'I'm still here, Hermione -' The elusive message conveyed in a dream to grieving Hermione Granger from her presumably dead friend and love, Harry Potter, brings hope that he may have survived the fog of war...
From the Unofficial Portkey Archive: https://portkey-archive.org/story/45/
Coming Home
Prologue
Strains of melancholy music drifted listlessly through the air, the weather gloomy as befitted a British morning. It was not the only reason for the wet day, the rain having brutally spattered the place and creating a grey atmosphere. They all wore black. Some were decked out in simple robes; others were extravagantly attired in velvet or satin embroidered with silver or emeralds in commemoration of the one they were here for. It did not matter that he would not have wanted it this way. It did not matter that they had just gone through a war that tore their worlds into shreds of pain and misery. It did not matter that many of their loved ones were now dead and gone.
Eighteen. Dead at eighteen. Many of the women muttered compassionately about the ill-fated child, expressing hopes that he had lived on. How tragic, one whispered, her eyes filled with sad pity as she cast a look at those who were closer to the grave – obviously the friends of the deceased. He had had no family. Those who survived had renounced him many years ago, and his adopted family had come. They looked nothing like him, but loved him like a brother and son of their blood.
“I shouldn’t have let him go alone,” Ron whispered, laying a bouquet of lilies-of-the-valley on the coffin that had not been lowered into the ground, biting his lip, his blue eyes shiny with tears. And overwhelming guilt. “I shouldn’t have gotten angry at him.” Hermione had no words to add to his soliloquy, choosing simply to stare at the coffin which housed her deceased best friend whom she would never see again. And she had never told him how she felt, how her mood would lift up when he smiled, how each twinkle sent breaths running through her and her blood like quicksilver and how she could not help but blush at times when he touched her hand in a purely friendly gesture of comfort. She had never had a chance.
“I should have told him,” Hermione mumbled. For some reason, her tears were stifled, her sobs silenced even when each and every fibre of her being was swiftly being drenched in ice, her eyes on fire as the tears fought to come out even though they were non-existent. The world was cold and each comforting soothing touch was painful. She did not want their kind words. She wanted him to be alive. She had not gotten him flowers. She knew he would prefer something special. Bending down, she laid his beloved Firebolt on the grave. It would lie with him as he was trapped in soil and wood, never able to fly until he rose to heaven. “I never did.”
“Told him what?” Ron was openly crying now, the tears sliding down his cheeks with enviable ease. The twins were offering sorrowful bows and bright fireworks in the shape of his face to commemorate his memory. Percy gave the boy he had barely known a stiff military bow, holding his first child, Harry, in his arms. His namesake. Hermione chuckled mirthlessly. Poor, oblivious Ron. Even at the peak of Susan Bones’ enormous crush on him he had not noticed until Harry, great wonderful Harry tricked him into a date with her. Susan Bones had become Susan Weasley, and was standing behind Ron now, her hand barely reaching his shoulder to offer comfort in distress.
“I loved him,” she said softly, the words barely audible. It was so easy to say it now to his corpse, cold as death in that black coffin of his that would never match his hair in darkness. It did him no justice. She knew for a fact that he had no corpse, but it was fun to compare metaphorically. He had just disappeared, Voldemort’s dead body incinerated without ceremony and cast into the sea, while his wand lay honoured in the Ministry of Magic. He had died for them.
“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Ron replied feebly, his face struck with a stricken and surprised expression as he realized the implications of that statement. Harry had often confided in him, and when the entire Cho debacle had ended, it had seemed painful but was not. He was the same Harry in a few days. He squeezed her hand and Hermione gave him a grateful smile. Hermione’s silent mourning was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder from Susan, who pointed in the direction of an approaching person.
Cho Chang was dressed in an elegant cheongsam, a grey cloak wrapped around her curvaceous body. Her hair was twisted up in a bun and her face bore the same sad expression that most of the funeral-goers had on their features. Small raindrops had begun to fall, and Ron cast an Impervius spell for Hermione, who seemed to have forgotten her wand and smarts ever since that horrible day a battered Snape had informed them of Harry’s disappearance.
There was no trace of Mr. Potter. Only his wand was left.
She had collapsed, fainted dead away as her face had gone ashen and her lips white, shaking. Waking only hours later, she had gone under siege by reporters who wished to interview the next best thing if Harry was gone. Ron was hidden away, Susan disappeared, and she was the next in line. Snape had dispersed all of them with a glare, promising to hex them to hell if they did not stop harassing her. And to think she had not shed a tear since then, despite having turned into a robot who mechanically arranged all the Hogwarts business. Her passion for teaching was dissipated, her yearning for life and love gone into thin air. Even the students at Hogwarts had become worried about their beloved Charms professor. She had lost weight since then. Cho, however, looked as elegantly beautiful as ever. She would never match up to her.
“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Cho greeted quietly. Hermione was slightly taller, but the hunch in her had become more and more distinct as she slumped both physically and emotionally. She tried to speak politely, form a reply, but her lips were frozen. Cho had an umbrella, and in her other hand she gripped something white and thin. A package; an envelope that seemed thicker than it should.
“Why are you here?” Ron asked rudely, straight to the point. Cho looked shocked for a moment, before turning her attention back to Hermione. Apparently they still bore dislike for her for dumping Harry right after a traumatic encounter with Voldemort, which he had barely lived through.
“To deliver something,” she said nonchalantly, holding up the letter. “Harry wanted you to have this, Hermione. He asked me to hand it to you if anything happened.”
“If,” Hermione finally found the strength to speak. She laughed bitterly. “Why didn’t he specify when?”
“He told me he would try his very best to stay alive,” Cho smiled mysteriously, her dark eyes seemingly hiding something from Hermione. “And he told me something else, but it won’t be convenient to reveal it before you’ve read the letter. It’s private, by the way. Read it when you’re alone.” And she was gone in a swish of her cloak, the rain not seeming to affect her. Ron put an arm around Hermione’s shoulder, trying to placate her as best as he could.
It felt cold too.
Everything felt cold.
She was led away by Ron to somewhere warmer where she could dry up. There was no resistance, for she had nothing left to fight for. She had sustained minor injuries in the battle while protecting students from some Death Eaters whom had sneaked into Hogwarts, almost breaking the impregnable barriers which had held. The hours that she had spent with Harry and Dumbledore and everyone else tirelessly enhancing them had worked well, preventing Death Eaters from entering. And the yearning for him had gotten stronger the closer he was to her, laughing and smiling about the next Quidditch match to be held, whether Slytherin or Gryffindor would win, trivial issues and topics that had not concerned nor interested her. His voice had been the focal point.
She would never hear it again. No squeaking changes in puberty, no screams of pain, no cries of joy, no laughter, no tears, no sobs, no whimpers, no words, no ‘I love you’ that she had hoped for with every touch of his hand and every smile and every glance. The letter felt solid in her hand. It was a much larger package than just a letter, she supposed. It contained a book, most likely. Trust Harry to appeal to her bookish instinct even when facing death. She held it close to her chest, feeling its warmth against the cold that surrounded her as she shut her eyes tight, remembering each and every feature of his face. Ron stopped abruptly and she was roused from her silent reverie, her brown eyes focusing on a still bandage-swathed Snape, whose grim features remained safely unhappy and sour, as horrible and alive as ever. He would not die, his reed-thin voice remaining there to continue lecturing students. Not like him.
“My condolences, Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley,” he said quietly, the usual sarcasm and poison in his tone destroyed. The war had harmed many, and some said death was the best thing that had happened. Snape’s head now bore a new scar that he covered with his greasy hair. He still wore black, and remained sombre as ever. It was good to know some things never changed, Hermione thought.
“Oh, offer your condolences when you so obviously hated him! Quit faking, Snape,” Ron snarled, spitting the words out angrily as he glared at Snape. He had not noticed the change in tone. His grip around Hermione’s shoulders, the one that had been steadying her and helping her not fall; the friendly grasp of an old friend, tightened as though to protect her. Susan flanked her on the other side. “Get lost if you have nothing to say, or maybe you could go wash your hair in the rain.”
“Despite what you may think, I did not hate Mr. Potter. My actions were necessary to secure my loyalty to my Lord, to continue my spying,” Snape explained patiently, and Hermione realized that if he had not been hiding behind the mask of a Death Eater, he would have made a good teacher, however disagreeable and perfectionist he was. “Concerning your question about my hair, I spilled a potion on it when I was young. It never washed out.” Hermione could not help but laugh out loud, her giggles taking her over as she almost choked, doubling over as the laughter grew stronger. Snape stared at her strangely before nodding gravely and leaving. Ron gripped her tightly, steadying her.
“Don’t you think it’s funny?” Hermione gasped between laughs, the tears leaking out. She had not cried for Harry, but she cried for something as trivial as Snape having spilled a potion in his hair. Susan’s lips were perched in a grim line, and her eyes were beginning to line with worry as she glanced at Ron, who shook his head.
“Hermione, please, stop laughing,” he pleaded piteously, but his pleads fell on deaf ears, the laughter only getting stronger as Hermione collapsed on hands and knees, the hilarity inducing a stitch in her waist as she clutched desperately at the water in the gutter.
“Don’t you think it’s funny?” she managed before breaking into painful sobs, each and every whimper stabbing her friends in their hearts. “Why don’t you laugh, Ron?” Ron bent down and enveloped her in a silent hug; Susan joining him seconds later as the sobs grew stronger.
“He should have been here to laugh with us, Ron, it’s just not fair!” she choked out, her eyes filling with furious injustice at heaven and fate and everything out there. “He should have lived.”
“Hush, hush,” Susan soothed, smoothing Hermione’s hair as Ron rocked her in his arms. She was beating at his chest determinedly as though it would make Harry come alive again; her cries of pain screaming out terribly from her throat, her robes rumpled and dirty beyond belief. “It’s okay, it’ll be okay…”
“He’s gone,” Hermione repeated, the litany ringing into her brain and branding itself on her cells in each and every corner of her mind, reminding her that the only man she had ever loved was dead without even a little knowledge that she loved him. A small part of her mind laughed at her silly behaviour, so different from bookish, follow-the-rule-to-the-letter Hermione Granger who scored straight As in everything. That Hermione would not have fallen in the streets, crying like a lunatic. That Hermione was a strong person.
She felt so weak that she did not even seem to feel the strength that kept her sobs in her heart, only the sinking, choking pain that was swiftly encroaching and the cold ground and rain.
And there was only this Hermione left, a mindless shell of movement and food and drink that could be compared to a person kissed by a Dementor, left without a soul and trapped in existence without meaning. She found herself surprised at the intensity of the love she felt for him. Never had she thought she could feel anything this strong. But she did. Never had she thought this would ever happen. She had been the one who had endlessly told Harry that there would be a life after the battles and war, that he could live on instead of becoming yet another martyr.
It hadn’t come true.
Perhaps Trelawney had been right.
*
She had expected a long letter explaining why he had to leave and fight Voldemort, or ranting on about Ron being insensitive, or even asking her for advice on girls or spells. It was a very simple letter, consisting of exactly four words. One was her name, and she ruled that out. She had almost screamed with joy when she had read the next three, wonderful words. Was it the sixteenth time she had recited them? She had already put them into her mind, those three beautiful words inscribed by his own hand. He had always been blunt.
Hermione, I love you.
She clutched the letter tightly to her chest, feeling the tears well up once again. This time, they were truly tears of joy and not sorrow. He loved, no, had loved her. He had loved goody-two-shoes Hermione, his best friend who had thought him as far as the top of the sky she strove to reach. The sheer elation that had filled her entire being was something she had never felt before. And she would never hear him whisper them to her in moments of passion, never hear him laugh and say that she was beautiful at her lowest – those little moments that had been lost because she had been too late to tell him. To tell him before he was gone. The regret swelled in her chest, and she turned her attention to the small book enclosed in the envelope. It was a nondescript notebook, a spiral one with a gray hard cover. She opened it hesitantly, knowing it was most likely the last treasure she would ever have that was closest to him.
His handwriting covering the entire first page only led more tears out of her eyes as she smiled, tracing the letters with a delicate finger. July 31st, 1995. It was the day Sirius had given him the notebook after hearing about the Triwizard Tournament and its tragic events. His bold writing was still there in the mess of writing that was uniquely Harry.
Write down your nightmares and dreams.
The lovable mutt,
Padfoot
Indeed, Harry had taken to the habit well. The first entry was labelled Dream in red ink, describing the euphoria of having something to write on other than essays he had to complete for his professors. She sniffed, thinking of his smile as he told her about the diary Sirius had sent him. He had always appeared strong, not wanting his friends to worry even after Ron had walked in on him having a nightmare, his scar burning red. She sighed, flipping to the next page. Nightmare. It detailed the repetition of the graveyard’s events in his dreams, wondering why he had asked Cedric to take the cup with him. She felt closer to him than she had in the past two traumatic weeks.
July 15th, 1996
Professor Dumbledore moved Aunt Petunia, Dudley and me to a house near Hermione. He said that it’ll be of help to have a witch nearby. Frankly, I’m not sure how an underage witch can do magic without getting caught.
Hermione chuckled, touching gently the various scrawls of Hermione on the page, and then gaping at the next few passages. They all detailed how beautiful she was, and how lovely her smile was, and so on. Harry had spent that day’s diary page expounding her virtues. She bit her lip, feeling the tears come as she read the names he had scribbled at the end. He had tagged his surname to her first name. She wanted to scream into the night that she loved him, yell to the stars and the heavens to inform him of that particular fact, but he could no longer hear unless she buried herself in that empty coffin of his and breathed in his smell until there was no more air. She cried as she hugged her pillow to her chest together with the diary, wishing beyond all hopes that he was alive.
*
Darkness. Light. They alternated as she stepped into the dream-world, wondering where she was. Her dreams usually put her in lovely meadows and clouds, not this strange virtual reality. Strong gusts of wind mussed up her hair.
She backed away into a wall, knocking her head painfully against it.
Hermione –
Harry’s voice, carried by the wind as though from far away. She tried to run towards it, trying to catch the wind that contained his voice. He was dead, she knew, and yet he did not feel dead.
Hermione –
I’m here! She tried to yell, but her lips were clamped together by something that tasted wet and salty. She was dressed in forbidding black, covered and almost smothered all over by the thick cloth, the hood that covered her head slowly tightening until she could not breathe.
Hermione –
She turned, and saw Harry, right behind her.
Harry! She tried to scream, but her mouth remained shut. She ran towards him, meaning to embrace and then kiss him, but she knocked into the same barrier that she felt previously.
I’m here, Hermione –
Where? She wanted to ask, the desperation growing as he smiled cryptically behind the glass wall that separated them.
I’m still here, Hermione –
Come back, Harry, please! She yelled soundlessly, screaming the thoughts inside her head. I need you.
I know –
The sound was drifting away now, and he seemed to be taken further and further away even though his face was still pressed against the wall, his features almost distorted by the pressure the glass had on him.
Wait for me –
Harry, where are you! She shouted hoarsely, her lips slippery with a wet liquid that felt strange against her mouth. She banged on the glass, almost crying as she wished for him to hear her.
I’m still here, Hermione –
Yes, he was still here, she thought miserably. But he was behind a glass wall that separated them, something that was impenetrable. She tried to break the glass but could not.
Are you a witch or not?
She pulled out her wand and tried the most powerful charms she knew, almost crying in frustration as the glass remained unharmed. Harry only smiled sadly, pressing a kiss against the glass.
I’m still here, Hermione –
It seemed to convey some message to her, but she could not decipher it. Right now, she only wanted him near her, as close as possible, telling her that the world was warm, that the world was alive and she was alive and he was alive too.
Yes, he was near. So near, and yet so far away. She could only press a lingering kiss against the glass as he faded away.
*
Dust stained his cheeks, and darkness marred his vision, the black inky nothingness flooding his existence. The complete absence of light except for the stars and the moon’s weak reflected light that illuminated his world that seemed to consist of only the wet grassy ground he lay on, his torn and blood-stained robes taken from him. He could feel the smooth fabric of the shirt Hermione had forked out much money to buy as a birthday present for him and the old jeans that Arabella Figg had altered from him. He had had them ever since Dudley threw away his first pair of children’s jeans at six. He had been enormous, and Harry only a small child with an emaciated physique. He recalled the birthday parties he had been forced to endure, the painful smack of Aunt Marge’s stick on his knees when they played games at those horrific parties where he had only been a punching bag for them.
Freak! You don’t deserve our hospitality
The words flashed in his mind as he recalled the words Aunt Petunia had screamed at him at the top of her lungs in summer after sixth year, a day before the attack on Privet Drive. Dumbledore had arrived in time to save her, but Uncle Vernon had died of a heart attack. Dudley had been at Piers’ home, thankfully. Or maybe not, he smiled. He had gotten used to those simple variations of words they used to scream at him. They had moved Petunia and Dudley to a house near Hermione, to act as extra protection. The Weasleys’ had not had enough space. He had seen her for the first time that summer, and immediately knew something had changed. Abruptly the world became more colourful, her eyes shining an amazing shade of cinnamon brown that he had never seen before. Her hair had been tamed slightly, but they still hung down in curls that matched her formerly uncontrollable locks. His mouth had dropped open.
Dudley’s remark about her being an ugly hag of a witch had induced him to give him a black eye that day, and after many letters complaining about his newly-acquired habit of staring at Hermione for hours to Sirius, he had diagnosed his problem. He had fallen in love with his best friend, unconsciously of course, a long time ago. It had just taken one more look at her to awaken them. At times when he embarrassed himself by saying silly stuff in front of her he would wonder if she knew, if she would laugh at his stupid delusions. He had never expected someone as perfect as her would love him. It would be nice, though. It would be the world. He had kept quiet about it, preferring no one know about his love for her. Cho had broken up with him that year, but it had not felt painful at all. Instead, it was a relief, for their relationship had become a forced one, driven by the rumours that ran around in the school. It had been pretty amicable, though Ron did not seem to think so.
“Awake, Scarhead?” a familiarly mocking voice came from his right, jerking him out of his silent reverie. Silver locks and a smirk, coupled with cold grey eyes. Draco Malfoy. “I see those sepapives…”
“Sedatives,” Harry corrected, wondering why proudly pure-blood Malfoy would mention Muggle drugs. In fact, he had not known that Malfoy knew what sedatives were used for. It was a shock to him.
“Sedatives, sepapives, whatever,” Malfoy said off-handedly. “Anyway, they were pretty useful…put you out for pretty long. It’s been weeks and we’ve had to feed you water by forcing you mouth open.”
“We?” Harry asked, dumbfounded. Malfoy had an accomplice? They must have kidnapped him from the scene when he had defeated Voldemort, but why? Malfoy was a Death Eater – perhaps he was out to kill him. But Death Eaters generally had no knowledge of Muggle things, and it was implausible at best. He did recall Snape mentioning another spy in the circle.
“Yes, idiot, we,” a feminine voice snapped from behind him. Fiery red locks hung down over him as the woman knelt down beside him, offering him a cup of water as he sat up. He knew her.
“Ginny?” he gasped, his mouth as far open as it would go as he stared alternately between Ginny and Malfoy, wondering why they were here together. Could Ginny be a Death Eater? But her forearm was bare; she had pledged loyalty to the Order of the Phoenix a long time ago. It was impossible.
“Who else do I look like?” Ginny challenged, a smile on her face. “You had better drink. We couldn’t force your mouth open just now, that’s why Draco decided he would kick you in the butt to try waking you.”
“Didn’t work, though,” Draco sighed mock-dramatically. “He woke up on his own.”
“You…you abducted me?” Harry asked in disbelief, gaping at them. They had no reason to kidnap him at all. “How long has it been since I fought Voldemort?”
“Two weeks,” Ginny replied promptly. “They were holding your funeral yesterday, in fact.” Harry’s eyes darted around in frantic worry. If they believed he was dead, then Cho would have passed the package to Hermione. He slumped, burying his head in his knees, wondering what had made him write the letter in the first place. Ron had argued with him that night, and he had suddenly acquired steely resolve to rid the world of Voldemort once and for all. Then he had sat down and picked up his quill.
“Oh bloody hell,” he mumbled, rocking himself. How would Hermione react to it? It was bound to be drastic. And the small book he had enclosed…“Oh no.” His last words were echoed by Malfoy, who seemed to have heard something bad approaching. His grey eyes had sprung up in alert, and he was gathering things frantically from the noise that was generated.
“We’ve got to go, Harry…hurry!” Ginny whispered as she put out the lamp that had been providing some dim light at the back of the cave that they were hiding in. Harry stood up, stretching his tired muscles. He had not gotten up in weeks, and his stomach was ravenous.
“They’re coming, Potter! Hold on to us!” Draco muttered warningly as he grasped one of Harry’s hands, Ginny catching the other. In a swift second, they had Apparated.
To be continued…
Disclaimer: This should have been at the top, but it didn’t look nice at all. Harry Potter and everyone else connected to him belongs to the great JKR whom I hope will come out with Book 5 soon. And anyway, who told the blistering idiot who wants to sue me fanfic writers actually earn some money?
Coming Home
Chapter One: Belying Death
The fog obscured everything, but he still strove to see through the gloomy air. The cold prompted him to wrap his cloak more tightly around him. The air was filled with pale grey and his eyes tired and vision blurred, the weight of the spectacles he wore missing from the bridge of his nose. He was alone, the sheer weight of the feeling burning away the strength in his limbs as he stumbled half-blind through the unfamiliar landscape.
Then he saw the familiar bushy brown hair that stood out like a beacon to him in both mind and heart, and the pounding of his heart moved the muscles of his face into a bright smile. It was enough to see her, touch her and feel her by his side each day sometimes, as long as she was there. He had written a letter to tell her – just in case he died. He hoped that she would not have turned away from him from disgust, or laughed at his stupidity. No, she was not like that. She did not possess great beauty which others would recognize like Fleur Delacour’s, but she shone in his sight, especially when she smiled. She was perfect, just perfect. He still wondered about her reaction, though he supposed he had already thought it out clearly before he had sent himself to presumed death. She would be sitting on her bed, reading the diary that he had filled full with Voldemort’s evil deeds, the Dursleys and mostly of her. Her eyes and how they sparkled when she grinned or was reading some thick book again, or her brown hair that lit up with golden highlights when the sun caught it in its gaze – or just her and everything that made her who she was. He was rambling again, even as he strolled blindly through the fog.
She was there, standing with her back to him and he ached slightly with the regret that he could not see her face. He wanted to sprint recklessly towards her, hoping to somehow know what she felt; to clear the fear in his heart that she did not love him. Then the gusts of great wind carried him away on its wings of flight and far from the woman he loved more than life itself.
*
Another cave lit up with orange firelight stirred Harry’s consciousness as he tried fervently to awaken from the dream that he wanted to continue. He wanted to see Hermione, even if it was for a split second. He wanted to know she was safe and lived happily, even if he was gone. The nerve-wracking Apparation had brought them to yet another hideout, which Malfoy had wryly described as home sweet home. Even as Harry stared at the little swats Ginny gave Malfoy from time to time, and the mocking comments he made about her, he knew they loved each other. It was not visible in the small movements they had, but in the way they looked at one another. He knew – he had seen many others stare at their lovers in that way. He was positive he looked at Hermione with that sort of love, too. Perhaps she would never reciprocate it, but he could hope.
He had no doubt others would laugh when they realized how ordinary the life of Harry Potter was once Voldemort was vanquished. One enveloped in embarrassing crushes like any other teenager would have, and the eventual discovery of true love. Some would question his capacity to understand the kind of bone-deep love that drove you to die for one another, the type you needed to live, but he knew it all too well. He lived now, only because of love. Because his mother had loved him; had died for him. He knew it better than anyone, probably. He had known the painful feeling when Hermione merely smiled at him in her usual friendly way, although that smile sent jitters through him. She was not beautiful to others, but she was a shining light for him. It was easy to realize that he had fallen in love with his best friend. His own story seemed to be eerily familiar to Lily and James’s love story back then, for they, too, had begun as friends.
At times he wondered if his mother had given her life not just for love. It was a selfish thought, but it never failed to rise in his mind when he was at his worst. Perhaps Lily Potter had wanted to buy the wizarding world peace. He vaguely wondered if his mother knew of his life the past seven years, trapped in life-threatening situations and precipices where he had barely escaped hell. Or life as Voldemort’s slave. Sacrificing oneself for the world. Perhaps his mother was the true heroine, not him.
“Potter, dinner’s cooked,” Malfoy’s haughty voice trailed over and he struggled to get up. They had not spoken for long, and his throat was parched after not speaking – his voice croaking and hoarse. The enticing whiffs of stew drifted through the air, and he walked carefully, not wanting to fall. Perhaps it was a trap, after all. Perhaps Ginny was under the Imperius Curse, and it was all a trap; a sort of revenge. He sat down around the fire, thankfully accepting the bowl of stew and thanking them softly. They ate quietly, and Harry was surprised to see Malfoy admonish Ginny for eating too little food, then ladling more stew into her bowl. He tried inserting Hermione’s and his faces into the scene, but realized it was more suited for the two.
“What happened?” he asked quietly, putting down the bowl that had been scraped clean of stew. “Why am I here?” The couple in front of him exchanged glances, probably debating silently what they could tell him. It was a long while before Ginny’s sigh broke the silence.
“Draco is a spy,” she said softly. Harry could almost feel the worry that exuded from her. So Malfoy was one of the espionage agents, just as Snape had been. He was one of the few who would not be suspected, but the war was over. There was no need for them to hide anymore.
“Why do you need to hide? The war is over. Once they know you were a spy…” Harry reasoned, looking earnestly at the two of them. It was then that he noticed their faces were haggard with worry and exhaustion. It had definitely been a chore to keep hiding and running. Somehow, they were in some sort of trouble and had to become fugitives. At least, that was what he thought.
“The Dark Lord lives, Potter,” Malfoy whispered, the sound a fraction of his normal arrogant tone that he now knew to be a shield that hid his true feelings and outlook on the world. The words he uttered shocked him to the core, and he stood ramrod straight, staring with surprised eyes at them. No, they were lying. He had seen him die; had yelled and screamed the Killing Curse with all the power he could muster, holding two wands in his hands while his scar burned his head open. When that failed, he had stuck a dagger into his chest, and watched the life drain with the black blood out of Voldemort’s body. He was dead. He was.
“It is true, no matter what you think, Potter. He lives, and he knows of my treachery. Soon he will come for Snape, and Granger, and everyone else,” Malfoy continued, a grave expression dominating his features as he curled his fingers in front of the fire, the dancing light from the flames casting shadows on his face. “I am the first, because I provided the information that led you to his location.”
“There’s something else, isn’t it?” Harry said suspiciously as he watched the grief-stricken expression on their faces. They were hiding something even more serious. Malfoy bit his lip, while Ginny stared piteously at Harry, almost begging him to stop asking all the questions that made them feel uncomfortable.
“He gave me a condition. He allows a price to be paid in return. Snape paid with his Potions; and I shall pay with you as my ransom,” Malfoy replied, not looking at Harry. “It is a game to him.”
“A game in which he dispatches what followers he has left to sabotage us from time to time, and we must get you to him by dawn in two days, without any magic helping us to travel more than five kilometres,” Ginny carried on, wringing her hands. “We had no choice.”
“So I’m supposed to go with you to Voldemort, and then offer myself up to him and try to kill him?” Harry said incredulously, gaping at the two serious people in front of him. “I’m not some deity, Malfoy. It is impossible.”
“You have to try, Harry. Please,” Ginny pleaded almost desperately. Only then could he see swirling under the cool exterior the fear that lurked beneath. She feared for Malfoy’s death, just as he had feared every single day and night of battle when Hermione had refused to stay in the hospital wing and help, instead coming out to do battle with them. He knew how afraid she probably was right now, considering he had been through it. He wanted Hermione to be safe, and Voldemort would go after her first.
“I’ll go,” he sighed, plopping down on the log as both Malfoy and Ginny breathed sighs of relief that echoed his, only that they were in different moods. He had held on to the hope that being alive blessed him with, but now he could lose his chance to see Hermione again, even if he had to deal with the awkwardness that would likely arise from his letter. There was not much time left for Malfoy; they had to set off tomorrow.
Soon he would face off with his childhood enemy once again. Harry stared at the firelight with expressionless eyes, trying not to think of anything. Keep your head empty of thoughts, he recited as if by rote. Malfoy and Ginny went off to sleep soon, but he remained awake, images of soft brown hair and smiling brown eyes in his head, wondering if he would ever get to touch or see the authentic one again. It was in this position Draco and Ginny found him the next morning, head slumped over his knees, his arms folded as though hiding from something.
He awoke screaming Hermione’s name.
*
The skies were black with storm clouds, the ominous foreshadowing bringing him the fear he had not tasted in weeks. The rain pelted down heavily, the raindrops quenching the tears he dared not shed, for fear that his own weakness would bring down all of them. They had battled since he was fifteen – three years of bitter war had plunged the wizarding world into chaos as dark and light won and lost constantly, while wizards stole from each other and Knockturn Alley was exploded into ashes together with its brother, Diagon. Black and grey were the dominant colours in the landscape devoid of hope except for the few jokes passed around by grim Fred and George Weasley at times. They brought some joy and cheer in dark times.
The surroundings were familiar. He gulped in a breath of dank air, feeling it reek of darkness and the evil that he knew so well. The air was permeated with the foul stench of Voldemort, once Tom Riddle. It was a perfect day for death and a final showdown between good and evil – or at least, the two extremes who embodied the two qualities. The last time he had dueled with Voldemort, he had barely survived, lying unconscious in the Hospital Wing for weeks. Today he would not fail, for he was prepared to die if he had to.
When the iridescent emerald skull exploded in bright fire, dying the dark sky green, he knew it was time. It was a signal for the Death Eaters to disperse. He would face him alone, as they had so many years ago in Godric’s Hollow when he had been but a sprawling infant and him a powerful Dark Lord. Perhaps today the situation would be reversed, he thought. Minutes later, two black-robed Death Eaters appeared out of nowhere and took his arms silently, the glee radiating off them. The masks obscured their true identities from him, but from their skinny arms he knew they were newly initiated.
Voldemort’s stronghold was as he had expected, dark and reeking of the stench of the evil, painted black, perhaps by Dark Magic and the evil ongoing inside it. The Riddle house and the village around it had been decimated to black soil which looked deceptively fertile but was in fact sweetened and nourished by burning and ashes. Here the destruction of the Death Eaters was most clearly shown to the world. It was a pity no one had survived this place except for perhaps, Severus Snape and the other spy who had chosen to remain anonymous for safety. Those on the side of good, that is.
(There is no good or evil. There is only power.)
(only power.)
He shuddered in the cold, the chill of the words slithering down his spine. Even six years after he had first heard the words, they still haunted him.
(only power.)
Perhaps it was right after all, for this last battle between him and Voldemort would be decided by power. Once he had been a pathetically weak student wizard, but today he was one of the few students given permission to go through the Auror programme early. He would not fall that easily today. The resolution burned deep in his veins, the hot blood giving him sweat. The Death Eaters mistook it for cold perspiration of fear and laughed derisively as they marched him into the Riddle house, transformed into a black ice palace of Voldemort’s will.
The cold black throne room that greeted him still bore vestiges of what it had once been – a cozy sitting room. Some of the paint had flaked from the ceiling and the last bits of carpet still existed at the sides of the floor, but he could picture how it had been. He had had too much practice at it. He wondered how Voldemort’s parents had been like. Genetics had nothing to do with what someone was; Dumbledore had taught him that lesson in second year, when he had asked the Sorting Hat about his identity.
Until yesterday, he could not believe the reason why he looked so similar to Voldemort. It was much too shocking. But he had accepted the fact. It reminded him vaguely of Star Wars, in which Luke Skywalker had to face his father, Darth Vader. Voldemort was in no way his grandfather, but it was close enough. Melissa Riddle, nee Potter, had been his great grand aunt.
Voldemort was his grand-uncle.
Apparently Gerard Potter, his great grand uncle had been a Squib who somehow retrieved his powers and had a son, James, thus continuing the bloodline. He was a descendant of Slytherin, only that he had not been the Heir because Gerard Potter had married a Light Witch loosely linked to Hufflepuff.
And then, the man appeared. Perhaps he should have called him just wizard, because Voldemort was what they called – no longer man. He had died and lived again – immortal was a better word, though he was only temporarily immortal.
“Welcome, Harry Potter,” he smiled. “Or rather, my dear grand nephew.”
Suddenly, the speed of the dream increased and the dream blurred into images, zooming past his mind at perhaps the speed of light, making it impossible for him to catch anything. He slumped, clutching his head in his hands. It was too fast, and he remembered only some of what happened.
Only what had transpired so far.
*
Only power.
Hermione jerked from her slumber, panting slightly as she relived the events of the dream. The Dark Mark floating listlessly in the sky; the terrifying visage of Voldemort on his throne, laughing triumphantly as Muggles were murdered and Muggle-borns exterminated. She had had many dreams of that sort when Voldemort had first risen, but never any as vivid as this one had been. Never any as filled with hopelessness as this one had been. The thoughts that had been pushed forcibly into her mind during the dream had reminded her immensely of Harry. It was just the way that he would muse or deliberate something, the way that she had gotten used to. Sometimes he was much too thick-headed about something, but never as seriously as Ron.
She almost wished she had the chance to bash some sense into him now, perhaps with a brick or just a good old-fashioned hex. He’s gone, she reminded herself sternly.
It did not help.
She lay back against the numerous cushions that decorated her bed and tried to sink back into sleep. The dream seemed to have deprived her of all rest and she desperately wanted something to keep her unconscious from the world and everyone else. She knew better than to get herself addicted to sleeping pills or potions that aided slumber, though. Professor Snape had often cautioned students in class never to rely on those, for addiction could kill.
Sensible, practical Hermione, she thought cynically. Always right, and almost always perfect. She jumped and almost fell off the bed as the insistent clanging of the doorbell finally cut through to her ears. She pulled herself up and staggered to the door – lying for so long in bed had given her pins and needles in her right foot. It was then that she noticed she was still holding Harry’s diary. She bit her lip, trying to get up the strength to put it down. It was too much of a treasure to her.
It was strangely befitting for the infamous bookworm – to be attached to the book of a deceased love. The doorbell clanged loudly and she shuffled her way out of her room and opened the door to her small apartment. A mop of bright carrot-red hair greeted her, along with slightly weary blue eyes. Somehow Ron managed to look young even if he had been through more troubles than his brothers combined, being the best friend of Harry Potter and all.
“You look terrible, Herm,” Ron commented, scrutinizing Hermione, who suddenly felt very conscious of her bed-hair and faded pajamas, combined with the dark circles she knew the nightmares had caused. Hermione simply smiled wearily and gestured for him to come in. The apartment was as neat and orderly as ever, but its owner was far from it. “What happened?”
“I couldn’t get to sleep,” Hermione replied, plopping down in one of the cozy chairs in the sitting room after pouring Ron some tea into one of the ceramic mugs she favoured. Ron, thankfully, noticed the reason for her unhappiness and decided to change the uncomfortable subject.
“At least we’re at peace now,” he said quietly, rubbing the rim of the mug as though he thought it would produce a sound like the glasses used to drink champagne. Hermione smiled weakly, trying to console herself with the fact that peace had finally been achieved. She had left the celebrations all over Europe, preferring to curl up with a book (specifically Harry’s diary, in this case) at home, as she had always done. Ron and Susan, being the wild party-animals they were, probably danced the night away. She felt a strange sense of foreignness even as she watched Ron put down the mug he had been playing with. It seemed as though their friendship was a forced one.
It had always felt natural when Harry was around, she and Ron bickering, and Harry laughing and breaking up the argument – at times he would stay silent and simply wait out the storm. There was an awkward silence between them, and Hermione bit her lip. It was becoming a bad habit, she thought. Finally, Ron grinned and raised his hands helplessly.
“Want to argue? It seems like the only way we can communicate properly,” he joked, and Hermione could not help but chuckle. He did speak the truth.
“I think I’m getting a sore throat, so it’s better that we talk about something else,” Hermione replied, beaming slightly as though they were in a conspiracy. “Where’s Susan?”
“Oh, sleeping off her hangover,” Ron shrugged, raising an eyebrow as though surprised that Hermione would even ask. “She was in a pretty good mood – drank too much of the double-distilled Butterbeer that Fred and George were passing around.” They spent the rest of the afternoon sipping tea and joking about Hogwarts days, but Hermione could not get the heavy feeling that the dreams had imposed on her off her chest.
Only power.
There was something more to it, she knew. And if it threatened the wizarding world, she had to find out what it was. She would not allow anyone else to lose their loved ones.
*
“Let’s give it up,” Draco said abruptly, the orange firelight from the flames dancing and forming shadows on his face, his pale hair dyed orange by the light. He was sitting casually on a log, his head on his arms as he tried to get the energy from an unknown source to prepare for the next day of running and hiding. Ginny stared from beside him, her mouth slightly open.
“What do you mean?” she asked softly, a warm comforting hand on his arm as he raised his head to meet her inquiring eyes. He sighed, turning away from her and focusing his attention on Harry, who was dozing nearby, his head wrapped in his arms. Every now and then he would jerk or tremble, at times outright screaming.
“We should go into hiding…give up the deal and all,” Draco continued, biting his lip as he prepared for the blast of cold fury that Ginny was bound to launch into. It was the second time he had broached the topic, and the first time he had, the day had ended with him walking around with wobbly legs and a swollen face. There was no such reaction this time.
“I thought we got over this a long time ago,” Ginny whispered, almost in an exasperated tone as she slipped her hand into his, feeling his cool skin warm to hers as it always did. He looked with some guilt at her.
“We’re being very selfish, Ginny. Look at Potter – he’s in no state to face You-Know-Who again – we were wrong to capture him for our own means,” Draco said, a worried expression on his face as Harry broke out into another yell, his arms seemingly tightening around himself. Ginny bowed her head, deliberating. “We could just…”
“If we could run or escape, don’t you think I would have agreed?” Ginny stared accusingly at Draco. Her hand stiffened slightly around his. “I don’t care what happens or wherever we have to run to, but I want you alive. I want you alive, get it?” He did not reply, merely gathering her into his arms. Ever since the war had begun, they had only had a few meetings now and then whenever he could sneak out of his Death Eater duties. They both knew the wrath of the Dark Lord, and what havoc he would wreck for a traitor. Snape had gone through many bouts of the Cruciatus Curse before the Dark Lord had somewhat given him back his trust. This time, there would be no such mercy.
“Harry’s like a brother to me,” Ginny breathed gently against Draco’s chest. He rubbed her back slightly, his arm encircling her waist. “I don’t want him hurt, too. You used to hate him – yet you can pity him.” She sat up, gripping him by his shoulders as her face took on that of an interrogator. “Okay, what’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?” Draco asked, truly puzzled.
“What’s wrong with you? You’re never this sentimental or altruistic; especially not when it comes to Harry,” Ginny replied. She stood up, perching her hands on her hips in a fashion very much like her mother’s attitude. She cocked her head to the side. Draco mumbled something that was too soft and jumbled to hear, and she kneeled down in front of him to decipher it.
“Come again?” she asked.
“Because I know how unrequited love feels like,” he whispered. Ginny drew back slightly from him, breathing sharply as she bent her head. “He’s in no state to fight anyone right now, with that kind of fear in his heart.”
“I’ve seen the way he looks at Hermione,” Ginny exhaled, settling back into her former position. The fire was dying down now, and she gathered some sticks from the side to stoke it up again. It would have to last all night, and it was best if they did not use magic, for the Dark Lord’s troops could track them easily if they did so.
“The mud - ” Draco ceased saying the word just as Ginny directed a glower at him. He held up his hands in surrender, grinning widely. “I know – no insults to Muggles. Only force of habit, really. No offence meant.”
“Good,” Ginny beamed, leaning back into his embrace. They stayed like that, reveling in each other’s warmth until they dozed off against the wall of the cave, the fire burning down into embers and ash. They awoke only when they heard a scream from the sleeping teenager in the other corner.
Hermione!
*
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all characters belong to the ever amazing J.K. Rowling, who has finally finished the Order Of The Phoenix!
Author’s Note: Unfortunately, I’m still trapped in homework and writer’s block. I will attempt to get LHRI up soon!