatrix used the Cruciatus Curse on him. Harry had experienced that before, and he admitted to himself with no trace of shame that if he had the choice of abandoning somebody, or having the Curse cast on him, he would probably opt for the former. And yet Neville remained. Why?

Ron had also been through so much because of him. In accompanying Harry when he went after the Sorcerer’s Stone, he had sacrificed himself in the chess game. He had almost lost a sister, when Ginny had been taken to the Chamber of Secrets, simply because Voldemort knew Harry would come after her. He had had his leg broken, when Sirius, lunging after Pettigrew, had dragged Ron away instead. If he and Ron had not been friends, then that would never have happened. He would never have gone with Harry to the Department of Mysteries, he would never have been attacked by those brains, would have been spared so much pain.

And then there was Hermione. If there was one person on this earth Harry owed his life to, it was her. She was the only one who had never abandoned him, although she had been given plenty of opportunities to do so. Ron had left him in fourth year, out of jealousy. Over their long association, Harry realized that she could have easily done the same many times. Instead, she not only stood by him, she had helped him learn the spell necessary to complete the first task, helped him research ways of underwater breathing for the second, helped him learn spells to protect himself for the third, and in so doing, kept him alive. She had sacrificed so much for him. Even as far back as first year, she had put her reputation on the line to get him and Ron out of trouble after they saved her from the troll. She had risked expulsion by stealing from Snape’s office to make an illegal potion, to sneak into a different house so Harry and Ron could spy on the origins of a dangerous attacker, when she herself was in more danger than either of them. He remembered the look of surprise and pain on her face when she fell after Dolohov’s curse hit her, not two months ago. He remembered how she had almost broken his ribs with the enthusiasm in her greeting last year when he had first arrived at Grimmauld.

How many times had her knowledge of magic saved his life? And how had he repaid her? By yelling at her, taking her for granted, almost getting her killed. Again, he felt the fear that came from believing she was dead, the strange feeling he had yet to identify as he tackled a troll to save her, when he had seen her lying petrified in the Hospital Wing. When she hugged him, when she kissed his cheek…

He didn’t know what he felt for her, only that it was more than friendship. But love?

How should he know? He didn’t even know what love was, so how could he know if he was in it or not? He had seen his aunt’s soap operas, but he didn’t think that what they showed was real love. He had also seen couples at Hogwarts, holding hands, kissing, happy in each other’s company. Was that love, then, or was that just the motions of love? What was this emotion, described as the most powerful force on earth, that made people forget about their own safety, their own life, for the sake of someone else, this power that could outlast time, create the strongest of bonds. What was love?

He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to be a murderer. He was afraid of what might happen to everyone close to him. He didn’t want to push them away, because he was afraid of being alone. He had been alone before, for 11 years, and now that he knew what life could be like with people who cared about him, he had no desire to return to the lonely existence he had once led. Yet how could he not push them away, when staying with them might mean their deaths?

Sirius had died, and why? Because he cared about Harry. How many people cared for him now? A part of him suddenly wished he had never met Ron and Hermione, because they would be safe not knowing him. But the feeling vanished when he realized what it would have meant.

He lay on his bed as these thoughts chased themselves around his head, growing more confusing by the second.

He didn’t want to die…Ron laughing at Neville’s boggart…Hermione’s hair close to his face…He didn’t want to be a murderer…He didn’t want to lose anyone else…What was it like to die?...Was Sirius happy, wherever he was?...How could he be so selfish as to not push people away?…Hermione falling…falling…

As he lay there on his bed considering all these things, he was surprised to feel warmth in his hand. Looking down, he saw a ball of light. As he watched it, it grew brighter, then dimmer, then brighter again, finally swirling in upon itself and forming a glass orb, with a bright light at its center.

He held the orb in his hands, sitting up straight. He looked into the light at the center. Some part of him wondered what this was, and how it had come to be there, but mostly he just wondered if it could help him with his current state of confusion. As he looked, the light grew brighter, and two dark shapes materialized within it. The shapes looked like the head and shoulders of two people, one with long wavy red hair, and the other with short unruly hair…black hair…

As the light grew brighter, and the features of the two people became clearer, Harry’s eyes widened. A haunting melody of Phoenix song rose in his ears, louder and louder, until Harry couldn’t hear his own thoughts. The song, and the sound of his own heartbeat blended together, until Harry could not tell which sound was which. Instead he stared at the people, who had finally become so clear there could be no mistaking them.

Harry closed his eyes, but he could still see them, could still hear the music of his heart and the Phoenix’s song. They offered release, freedom from the pain and shame, the terror of his own uncertain fate, the confusion he had been trapped in for weeks.

Without a second thought, he accepted the offer.

Slowly, without making a sound, Harry, his eyes still closed, fell backward onto his pillow, his arm falling over the edge of the bed. The Glass slipped from his slack grip, and landed on the floor, where it shattered.

(AN: And, Cue dramatic, chilling music. Hee hee.)

Chapter Two: A Terrifying Discovery

Hermione Granger shook off her umbrella and stepped into the front hallway of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. She automatically turned and waved to her parents as they pulled away in their car, even though she knew they couldn’t see her anymore.

Yesterday, Hermione had received an owl from Professor Dumbledore, asking her to come and stay at Grimmauld. Hermione had immediately besieged her parents with pleas to stay, which led to an explanation of how the Fidelius Charm worked, promises to write often and remember to brush her teeth. The only thing she hadn’t told her parents was why she wanted to go so badly.

“Honestly, you’d think there was a life and death situation riding on whether you go or not.” Her mother had complained as she helped Hermione pack her trunk. Hermione hadn’t answered, because her mother could never understand why she needed to go so badly. Harry needed her.

Professor Dumbledore had said as much in his letter, “…Harry has been very withdrawn since his arrival here….not eating much….recluse, staying in his room…really believe it would do him good to have a trusted friend with him…” These words had been stuck in Hermione’s head since she had read them. She had no idea why Harry should be so depressed. Nobody believed him to be a liar or mad anymore, Sirius’s name had finally been cleared, thanks to Dumbledore, and although Sirius was not around anymore, Harry had no right to blame himself for his death, so what was wrong with him?

So here she was, her parents had just dropped her off at a house they couldn’t even see, to help a friend that they didn’t know. Hermione silently thanked whatever powers were listening that her parents trusted her judgment enough to not badger her with questions about why she was doing this. Especially as she wasn’t sure of the real reason herself.

A door opened to her right, and Dumbledore stepped out, smiling when he saw her. She smiled back, and opened her mouth to ask where Harry was, but Dumbledore spoke first. “Harry is upstairs, in his room from last year. You may go up to see him, but knock first, he might be sleeping again. Dobby will serve dinner in half an hour, so you can have some time to chat. I’m sure he’ll be very happy to see you again, Hermione.”

Slightly surprised that Dumbledore had called her by her name, and not “Miss Granger”,

Hermione dropped the end of her trunk and headed up the stairs. She remembered which room was Harry’s, and, taking Dumbledore’s advice, knocked softly.

There was no answer.

She knocked again, louder, and called his name. “Harry. It’s me, Hermione, may I come in?” Silence.

Hoping she wouldn’t catch him in an embarrassing situation (Did he sleep naked?) She opened the door a crack and looked in.

The room was dark, but a lightning flash illuminated the room long enough for her to see a human figure on the bed, motionless.

She instinctively groped for a light switch before remembering there wouldn’t be one in a wizard home, so, feeling slightly foolish for not remembering this, she lit her wand.

Looking at the bed, Hermione felt her heart stop.

Harry was surrounded by what seemed to be a dark cloud. His eyes were closed, and he didn’t appear to be breathing. His hand was off the edge of the bed nearest her, and on the floor below it was a large amount of broken glass, which was glowing faintly. She ran to the edge of the bed, careful not to step on the glass, and put her hands on Harry’s shoulders, shaking him.

“Harry! Harry!” He didn’t answer, didn’t move, didn’t so much as twitch an eyelid. His head moved from side to side as she shook him, but he didn’t wake up. It was only then that she noticed the dark circles under his eyes, how sunken his face looked, how cold he felt, even through the long-sleeved shirt he was wearing. How he wasn’t breathing.

She didn’t remember when she started screaming, or when Dumbledore came running, or being led away to the kitchen by Dobby while Dumbledore bent over Harry’s still form on the bed. All she could think of was that Harry was dead.

*

Hermione sat at the kitchen table, unaware of her surroundings. All she could think about was the mantra that pounded in her head, over and over again.

Dead, Harry, Dead.

No please, not Harry.

Not my Harry.

She put her head on her arms and screamed, sobbed, cried. It couldn’t be true. Harry couldn’t die. She had always thought he would die fighting, going down with a wand in his hand, not taken suddenly by some unknown force.

The kitchen door opened, and Dumbledore walked in. She looked at him, silently praying that he would say Harry was all right. But the look on his face was grim.

“Is he…?” She couldn’t bring herself to ask.

“No.” Dumbledore said.

Hermione stood up, willing herself not to burst into tears again. “What,” her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again. “What’s wrong with him then?”

In answer, Dumbledore handed her a book. She vaguely realized that he was doing this so he wouldn’t have to explain himself. Looking into his face, she noticed his eyes were bright with unshed tears.

He cares for Harry too, she realized. But if he’s not dead, what’s wrong with him?

Dumbledore opened the book, and offered it to her again. She took it, and sat down at the table again, staring at the open page before her.

Soul Schism

Definition:

The Soul Schism is a rare occurrence in Wizards. It happens when a person reaches such a state of confusion or despair that the person can no longer cope with the stress. The Soul will then split into Shards, based on Turning Points in the Person’s life. These Turning points will represent Stages in the Person’s life where burdens were added. The weight of these burdens is a factor in the Schism itself.

Cure:

There are only two known ways for a Schism to be reversed and the Soul Shards reunited into the Person. The first way, is a complete reversal of the feelings and thoughts that caused the Schism in the first place, brought about by a change in the Person’s mind. However, due to the nature of the Schism itself, this is almost impossible. The second way is for another person, one who has a previous, strong connection to the person under the Schism, to enter the victim’s mind, collect all the Soul Shards, and any pieces of the Soul Glass they can find, and reunite them. How this is done is unknown, as the only people who have ever attempted this, along with their recovered victims, refused to speak of the experience afterward.

In the event that the Soul Shards are not reunited, the Person will stay in a deep sleep, until they die from lack of food. Strengthening potions may postpone this for a short time, but death is inevitable unless the Schism is reversed.

Note: The Victim and Retriever are often of opposite gender, with mutual feelings of trust, love, and companionship between them. This may be a reason for the refusal to relate the experience afterward. The two often end up marrying, if circumstances allow.

Hermione sat still, her eyes glued to the page. Words jumped out at her, penetrating her mind, until the meaning became clear. Harry’s life had reached such a low point, that he quite literally, couldn’t live with it. He was broken inside of his own mind, trapped in Shards, according to the book. And unless someone found him, and could put the pieces back together, he would be lost forever.

“Professor, do you mean Harry’s soul has split apart?”

“Yes, and it has to be put back together, or he will die.”

She looked at Dumbledore.

“What must I do?”

*

Harry lay on a thin mat on the floor, his hands crossed on his chest. Dumbledore had drawn runes in a circle on the floor with his wand, and placed lit candles on the points of a nine-pointed star that surrounded the rune circle. He had explained to Hermione that Occlumency wasn’t the only area of mind-related magic that he was familiar with. After gathering all the pieces of the Soul Glass that had been on the floor next to Harry’s bed and placing them in a stone basin, he had drawn runes on Hermione’s forehead, chin, cheeks, and hands with a piece of strange silver chalk that glowed as it touched her skin. These runes, Dumbledore explained, would enable her to enter Harry’s mind, and walk the planes of his subconscious without feeling hunger or thirst, enable her to keep her magical ability during the process, and use magic without a wand as long as she was in his mind.

Hermione looked at Harry. The dark cloud, which, according to Dumbledore, was a reflection of the state of Harry’s mind, still surrounded him. His skin looked pale, his face, lifeless. In the position he was in, with his hands crossed and the lit candles surrounding him, he looked like a corpse laid out for a viewing. She shivered at the thought.

Dumbledore knelt at Harry’s side. He touched his wand to Harry’s face, muttering something as he did so. A blue spark shot from the end of his wand into Harry’s skin. A second later, the wandtip glowed white, and a small strip of paper emerged from it. Dumbledore tore the paper from the end of his wand like a fax, and looked at it.

“Only four,” he muttered. “And not one of them positive.”

“Professor, what is that?” Hermione asked, pointing at the paper in Dumbledore’s hand.

“It seems Harry’s soul, after the initial split, has collected into four distinct Shards. Loss, Abuse, Apathy, and Death. This is highly unusual. Most souls collect into at least five, with one positive Shard, like Happiness, or Laughter. The positive Shard acts as a Gathering Point for the others, and along with the pieces of Soul Glass the Shards possess, is absolutely necessary for the Soul to be reunited. The Reversal of the Schism is, as you have read, a reversal of the feelings that caused it, and the positive Shard is necessary for this change. It is also often the first Shard the Retriever finds; it can, in a sense, feel where the other Shards are, and aids the Retriever in locating them all. The lack of a positive shard will make the Shards of Harry’s soul very difficult to find, and even more difficult to repair.”

Dumbledore continued speaking. “The setting of the mind will reflect Harry’s feelings. It is safe to say that it will likely be cold, dark, and unsettling to an outsider. The Shards will appear as several versions of Harry, probably varying in age and appearance.”

Hermione interrupted. “So there’s going to be a lot of Harry’s in there, all of different ages, and I have to find all of them?”

“To put it simply, yes. However, not all of the Shards will possess the same memories, feelings, or opinions. They will only have the mental makeup that they possessed at that age. For instance, if you meet a five year old Harry, he will behave like he is five years old. The trick will be to convince the Shards that you are there to help.” His tone was matter of fact, kind. One might think that he was merely explaining how to dust the furniture, not how to save a soul.

Hermione swallowed nervously. “And, ah, how exactly am I supposed to rejoin the shards? You said there is no positive shard, therefore no Gathering Point. If a Gathering Point is needed, how will I do this without one?”

Dumbledore looked gravely back at her. “That, Hermione, is something you will have to find out yourself.” He turned away from her and walked to the bowl of glass on the dresser. He stirred the pieces with his wand and muttered something unintelligible. The pieces of glass glowed white-hot and swirled around his wandtip. Hermione gasped, but Dumbledore seemed not to hear her. The glass spun faster and glowed brighter until it seemed to be a whirlpool of molten glass. Finally, the glow subsided, and Dumbledore was left holding a bowl with a layer of finest tempered glass. Harry had once described a Pensieve to Hermione, and she thought that was what this was. She was only half right however.

“This Scrying Glass will allow me to see what is happening inside Harry’s mind while you conduct your search. If things go wrong, I will know when to get you out of there.” He explained, sitting cross-legged on the floor and placing the bowl on the floor in front of him.

“Now, come and sit here.” He pointed to a spot on the floor, clear of runes, right behind were Harry’s head lay. She sat behind him, cross-legged on the cold floor. Bending over him so she could see his face upside down, she felt a pang in her chest at the look on his face. His eyes were sunken, his skin, ashen. She tried hard to remember the last time she had seen him, leaving Platform 9 and ¾ . He had looked happy, with a sense of reassurance that he wouldn’t be left at the Dursleys long. And he hadn’t been. He had written to her barely two weeks after term ended, to say that he had arrived safely at Grimmauld. However, due to security, he told her he wouldn’t be able to write any more letters to her. Hermione understood the reasons, but that didn’t help the sadness that came from being isolated from Harry. Only then did she understand what Harry must have felt last summer, being apart from everyone he cared about. She put her hand to his cheek, gasping at how cold he felt. She smoothed his hair away from his scar, her fingertips tracing the lightning bolt shape.

“What do I need to do?” She whispered, tears threatening her vision.

“Put your hands on his temples,” Dumbledore instructed, “and close your eyes. Concentrate on Harry, on how much you care for him, how much you want to help him.”

Hermione closed her eyes, placing each hand on the sides of Harry’s head. She brought back memories of Harry; in her minds’ eye she again saw him running at a troll, intent on saving her. She remembered the shock she had felt when she saw him taking aim at Goyle’s cauldron with a lit firework while she slipped into Snape’s office. She remembered how good it felt to see him after she had been released from being petrified. She remembered, too, the pure horror she had experienced as she watched him fall fifty feet from his broomstick, how badly she wanted to help him when he saw Sirius being tortured, how desperately she wanted to protect him from the pain of loss, from the horrors he had experienced in his life, from everything bad in this world. How much she cared for him.

“Now, relax, and don’t lose those feelings.” Dumbledore’s voice said from far away.

She heard him begin to chant, though what he was saying, she had no idea. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that she would see Harry again, that she could help him, that she could get another chance to show him how much he meant to her, regardless of what he may feel.

The floor heated up underneath her. Warmth spread from the runes on her face and hands, filling her body. She could feel it spread to Harry, warming his skin beneath her hands. She felt his heart start again, the blood flowing slowly through the veins in his temples. Her pulse quickened, heat enveloping her. A sound rose in her ears, a sound she had never heard, but recognized nonetheless. Harry had once tried to describe Phoenix song to her, he said it was the sound of hope, like a friend was whispering in his ear. This was what she felt now, hope, friendship.

Friendship.

Their Friendship. Five long years of it. Five years. When spoken it was only two words, but during that time Hermione had experienced love, fear, pain, terror, loss, and love.

Love.

Light shone through her closed eyelids, filling her mind. All she could hear was Phoenix song, all she could think of was Harry, how much she loved him. All she could feel was Harry, his skin, warm under her hands, his pulse quickening, until the beat of his heart sounded in time with hers.

She saw a hole in the light appear before her, at the end was Harry, her Harry, she was sure of it. So without a second thought, she went through the hole, into darkness.

(AN: I was going to submit this story chapter by chapter, but I wanted to start off with a bang. Like I said, this is my first fanfic ever, so be nice and don’t roast me too badly when you review. I know Hermione sounds kind of Frodo-ish in this chapter, with the whole “what must I do?” line, but it seemed to me like the kind of thing she would say.)

Chapter Three: The Runes of True Power

The Rune Circle and the lines of the nine-pointed star glowed pure silver as Dumbledore chanted. He saw the symbols on Hermione’s face glow the same color. He had not told her this, but the runes he had drawn on her face were the Ancient Runes for love, friendship, trust, courage, companionship, hope, and friendship. He had not allowed her the chance to look in a mirror, and she had not asked. If she had, Dumbledore had no doubt that she would have recognized the runes, particularly the one that he had drawn on her forehead, in the exact same place where Harry’s lightning bolt scar was. She had been marked with Sowilo, the rune for partnership, and next to it, Ehwaz.

He looked at Hermione now, the light from the runes illuminating her face, her eyes shut tight in concentration, mouth slightly open due to her harsh breathing as her pulse quickened. Dumbledore had had a very good reason for inviting Hermione, and not Ron, to keep Harry company this summer. Since he had brought Harry to Grimmauld Place, he had watched helplessly as Harry became more and more distant. Dumbledore could guess at what Harry was feeling, and had suspected that a Schism might happen, and if it did, Harry would need help as soon as possible. He had not told Hermione this, but the longer a person remained under the effects of a Schism, the harder it was to reunite the pieces of the scattered soul. Harry would need help, of the sort that could only be given by someone who loved him with an unselfish, unconditional love. Even if the victim and retriever being of the same gender had been a more common occurrence, Dumbledore would have still have passed up Ron as a candidate in favor of Hermione. Albus, of course, knew that of the two, Hermione was the only one who had never abandoned Harry. True, Ron had only done it once himself, but Hermione had a clean record as far as her faithfulness to Harry went.

So Dumbledore stood outside the Rune Circle and watched. Watched, as tears flowed from Hermione’s eyes as the first sound of Phoenix song reached her ears. Watched as the light grew to a blinding intensity, then dimmed, revealing Hermione slumped forward, her forehead resting on Harry’s so that their two runes were touching, her hands still cradling his face, both of them scarcely breathing.

Releasing the breath he had been holding, he sighed, then bent over the Scrying Glass.

*

Hermione felt like she was being whisked through a wind tunnel. Images, faces, sounds, human voices, none of which made any sense, flashed by, there one second, gone the next, only to be replaced with more. She thought she could hear Harry’s voice at times, but she couldn’t be sure. She felt a burning on her skin, and looking down, she could see the runes on her hands glowing like neon tattoos. She looked up, staring at the reflective surfaces of the images from Harry’s mind. It was as if she was watching an ever changing TV screen, and by looking closely, she could see her own reflection superimposed over them. It was then that she noticed the symbol on her forehead. Sowilo. The last conscious thought she could remember having, was the lightning bolt on her forehead, and its meaning.

(AN: Kind of a short chapter, I know, and I may rename the title to something more fitting. Hold on a sec. Okay, I’m back, and the chapter is no longer called, “Divided Mind.” That wasn’t so hard now was it?)

Chapter Four: Meeting Abuse

Cold.

That was the first thing Hermione felt. Cold, and the smell of rain, the stickiness of mist, and the feel of soft earth beneath her back.

She opened her eyes, and almost immediately closed them again. There was a pair of big green eyes staring down at her. Eyes that looked strangely familiar….

She opened her left eye the merest crack, in case this was some monster staring at her with a mind to making her his breakfast. What she saw was a little boy with messy black hair and eyes opened wide, as if that would enable him to see the world better. She lifted her lids the rest of the way and sat up. The boy jumped up as if electrocuted and staggered backwards, tripping over the cuffs of old, worn out jeans that were much too big for him. He sprawled flat on his back in the dirt. Propping himself onto his elbows, he tried to scoot backwards, making himself very dirty and never looking away from her face, with those big green eyes that made her heart melt.

“Oh, how cute!” she exclaimed.

A look of confusion crossed over the boy’s face. He opened his mouth, looked for a moment as if he wanted to say something, and then closed it again, as though thinking better of it.

Hermione shifted onto her hands and knees, so she was in a crawling position. She smiled at Harry, for it was he, albeit a much younger Harry than the one she knew. He smiled back, hesitantly, as though he’d never had much practice, or much reason, to smile at anybody. Hermione wondered which of the Shards this was. At a guess, she would have said Loss, for his eyes were so wide he looked as if he were searching for something.

“What do people call you?” She asked kindly. Even though she already knew, there was no point in saying she did. This Harry would have no memory of her, so it was better to start from square one: introduction.

“Brat.” He answered.

“What?” she asked, incredulously.

“Brat.” He said again.

“Is that what your parents call you?” No point in saying she knew he was an orphan either.

“Dunno, never met ‘em” He said matter-of-factly, without a trace of embarrassment.

“Well, what do your aunt- I mean, the people who take care of you call you?”( Oops, she’d almost said ‘aunt and uncle’. I’m going to have to watch what I say around him.)

“No-one takes care of me. I look after myself, mostly.” He answered simply.

“But don’t you have, uh, relatives, someone you live with?”

“Yes, my aunt and uncle and cousin.”

“Well, what do they call you then?” Hermione silently congratulated herself. Not only had she not revealed how much she already knew about Harry, she would finally get him to say what his name was.

Or so she thought.

“I told you, Brat.”

“But that can’t be your real name!” She exclaimed.

“You want my name? Well you should have said so! I’m Harry, please ta meetcha.” He said, smiling at her.

Despite her confusion, Hermione smiled back. “Well, why didn’t you say your name was Harry when I asked what people called you?” She asked weakly.

“Because people call me Brat, even though my real name’s Harry. If you wanted me to tell you my name, you should have said, ‘what’s your name?’ instead of ‘what do people call me’. It’s not my fault you’re so mixed up.”

Hermione didn’t know whether to laugh or not. This Harry reminded her of herself when she was younger, too clever for other people to be at ease around. She knew from being in similar situations herself that the last thing Harry needed right now was for her to be harsh and tell him not to be such a smart aleck. So she stood, and looking around at the bleak, gray and misty landscape, said “Well, Harry-who-people-call-Brat, what say you and me go see if we can find anybody?”

His answer was one a typical child would give.

“Why?” He asked, tilting his head to one side and looking at her quizzically.

“Because this doesn’t seem like a very nice place to be.” Hermione answered, mentally resigning herself to a long question and answer session, much like the ones she and her father had had when she was younger.

“Is there a nicer one nearby?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you come with me and find out?” Hermione suggested gently.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why should I go with you? You haven’t even told me your name yet.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I’m Hermione.”

“Hermynee.” He repeated, sounding it out carefully, but not quite managing it.

“Yes, that’s it, but you can call me Mione if you like, that’s what my parents used to call me, anyway.” Hermione had heard much worse pronunciations of her name before, and was pleased that Harry had gotten most of the syllables correct. “Now, shall we go?” She urged.

“Where?”

“Somewhere nicer than here.”

“How do you know there is a place nicer than here?” he demanded.

“I don’t” Hermione sighed. The Harry she knew wasn’t nearly this….this…aggravating. Despite herself, Hermione felt herself becoming angry. She took a deep breath, and tried to calm down. But there remained a nagging voice in her head telling her that every minute she spent here talking to this younger Harry was another minute that Harry’s body became weaker.

“Tell you what, if you come with me, whether or not we find a nicer place than this, I’ll give you a big surprise present when we get there, how’s that?” Hermione had never known any little kid to not be quiet and do what was requested of them after being promised a present, so why should Harry be the exception?”

“Why?” he asked again. He appeared surprised, as if no-one had ever offered him a present before in his life. This was lost on Hermione however, as she rounded on him and

yelled, “Don’t you ever get tired of asking questions? Just do as I say and come with me, or you’ll regret it!” Immediately, Harry’s face took on a completely submissive look and he said, in a whisper that betrayed his fear, “Yes, ma’am.” He stood, staring at the ground and cringing, almost as if …. what, Hermione couldn’t say, but she felt a horrible feeling rise in her stomach as she looked at him.

Her look softened. “I’m sorry I yelled at you, all right? But what were you asking me ‘why?’ for? I thought you’d like a present. Wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know, no-one’s ever given me one before. That’s why I asked you why, my aunt and uncle and cousin have known me my whole life, and they’ve never given me anything like that. You’re a stranger, and you offer me one before you’ve know me ten minutes. Why?” He said the last word so quietly, his voice so full of…amazement.

Hermione was stunned. What sort of life had Harry had, up to this point? He didn’t look more than four years old, and yet, he seemed older, if not in body, then in experience. What had been done to him that he didn’t believe himself worthy of anything like a present?

She looked him over carefully, from the bare, cracked and dirty feet, to the clothes too big for him, to the downcast eyes and dejected look, as if he had never had anyone care for him, and didn’t expect anyone to either. She remembered questioning Harry about his life at the Dursleys. He had been evasive, answering in as few words as possible, never quite meeting her eyes, and never willingly giving up details of his existence before he knew her and Ron. Ron had told her somewhat more of Harry’s conditions when he had rescued Harry the summer before second year. She knew there had been bars on his window, and his uncle had forcibly tried to prevent Harry from escaping, and that Mrs. Weasley was always shocked at how thin Harry looked at the end of the summer. She remembered too, how when she had first known Harry, he flinched every time someone touched him, even if it was accidentally. She had once found him sleeping over his homework at the common room table during first year, and when she touched his hand to wake him, he had sprung up at the first brush of her fingers, staring around wildly, fists clenched as though expecting to see an assailant. She had excused this odd behavior as the results of whatever dream he had been having, but now she wondered if there wasn’t something more to his behavior, something darker than nightmares.

She reached out a hand to him, meaning to help him up. He was so busy staring at the ground that he didn’t notice her hand until she was almost touching his face, and when he did finally see, a look of stark terror stole over his face, and he threw his arms up, as if to block a blow. He covered his head with his arms, curled up into a ball, and lay on the ground, shaking.

“Harry, what’s wrong?” Genuine concern had replaced Hermione’s anger. Why should he be so scared of her?

“I’m sorry for asking so many questions, I didn’t mean to make you angry, I just wanted to know why… I’m sorry!” The last part was almost a plea.

“Harry, wha…?”

“Please don’t hurt me,” he begged.

Hermione gasped. He was expecting to be physically punished by her, and looked as though this sort of thing had happened to him before! What kind of person would…

Oh my.

So that was what she had seen. That was where the feeling of horror came from. She had seen what a lifetime of abuse had done to Harry. So this was why Harry never told her details of his life at the Dursleys. This was why he flinched every time someone touched him. The Dursleys must have never treated him like a human being. The only time they touched him was to discipline him. This was the Shard of Abuse that Dumbledore had told her about. Hermione seriously doubted whether anyone had ever shown Harry kindness. The only people he had to share his life with up to this point had hurt him so badly, inside and out, that he expected no less from anyone else.

Hermione hung her head in shame. And I proved that expectation right, by yelling at him. Hot tears blurred her vision. And in yelling at him, she realized, she had shown herself no better than the people who had brought about the creation of this Shard. She let out a choked sob. Raising her head, she looked over at Abuse. He was in a crouched position on the ground, knees tucked up to his chest, head bowed over them, his hands partially covering his neck, which, Hermione noticed, bore bruises.

She crawled over until she was facing him, reaching out her hand once more. He stiffened, as though sensing her approach. At the first touch of her fingers on his cheek, he whimpered, but quieted when he realized the touch of her hand was gentle, not harsh, as he had expected. She ran her fingers under the curve of his jaw, and he raised his head to look at her. She stared into his eyes.

And saw.

She saw raised fists raining down, shouting, angry faces, the dark interior of an oh so familiar cupboard, images of children his own age laughing and playing, while he watched, forbidden from joining in their fun by his cousin, who hurt him without a second thought, as though he were just a punching bag with no other reason for existence than to be treated harshly by the people who had been entrusted with his care.

She looked away, unable to bear anymore, and he cast his eyes down in shame.

And at long last, Hermione understood why Harry had never told her the complete truth of his life at the Dursleys. He actually believed that he deserved this, and was embarrassed and ashamed to face people because he believed himself to be the lowest of them all. Shame, that was what it all came down to.

Hermione reached out, put her arms around Harry, and gathered him into her lap. He tried to fight at first, clearly surprised at what she was doing, but relaxed as she began stroking his hair and face with one of her hands, while the other held him firmly in place on her lap.

When Hermione had been much younger, and things went wrong, as they do so often for little children, her mother would hold her on her lap, and rock her, and sing to her, and at those times Hermione had believed that all was right in the world. Harry, orphaned and abused, must have never felt this, and Hermione wasn’t going to let another minute go by without showing him that life could be better than what he knew. She was going to prove to him that she wasn’t like his aunt and uncle and cousin, that she cared for him.

She rocked him back and forth on her lap, singing softly.

“Tell me the reason I was, born to roam.

Tell me the reason I am, so far from home.

Tell me the reason, only birds can fly.

Tell me the reason I was, born, just to die”

She remembered this lullaby from her toddler days. At the time, she found the words somewhat silly, but the melody had been pure and sweet, and as any child could tell you, songs always sound good when it’s your mother who’s singing.

“How many mountains will I, have to climb.

How many memories will I, leave behind.

How many daydreams, will I make come true,

How many heartbreaks, until, I find you?”

She could feel Harry relaxing even further into her embrace. He raised a hand to her face, feeling the changing shape of her mouth as she sang.

“There is a valley called, Peace of Mind.

There is a river running, right by its side.

There is a moment, of glories so new,

There is eternity, to spend, loving you.”

Hermione raised the hand that had been stroking Harry’s face to her eyes to wipe away her tears, and realized that it was already wet with Harry’s.

(AN: The song is actually a campfire song I sang at Girl Scout Camp quite a lot. It may be copyrighted under the GS Organization, for all I know. So the following is a disclaimer in case it is:

Disclaimer: The song is not mine, I just like the tune. SO THERE!)

Chapter Five: Painful Memories

Hermione and Abuse, (who Hermione, with his consent, had decided to call Four, because he looked like he was about four years old) were walking down a road that Four had discovered by accident, chasing after a rock that had fallen through a hole in his pocket. When he showed Hermione the rock, she realized it was not a rock at all, but a piece of glass, that Four had insisted he could not remember ever being without.

Hermione had told him that this piece of glass was very important, and that he could hold onto it, as long as he promised not to lose it. So Four, with all the wisdom of a child, had placed the piece of glass in Hermione’s hand. He said that she could keep it in her pocket, because his had a hole. Hermione’s eyes had filled with tears again when he did this, because, although Four didn’t know it, this was in a sense the second time today she had been entrusted with his soul.

Four was skipping ahead of her on the road, playing, as far as Hermione could tell, a form of hopscotch that didn’t require lines or boxes. He seemed to be enjoying himself though, so Hermione didn’t stop him, though she sometimes had to jog to catch up with him.

Hermione looked around, not really expecting to see anything new, but hoping that the mist might have cleared. It was so thick that she couldn’t see more than twenty feet all around her. For all she knew, she and Four could have been walking in circles all this time.

“Four, come back here a minute, please.”

Four skipped back along the road towards her. “What’sa matter, ‘Mione?”

Hermione sank down onto the dirt and patted the ground beside her. Four plopped down next to her obediently. Obedience - that was another thing she had noticed about him. Since they had set off, whatever she told him to do, he did it immediately, and, for the most part, without question. She had once read that abused children are often frighteningly well behaved, because they learn the hard way that disobedience is a bad idea. Hermione had tried not to order him around too much, saying that he could go where he liked, as long as she could still see him.

“I need to ask you a couple of questions now.” she said.

“OK, it’s about time you asked me something, isn’t it?”

Hermione smiled. “Yes, it’s my turn. First, have you seen anyone else besides me here?”

She knew that Abuse wouldn’t be a Gathering Point, even if Harry had one, but he might have seen another Shard.

Harry scratched his head. “No,” he said finally. “Just you.”

Hermione sighed. Oh well, even if he had seen another Shard, he probably couldn’t have found the place again with all this mist. “Okay then, next question, do you know where we are?”

“No, I don’t know where I was when you found me either. I’m just-- here, like you.”

Well, then, have you heard or seen anything strange?”

“No, just you.” He said again. Then, at the look on Hermione’ s face, said quickly, “I don’t mean you’re strange or anything, you sound beautiful, especially when you sing, and you look very beautiful, too. Not strange at all.” He said with finality, nodding half to himself, half to her.

Hermione blushed. “I’m not pretty, much less beautiful. My hair’s bushy and my teeth used to be big and I’m too much of a bookworm to be pretty.”

Harry crossed his arms and glared at her. “You are too pretty.” he said grumpily.

Hermione crossed her arms and glared right back. “Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

He cringed and looked at the ground. Hermione, realizing she had shouted again, said “What makes you think I’m pretty, then?” She thought the best way to stop this endless argument was to give him some hard evidence. Her mother had stopped telling her she was beautiful years ago, because Hermione had taken to asking her “What makes me so pretty then?” And her mother had never answered, just smiled. She expected Harry to not have an answer either.

He looked up at her. “Because you make me feel happy. Because since I’ve met you, I haven’t felt as scared as I usually do. Because I cried in front of you and that didn’t make you angry with me. Because when you held me on your lap you made me feel safe.”

Hermione was speechless.

He went on. “There’s more to beauty than how you look, you know. My aunt looks nice on the outside, but she’s mean to me. She’s not beautiful. You’re nice to me. Your hair is pretty and brown and curly, and your smile is perfect, because it’s honest, and kind. You are beautiful, Mione, inside and out.” He looked at her as if daring her to argue. On seeing the shocked expression on her face, he smiled at her, the same smile her mother had used, when Hermione insisted she wasn’t pretty.

Hermione was astonished. How could someone, meant to represent abuse, speak like this? Of all Harry’s Shards, she had expected this one to be melancholy, sad and depressed. How was it possible for him to be so…good?

Four stood up. Dusting off his pants, he said, “Well, should we get going then?” Without waiting for an answer he started off down the road again, humming Hermione’s lullaby.

Hermione stood up quickly and followed. Hurrying forward, she took Four’s hand in hers. When he looked up at her, she smiled at him and whispered, “Thank you.”

*

How long they followed the road, Hermione didn’t know. It seemed to her she had been walking this gray and misty land for eons. Four had been walking quietly beside her, hand in hers, for quite some time before she realized he was dozing on his feet. She asked him gently if he would like to ride on her back for a while. He nodded sleepily, trying to keep his eyes open while Hermione knelt in front of him, her back to him. He climbed on and she put her arms under his knees, standing up and carrying him piggyback down the road. He didn’t say anything further to her for a while, and she could feel his head resting against her shoulder. She turned her head to look at him once, and smiled when she saw he was sucking his thumb. He looked so cute, sleeping like that. So much different from how he looked in his room back in Grimmauld Place, when she had first discovered him this morning.

Had it really only been that long? When she woke up this morning, the only thing on her mind was how excited she was at seeing Harry again. Now she was inside his mind, trying to gather the lost pieces of his soul. How quickly life could change.

She was so lost in thinking that at first she failed to notice the change in the landscape. It was nothing very special, just a tree, standing on one side of the road, but it was the first thing Hermione had seen besides mist or dirt road, so she stopped to stare at it. Nothing remarkable, just a tree - she wasn’t even sure what kind it was. Its branches spread out and up, completely bare of leaves. Looking at the ground, she saw where the leaves had gone.

They were scattered all over the place, still green, and looking much the worse for wear, as if a giant hand had pulled them all off and scattered them on the ground. She looked closer at the tree itself, and noticed that many of the branches were broken, and on one side the bark was almost completely stripped off. She remembered a TV documentary she had seen, about the effects of tornadoes on trees and houses. This tree looked like it had been the victim of some violent storm, or explosion. As she thought this, the smell of smoke reached her nose. Looking in the direction it had come from, she could see a faint reddish glow in the mist. Carefully, she put Four down underneath the tree. He stirred at the loss of warm contact from her body, but sighed and settled back into whatever dream he was having without waking up. The path seemed to lead to the glow. She glanced down at Four, guilty at the mere though of leaving him, but if whatever was causing the glow was dangerous, she wanted him to be safe. And I won’t be gone too long, she reasoned. Just until I find out what that light is.

*

Godric’s Hollow the sign proclaimed.

Hermione had never heard of the place, though she could assume it was named after Godric Gryffindor, the founder of Gryffindor house. If that was true, then it must be a wizarding community. She walked past the sign, which also bore signs of recent trauma. The road led her up a hill. She stopped near the top to catch her breath; looking back, she could faintly see the branches of the tree where she had left Four. Turning back the way she was headed, she climbed over the top of the hill, and looked down.

What she saw would remain in her nightmares for years to come.

What must have once been a fine house or manor lay in ruins. Fires still glowed here and there, and she could smell the scent of smoke and melted glass. There was another smell, too, one she couldn’t name.

She ran down the hill, afraid that one of Harry’s shards might be trapped inside the the ruins of the house. She stopped at the edge of a pile of wood that must have once been the front door, looking for a place to walk. She stepped on a wooden plank that looked sturdy, but it snapped beneath her weight, and she fell forward. Raising her head, she looked into a pair of dead eyes.

She screamed.

The corpse before her bore a remarkable resemblance to Harry, but the eyes were hazel, not green, and he was older than Harry, about twenty or so. The realization that she was staring at the body of James Potter hit her like the proverbial ton of bricks. This must have been Harry’s house. This must be just after Voldemort had tried to kill Harry. She scrambled backward away from the body, getting hurriedly to her feet. She turned her head away, afraid she might vomit, when she heard something that made her forget her nausea immediately.

A baby, crying.

Turning away from the body of Harry’s father, she looked around wildly. She thought the cry had come from her left, but she couldn’t be sure. She willed the baby to cry again.

She stood silently, listening, hoping…

The cry came again, louder this time. Hermione dashed off toward the direction it had come from, heedless of what she was walking on and stumbling several times. She stopped at a piece of wood, covered in baby’s wallpaper. Afraid of what she might find beneath it, but more afraid that she might be too late, she set her hands under the edge and heaved, flipping the plywood over onto its opposite side.

Looking down, she thought her heart would break.

Lily Potter lay dead, red curls spilling across her face, eyes closed, one hand reaching out toward a cradle, lying on its side, as though her last act had been to reach out to her son.

Hermione carefully stepped around the body, coming to the cradle. The rockers were faced towards her, the basin and its contents hidden from view. The baby cried again.

Hermione walked around to the other side. At first, all she saw was a bundle of blankets, then the blankets moved, and she heard a small hiccup. Kneeling down, she carefully unwrapped the bundle, layer by layer.

A baby boy, his forehead covered in blood, lay on his back, squinting up at her.

Hermione couldn’t take her eyes from his forehead, where she could clearly see a fresh cut, like a bolt of lightning. The baby cried again, reaching up towards her. He couldn’t have been more than a year old.

Sobbing, Hermione reached down and lifted Harry. She laid his head on her breast, rocking back and forth and crying. He squirmed in her arms, and she realized his blanket had fallen off his head, and a chill wind was blowing. She wrapped him up more securely against the cold, and as she did so, a piece of glass fell from the blanket and landed beside her. She picked up the piece of Soul Glass and pocketed it, along with the one Four had given her. She wiped a hand across her eyes and continued to rock Harry.

Eventually, his crying stopped, and his breathing slowed. He was asleep. Hermione stood, careful not to wake him. She looked down at Lily. Maybe it was her imagination, but Lily looked almost as if she was smiling slightly.

“I’ll take care of him.” Hermione whispered. Then she left, taking a safer route out of the wreckage. She walked toward the path, away from the ruined house, and the bodies of Harry’s parents, with a sleeping baby, representing Loss, held firmly in her arms.

*

Four was just waking up from his nap when Hermione came over the hill. He sat up and blinked at her sleepily. Unsurprisingly, he had another question.

“What’s that?” He pointed to the bundle in Hermione’s arms.

She crouched beside him and unwrapped the blanket from the baby’s face.

Four looked down at Baby Harry with some surprise. Placing a hand to his own forehead, then the baby’s, he said, “We both have lightning bolts!”

Hermione nodded. “You two should get along very well then, since you have so much in common.” She knew that trying to explain the circumstances of her being here in the first place, the fact the he and the baby were the same person, and would become so again if she succeeded, would probably just confuse Four.

Four stared down at the baby, his face scrunched up as if he had something he wanted to say, but didn’t have the courage to say it. Hermione waited in silence, suspecting what Four wanted, but wanting him to say it himself.

Finally, in a voice no louder than a whisper, as though afraid he might wake the baby, Four asked, “Can I hold him?”

Hermione nodded. Four sat cross-legged next to her, and Hermione placed the sleeping baby in his arms.

Four looked down at the baby in wonder. He studied every inch of the sleeping infant’s face, smiling when the baby yawned, and staying stock-still when he stirred, as if he might wake up. Four looked up at Hermione, a serious expression on his face.

“I think we’re related.” He said solemnly.

The irony of the situation was too much. Hermione laughed aloud, falling back onto the road and putting a hand to her mouth to stifle her mirth. Four was truly a strangely wise individual.

The sound of Hermione’s laughter had woken Baby Harry. Four raised a finger to his mouth and said, “Shhh!” Then looked back at the baby he held. Baby Harry and Four looked at each other. Then the baby smiled, and raised a hand up to touch Four’s face.

Four raised a hand to his own face, and touched the baby’s tiny fingers. Four didn’t say anything, didn’t move, only watched in complete awe as the infant’s fingers wrapped around his own.

Hermione had long since stopped laughing. She felt like she was an intruder on a sacred meeting: that of Innocence and the harsh Knowledge that Harry should never have possessed at such a young age. She could feel tears welling in her eyes again. Harry had grown up too fast. Exposed to suffering at the hands of his family, pain that most people wouldn’t expect from their enemies, Harry had known things as a child that are not often given children to know. He knew and understood things about the world that adults spend hours trying to fathom. And yet, for all that, when Hermione had met him, he had seemed a normal 11 year-old boy, and she had had to look very closely to see the signs and proof of that terrible understanding.

Four looked up at Hermione, and asked the most important question he ever had of her.

“Will you help me take care of him?”

“Yes,” Hermione answered, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I swear, by all I hold dear, I’ll keep him safe. I’ll keep both of you safe.” Four smiled at her. She closed her eyes.

I will do all I can to protect you Harry. I promise.

And at that moment, though Hermione didn’t notice, the two Shards of Soul Glass in her pocket started glowing.

*

Back in Grimmauld Place, Dumbledore sat back and sniffed loudly. He had witnessed everything that had happened since Hermione had entered Harry’s mind. He had not been as shocked at the revelation of Harry’s life at the Dursleys as Hermione had been though. Mrs. Figg had often reported to him instances when Harry would come to her house beaten up. Harry had always insisted that bullies did it to him, but she knew better. She knew all too well what the Dursleys thought of magic. Dumbledore had done his best to ignore the harshness of these reports, soothing his conscience by telling himself that it would all be for the best in the end. But now, he wondered if Harry might not have been better off somewhere else. Where was the line that divided it? Keeping Harry away from the Dursleys might well have meant his death, but it seemed he had come close to meeting that fate anyway, at their hands.

He had once told Harry, “Indifference and neglect often do more damage than outright dislike.” Harry had looked at him as if to say, “You think I don’t know that already?”

Where was the line that divided wanting to keep someone safe, and causing more pain than they would have suffered if you had not tried to keep them safe? How much worse could Voldemort’s supporters have hurt Harry than the Dursleys did? At the hands of the Death Eaters, Harry might have been granted a quick death. At the Dursleys, he had been subject to eleven years of pain.

But he was alive.

That was what it all came down to. Harry needed to live, so he could defeat Voldemort, or die anyway in the attempt. But at least then his death would have some meaning.

Wouldn’t it?

What have I done?

( AN: Like Harry, I’m not really too pleased with Dumbledore right now, and so I thought it fitting that he feel guilty. (glares at picture of Dumbledore on picture file.)

I think that during Half-Blood Prince, Harry is going to storm at Dumbledore a bit more than he has already. And let’s face it, he deserves it.)

Chapter Six: Apathy, and the Gathering

Hermione was once again carrying Baby Harry. Four had been visibly jealous at first, then he settled into walking alongside the two, waving a stick he had found underneath the tree. He slashed and hacked with it as though it were a sword.

“Hey, who are you fighting with?” Hermione called out, amused.

“I don’t know. Maybe a dragon, or my cousin, maybe even a big snake!” He called back, clearly excited at the thought.

Hermione shivered. “Well don’t go getting any ideas!” she admonished, remembering how Harry had really once fought a huge snake, with a real sword.

Four cocked his head to one side. “Do you hear that?” he asked.

“Hear what?” The only sounds Hermione had heard since coming here were her voice, Four’s voice, Baby Harry crying, and the crackle of flames and the soughing of the wind.

“It sounds like someone talking, over that way.” Four said, pointing into the mist at their left, away from the road.

Hermione didn’t like the idea of leaving the road. “Are you sure? I can’t hear anything.”

“I’m sure.” Four responded. And without further ado, he walked off into the mist.

“Four, get back here!” Hermione called. She had lost sight of him before he had even taken two steps. Grumbling to herself, Hermione stalked off after him.

*

She found Four crouching beside another Shard.

Looking at him, Hermione realized at once that this was Apathy. He looked to be about seven years old, with a dark, unsmiling face, and a look of such mistrust and hopelessness in his eyes that Hermione wondered how she would persuade him to come with her.

Four smiled at Apathy, who did not smile back.

“Hi, I’m Harry, though Hermione calls me Four. What’s your name?”

“Harry.” Apathy said listlessly.

“Is that your name, or what people call you?”

“Both.”

“Where are you from?”

“Here.” Apathy answered in that same toneless voice.

“Really? I’m from there,” Four pointed back the way he and Hermione had come. “Or somewhere near there anyway. This is Hermione, she’s nice.”

Hermione smiled at Apathy, who did not smile back.

“Nice to you maybe.” He said sullenly.

“And you too, she’s nice to everybody I think. She’s never been mean to me, except when I asked her too many questions, but she was sorry afterwards.” Four explained.

Apathy looked at Hermione, mistrust apparent on his face. “Who are you?” He asked, somewhat rudely.

Hermione sniffed. “There’s no need to take that tone of voice with me. I’ve not been rude to you, have I?”

“Maybe not yet, but you will be, everyone is, sooner or later.” His tone of voice left no room for Hermione to doubt that what he said was true.

She sat down next to him and Four, shifting Baby Harry to her shoulder as she did so.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there? I won’t be rude to you, no matter how rude you are to me. I care too much about you for that.”

Apathy’s head shot up, his eyes were wide and he looked at her with a look of complete and utter astonishment on his face. “You what?” he said so quietly that Hermione practically had to lip read to understand what he was saying.

“I care about you.” She repeated.

Apathy sprang to his feet, fists clenched, defiance and disbelief clear on his face.

“No, you don’t! You can’t! No one does! No one ever has! No one ever will! You don’t care about me, how could you? You don’t even know me! No one else cares about me, so why should I? No one cares!” He shouted.

Hermione was about to answer, to insist that she did care about him, but Four spoke up first. “She does too and I can prove it!”

Hermione and Apathy both turned to stare at him.

“How?” Apathy demanded suspiciously.

“She cares about me, so she must care about you, too.” Four stated simply.

He’s more right than he could ever know, Hermione thought. She stayed silent as Four took Apathy by the hand and led him to her. Apathy looked downcast and ashamed of his outburst, and Hermione longed to comfort him.

She didn’t have long to wait.

Four took Baby Harry from Hermione’s arms again, and sat down on the grass. Turning to Apathy, he said, “Sit on her lap.” Apathy looked up at Hermione quickly, and in that short glance Hermione could see that he wanted to believe that someone could care for him, wanted so badly to be loved, for someone to be there for him.

Wordlessly, she reached out and took Apathy by the hand. Pulling him down onto her lap, she put her arms around him. Like Four had, he seemed unsure of himself, and she could tell he had half a mind to try and escape. She put her arms around him and stroked his hair, as she had done with Four. He shivered, and she held him closer, rubbing his shoulders, back and arms, up and down, back and forth, until he turned his face into her neck and sighed, a tearful sigh that told Hermione he was trying not to cry.

She placed a hand under his chin and raised his head until she could look into his eyes.

“Listen to me Harry,” she said gently. “I know you’ve lived a hard life, and you’ve suffered more than anyone else I’ve ever met, and you’ve had to go through all of that alone. But not anymore. What I said before was true. I do care about you, more than you can know now. And I will never abandon you, no matter what.” Tears were sliding openly down his face now. He raised a hand to brush them away, but Hermione stopped him. “There’s no need to be ashamed, Harry. Not all tears are a bad thing, sometimes it even helps to cry.” He laid his head back on her shoulder, body shaking as he cried.

“I’ll never leave you.” she whispered.

“Promise?” He asked, his voice so full of hope.

“I promise.”

At that moment, Hermione felt a heat spread from her pocket throughout her body.

Looking down, she saw the pocket of her jeans was glowing. Apathy stared down too, and scrambled off her lap as though he had been burned.

“What’s that?” he asked, clearly afraid.

Hermione reached into her pocket and withdrew the two pieces of Soul Glass that she had collected from Four and Baby Harry. Apathy reached into the pocket of his own jeans and withdrew another piece of Soul Glass, also glowing, but not as brightly as the others.

“What are these?” he whispered.

Hermione took Apathy’s piece, holding all three in her cupped hands. The light at the center of each pulsed, as though trying to rejoin itself, but was unable to do so.

There’s no Gathering Shard here, they can’t be joined unless I have the piece from the gathering point. She felt like crying. Dumbledore had told her that a positive shard was absolutely necessary to the joining of the Soul Glass. How could she do this without one?

She clenched her teeth in frustration, then looked up quickly as she heard Four cry out.

Four, holding Baby Harry, was standing next to Apathy. All three were glowing, with the same bright light emanating from the center of the pieces of Soul Glass in Hermione’s hands. Apathy looked down at his lit hands in confusion, while Four looked at Hermione.

“What’s happening to us?” He asked, clearly frightened.

Hermione hadn’t the foggiest idea. She closed her eyes. Come on Granger, think. Put those famed brain cells to the test. What could this be? She could feel the Glass vibrating in her hands, and the light they gave shone through her closed eyelids.

She thought carefully about all that had happened in the last few hours. What had yet to be answered? Dumbledore had said the trick would be to convince the Shards to trust her, yet here she was with all three of them. Abuse was supposed to be dark, yet she had been amazed at how good he seemed. Loss was supposed to be difficult to experience, yet apart from the scar on his forehead, he showed no ill signs of what he had undergone. Apathy was supposed to be uncaring, but after having known him only a few minutes, he had opened up to her in a way he never had before. How was this possible?

She looked at the three Shards, standing there, lit up by some inner light that came from an unknown source. Four no longer looked frightened, but happy. Baby Harry was laughing, a sweet little laugh that is only possible for babies to have. And Apathy, he was actually smiling, his eyes no longer looked dark, but hopeful, and he was staring at her with his eyes wide open, seeing her, but not really seeing her so much as seeing who she was. And the look on his face told her he liked what he saw, and knew he could trust it.

And then she understood.

Hope. That was the missing shard. It didn’t need to have its own form because it already existed in the other three. Despite being abused, despite believing for years that he wasn’t worth the air he breathed, despite no-one caring for him, and therefore not being able to care for himself, despite growing up without people who cared for him, despite all the hardship, suffering and pain he had experienced, Harry still had Hope. It may have been dimmer at some times than others, it may have been all but banished from his mind and heart, been disregarded, trampled on, and disappointed, but still it existed within Harry. It was so much a part of him that it didn’t need to exist as a Shard to serve as a gathering point. It was enough that it was there, inside Harry, making it possible for him to keep going, even though there must have been times where he wanted so desperately for all of it to end.

Hermione smiled at the three shards, who, including Baby Harry, smiled back. She held out her hands, the pieces of the Soul Glass shining brighter as the Shards drew nearer to her. Apathy reached out his hand, and placed it over the piece he had given Hermione. Suddenly he seemed to be made of nothing but light, a glowing, radiant being. Abuse, called Four by Hermione, wrapped his hand around Baby Harry’s, then guided both to the other two pieces, which were so close together, Four could touch his with one finger while making sure that Baby Harry was touching his own. All three were now glowing with a blinding radiance. Hermione wanted to close her eyes, but couldn’t.

How brightly Hope shines. She thought.

Phoenix song once again rose in her ears, and she remembered reading once that Phoenixes are symbols of rebirth, the renewal of life, and hope.

Finally, though her eyes weren’t shut, she could no longer see anything but light. She neither knew or cared if she breathed, if she ever returned to her own body, if she ever did anything again. All she knew, was that when the light faded, she would be back in Grimmauld Place, and Harry would be all right.

(AN: That’s what you think, Hermione! MWAAHAAHAA! Ahem. In case you were wondering, “soughing” is a real word. Look it up if you don’t believe me.)

Chapter Seven: Broken Pieces

Hermione woke up in a graveyard.

This, unsurprisingly, confused her. Wasn’t she supposed to be back in Grimmauld Place by now? And where was Harry? She stood up, looking around.

“Four?” She called out. “Where are you?” Her own voice echoed back at her, mocking and harsh. ‘Where are you? Where are you?’

She shivered. This place gave her the creeps. Something glinted on the ground next to her. It was the Soul Glass. She picked it up. It was a perfect sphere, almost. As she turned it, she noticed a large piece had been taken out of it. Then she remembered.

“Only Four….Loss, Abuse, Apathy, and Death.” Dumbledore had said. She had only met three, there was one missing.

Death.

Then she understood. This graveyard, the missing shard! This was the place where the Portkey had taken Harry, where Cedric was murdered, where Harry had almost met death himself. This was the last Turning Point in Harry’s life, where he had witnessed Voldemort’s rebirth, when events would unfold around him that would change the course of his life forever.

She started running, where she had no idea. She knew that Harry had been bound to a headstone, forced to witness Voldemort’s return, unable to escape. She tripped over something and sprawled on her face. Turning to see what had tripped her, she screamed again.

The body of Cedric Diggory lay at her feet. His eyes were open, and he looked slightly surprised, as though amazed to be dead. She scrambled backward and got to her feet as quickly as possible. Looking at the ground she saw Harry’s wand. She picked it up and pocketed it. He must be somewhere nearby.

She called out his name. Again her voice echoed back at her. She had no idea where to go. The graveyard was so dark she couldn’t see more than a few feet in any direction. She turned in a circle, looking for something, anything…

A light glowed faintly. She could hear the faint bubbling hiss of boiling water. She ran toward the light. It was coming from a circle of headstones, about fifty feet away. She ran between two of the monolithic grave markers, and stopped short.

Harry’s body hung limply in the ropes that bound him to the headstone. The light was coming from flames heating a cauldron at the center of the stone circle, the fire casting ghastly shadows all around.

Harry looked terrible. He was gagged, and blood flowed freely from his leg and a jagged cut on his arm. His head was down, and behind the shadow he cast on the headstone, she could see the name Tom Riddle carved above his head.

She staggered forward, saying his name over and over, weakly, pleadingly.

“Harry……Harry…..Harry…”

He didn’t seem to hear her. He didn’t move, just breathed shallowly. She fell to her knees at his feet, reaching out and fumbling with the knots at his ankles.

“Oh, Harry, please wake up.” She begged, sobbing.

Nothing happened for a moment, but then she heard him moaning.

She stood up, pulling on his robes to get to her feet. She reached behind his head, untying the gag. Leaning her head close to his mouth, she heard him whispering, “…stop….can’t come back…no…. can’t stop it….no, please…help….anybody…can’t stop this…alone…”

Hermione put her arms around his neck, whispering feverishly into his ear. “Harry, it’s me, it’s Hermione, can you hear me? Listen Harry, none of this is real, this is just a bad dream, just a dream, that’s all. You have to wake up so I can get you out of here. Do you understand Harry? Harry, please wake up!” She was crying now, clinging to his neck, willing him to understand, to wake up.

“It is too real.”

Hermione pulled back to stare at him, scarcely believing what she had just heard.

He raised his head and looked at her with eyes that were no longer the lively green she knew so well, but dark, and looking at her with a haunted gaze.

“Harry?” she whispered.

“It is too real. This is too real to be a nightmare. I should know, I was there, I lived it.” He spoke to her in a monotone, and Hermione was reminded of Apathy.

“Harry, listen to me. It may have been real a long time ago, but it isn’t now, this is just a memory of it, that’s all. I’m going to get you out of here, so just hang on.” She pulled at the ropes around his chest, but they just seemed to get tighter with her struggles.

“I can’t escape. There is no escaping. You can’t change the past. There’s no escape from what’s been done, it’s not possible. I can’t ever leave here, not when I’m asleep, not even when I’m awake, I can always see this place, I can always hear him, in my head, taunting me…always..” His voice trailed off.

Hermione put her hands on the sides of his face, forcing him to look at her. “Yes you can! You can escape this! You never let it affect you this badly before! Harry, I can help you, but we need to get out of here first.” Dimly she realized this was the present day Harry, representing the two Turning Points death had created in his life. That of Cedric, and Sirius.

“No. I can’t.”

Hermione looked at him angrily, her bossiness returning. “And why not?” She demanded, her hands still on the ropes.

“Because there is no escaping fate. I’m doomed to die Hermione. And if you don’t leave me, you will too.”

“What are you talking about?” Hermione said, horrified at what he had just asked her to do.

Harry looked at her, and this time she could see some life in his eyes. “Do you remember the prophecy, last year in the Department of Mysteries? The one that smashed?”

She nodded mutely.

“I heard what it said, even though no-one else did. Dumbledore was the one Trelawney told it to in the first place, and he told me.”

“The one with the power to vanquish to the dark lord approaches, born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. And the dark lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the dark lord knows not. And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives. The one with the power to vanquish the dark lord will be born as the seventh month dies.”

Hermione looked at him, unseeing. Harry had been born at the end of July…His parents had been in the original Order…He carried a mark on his forehead, a mark that had cursed him untold times…Either must die…

The one with the power….

… Professor Snape saying that only a really powerful wizard could have conjured that Patronus….Harry asking her for help with a Summoning Charm of all things…the burst of energy she had felt as Harry had stunned Snape…. the sense of immeasurable power she had felt as Harry fought at her side at the Department of Mysteries…

Only a really powerful wizard…

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord…

Hermione stared into Harry’s eyes. How could he possibly believe he was going to die? The prophecy itself said he had the power to do it, he just didn’t know how to use it yet. And she could help him. She could keep her promise to Harry, she would take care of him. He wasn’t going to die, not if she had anything to say about it.

She ran her hand over his cheek, then up across his forehead, smoothing away the hair that had fallen across his eyes. He stared at her, uncomprehendingly, but silent nonetheless. She said his name, softly. “Harry.” and he stared back at her.

“I’m not going to leave you.” She said softly.

“Why?”

The look in his eyes as he asked her told Hermione the reason the Schism had happened at all.

Why should she stand by him still? Was he so important to her that she would risk her life just to be with him? She saw again that frightened child she had met on coming here, believing himself to be undeserving of love. She saw the feelings borne of that belief, and the confusion that came when that belief was challenged, by her actions, and the actions of anyone who had ever cared about him.

For most of his life, Harry had been friendless, and had believed it was his fault. Now the friends he did have had been hurt because of him. What must it be like, she wondered, to believe you deserve nothing but the worst life has to offer, and then be offered the best, without being expected to give anything in return?

How confusing it must be, to suddenly have your world turned upside down, by people who care about you, people who stay with you no matter what. To receive, for the first time, unconditional love, after eleven years of unwarranted hate.

No wonder his soul had split.

Hermione leaned close, and pressed her lips gently to Harry’s. Her heart brimmed with the love she had for him, the sorrow at his pain and loss, the desperate need she had to help him. All the promises she had made him were sealed in that kiss. I’ll never leave you. I’ll take care of you.

I love you.

And Harry, at last, understood.

In the instant her lips touched his, he felt the darkness vanish as quickly as shadows do when a candle is lit. His heart felt lighter than he could ever remember. She drove away the darkness and horror that had clutched at his soul for what seemed like years unending. He felt happy, filled with Hope, no longer in a graveyard, besieged by dark memories, but with Hermione, the person who was closer to him than anyone had ever been, who had never left him, who had always been there for him, and who always would be, no matter what.

He kissed her back, wrapping his arms around her and holding her closer, as though telling her he would never let her go, that he would return her promise, and never leave her, either.

I love you.

He heard her say it, not with words, not in his head, but in his heart and soul.

And he believed her.

(AN: Aww, how sweet! FYI, that is the first kissing scene I’ve ever written. I’m still VL, so I don’t really know how to describe the physical feelings that are supposed to accompany a kiss from your true love, but I did my best! Any-who, there’s only one more chapter, (pouts) So get busy reviewing! And please don’t roast. (Makes puppy eyes at you) Hee-hee.)

Chapter Eight: How The Heart Heals

Dumbledore had long since left.

…the only people who have ever attempted this, along with their recovered victims, refused to speak of the experience afterward…

He had watched only as far as Hermione smoothing her hand over Harry’s face. He had recognized the look in both their eyes, and knew that what was about to happen should be theirs, and theirs alone.

He quickly said the incantation to disable the Scrying Glass. He had no sooner done this, than the glass layer at the bottom of the bowl cracked, returning to the pieces it had originally been. He looked over at Harry and Hermione’s bodies.

The dark cloud around Harry was gone. In its place was a blanket of light, covering the two teenagers. As he watched, a small, perfect orb of glass appeared in the air over Harry. It spun, becoming a blinding radiance. The pieces of glass in the stone bowl flew towards it, joining with it until the orb became a perfect crystal sphere, which lowered itself until it hovered just over Harry’s heart. The light grew dimmer, then disappeared. And with it, the orb.

Harry’s soul had returned.

Dumbledore noticed that Harry was crying. His eyes were shut, his face calm, yet tears were running down the sides of his face, flowing over Hermione’s hands to the floor.

It was then Dumbledore left. He would never speak of this either.

Hermione woke to find she couldn’t breathe very well. She kept her eyes closed, taking stock of her position. She could smell the faint mustiness of Grimmauld Place, feel a wooden floor beneath her, and she was leaning against something warm. A pair of strong arms was around her, rocking her back and forth.

She leaned against Harry, snaking her arms around him and pressing her face to his chest.

He was crying, she realized with a start. She had only seen Harry cry once, and he had, technically, been four years old at the time. He was holding her so tightly she could feel his heart beating, in perfect time with hers. The grip of his arms around her back was slightly painful, but she didn’t want him to stop holding her. He was saying something, but she couldn’t quite hear what it was, he was talking so softly.

“What are you saying?” She murmured.

“You love me…. You love me…” He said, his voice containing incredible joy and gratitude.

Hermione slowly pushed away from him. She looked up into his eyes, bright green again, and wet with tears. She shifted so she was sitting on his lap, running her fingers under his eyes, wiping away his tears. She smiled, and kissed him. He smiled and kissed her back. Then he smiled at her, a happy, honest smile.

“You love me.” He said again, with a finality that made Hermione sure he had been telling himself as well as her.

She laughed and put her arms around his neck. He laid his head on her shoulder and drew a shaky breath, then released it.

“And don’t you ever doubt it.” She whispered, stroking his hair.

*

“Professor, can I ask you something?”

“Obviously you’ve just done so. You may ask me one more question, however.” Dumbledore replied, eyes twinkling.

It was the night after Harry’s soul had been restored. Dumbledore was sitting in the drawing room at Grimmauld Place, on an old threadbare sofa that hadn’t yet been replaced.

Harry was sitting on an identical couch, Hermione laying down on it with her head in his lap, fast asleep. Harry was stroking her hair, lost in thought, when he suddenly looked up, and asked Dumbledore something that had occurred to him after Hermione told him about the Scrying Glass.

“If you had known what life was going to be like for me, at the Dursleys, I mean, would you still have sent me there, knowing I could die if you didn’t?”

Dumbledore sighed heavily. “You sure do pick difficult questions to ask, don’t you?

To be quite honest, Harry, I asked myself the same question while you were, ah, indisposed, and I think I have an answer, if you’re sure you want to know.”

Harry said nothing, but waited patiently.

Dumbledore sighed again and said, “In the sense that you need to live because you are the only one who can face Voldemort with a chance of winning, yes. In the sense that I would spare you pain wherever possible, no.”

“I suppose that just goes to show how selfish I am,” he continued sadly. “that I would cause you harm in sacrifice for what is sometimes mistakenly called, ‘the greater good.’ If there was any other way for you to be kept safe, I would never have put you there. More than that, I cannot say, for regrets cannot change what has already happened, and I regret many of my decisions regarding you more than I could possibly express with words.”

He watched Harry for his reaction. Harry was silent for a time, then he said, slowly and deliberately, as if each word was a revelation to himself as well as to Dumbledore, “Maybe not with words, Professor, but if there is one thing I have learned from all of this, it is that actions speak louder than words. Last summer, you left me alone, and I doubted if you cared for me as much as I had believed you did. This summer, however, you proved you did when you sent for Hermione, and in doing so, saved my life. I know you care for me, and I don’t blame or hate you for sending me to the Dursleys, as I did a few days ago. Those experiences, however horrible, are part of who I am, and, in spite of them, or perhaps even because of them, I’m a stronger person than I might have been if I had never been sent there.”

“And besides,” he went on, disregarding the tears in Dumbledore’s eyes. “It’s not as if the Dursleys are never going to regret treating me the way they did. There’s just a little over a year until I’m old enough to use magic outside of school, and since the Dursleys already know about the magical world, it’s not as though I’ll be breaking any laws if I decide to give them a little payback will it? As long as I restrain myself from using and Unforgivable Curses of course.” He smiled in a very self-satisfied manner, and Dumbledore looked away to hide his smile.

“Can I come?” Hermione said sleepily from Harry’s lap.

“Come where, love?” Harry asked, smiling down at her.

“The Dursleys, when you go to give them some payback, can I come with you?” Hermione begged. She had obviously not forgotten her experiences with Four and Apathy.

Harry raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, smiling at her. He hadn’t forgotten the jinx she had use on Marrietta Edgecombe last year, and secretly thought Dudley would look much better with a few choice words written across his face in purple pimples.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

AN: And I thought I’d never finish. Thanks to all the people my dad told about my story, who urged me to “get this finished, and to heck with schoolwork for a while” (grins evilly)

So, I don’t think this story is too bad, considering it’s the first fanfic I’ve EVER written. I’ve got a few more ideas in the works, including one where Hermione and Moaning Myrtle have a showdown over Harry, with a lot of bathroom flooding and misplaced jinxes. It’s supposed to be a comedy, but don’t be surprised if it never shows up, because when I mentioned it to my dad, he just sort of grunted. Of course, he was watching our “Chamber of Secrets” DVD at the time, so he may not have even been listening.

I’d like to thank Luna Tyler for looking over my first few chapters, my Dad for being a wonderful beta and letting me steal his laptop for the past month so I could do this story (And my homework too, of course) and my friend Bluemoon, who I hope will let me come to her house this summer so I can get Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince on the night it’s released, because she lives much closer to bookstores than I do!

Until I write again,

Renaiya