Chapter 8 "Firelight"
Great Schism or no, Voldemort's forces were on the rise. His Deatheaters were gaining grounds in Serbia, so whom I sat with at lunch proved pretty trivial.
I know I know. Harry was more than some schoolyard chum. He was my other half. The best part of me. The part that I wanted to keep alive and thrive after I was gone, so yeah, I busied myself with my training and helped Graves and worked with the DA, all so he could survive the onslaught that was coming. My search for a way to block the Avada Kadavra was going not-so-swimmingly, but, then, I was failing where so many wizards had before…
So excuse me if I refuse to feel guilty for not being there to help him with his homework or go to his Quidditch matches or hold his hand after a rough day.
Stop looking at me like that.
Stop. It.
All right…fine. So I missed him. Terribly. It tore at my heart until the thought of death seemed a comfort. But I didn't feel guilty darn it. I was beyond feeling guilty. I was beyond feeling anything. I'd taken a lesson from a page of Potter and had decided to lock myself in my own tower with a hippogriff. There. Happy now? Idiot…
No, not you…me.
Anyhow, the nightmares had begun during the first week of classes. My frantic search for spells, the feverish worry and panic over my injury at the start of June was a picnic compared the dreams that assaulted my senses in September and October. Death, devouring, dark towers with pitch-black basements. Families forced to watch each other assaulted and killed. I woke up screaming more times than I can count. Good thing I'd left Crookshanks at home, else he would've smothered me in my sleep to get a good night's rest. Gods was that what Harry went through last year? I remember bothering him about reading assignments, all the while he was dreaming about genocide. I wanted to smack myself. But in all fairness, it's not like I enjoyed nagging him. Well, not much.
So one night I found myself in the common room. Normally I just paced around my room, willing the images and voices and screams to go away, go anywhere, just gods, leave me in peace. The dreams were unusually violent that night though. Something about two Deatheaters locking a man's daughter inside a shack and burning it to the ground while he helplessly looked on.
Rough night? Yeah…"rough." That's a word for it…
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Hermione took a seat in the common room, recalling Snape's half-hearted Occlumency lessons. They helped with the worst of the nightmares in focusing her thoughts and giving her some semblance of control. However, while Harry was encouraged to channel soothing memories, Hermione found that recalling the worst possible images worked best. Images that she was used to, and therefore, could control. A car crash she'd seen from the playground at her kindergarten; her mother falling overboard from the family's sailboat; pretty much the whole of fifth year…
She curled up on the couch and uttered an Infernos incantation, a bit of wandless magic she'd picked up over the summer. NEWT level, but simple enough with a little practice. As the flames roared to life she was reminded of the time Sirious spoke to her and Harry last year.
Oh, right, and the look on Harry's face whenever Sirious was mentioned. That was another Occulmalcy trick she'd picked up. Worked better than the car crash.
She knew Harry blamed himself for Sirious's death. That he didn't understand how the war and sacrifice and bloodshed wasn't just about the Boy Who Lived. It just occurred in his proximity.
Hermione knew Harry'd get over Sirious's death. Harry'd have Dumbledore and Lupin and the Weaslys and Moody, well, not so much Moody, but he'd have The Order. That perennial League of Overqualified Yet Strangely Rag-Tag Gentlemen whose cloak and dagger tactics thus far only managed to kill the godfather of the very Boy they were protecting.
Still, obvious shortcomings aside, they were his friends. They were a sort of foster family, and they'd be there to help him. Sirious would die and Harry'd live on and love and thrive since any alternative would be unacceptable. "Unthinkable," she muttered as she curled up, willing the Deatheaters to take a blasted break already. No doubt they'd filled their evil-doings quota for the night. Must be Miller Time somewhere.
A few dreamless hours later she opened her eyes to find Harry standing at the foot of the couch.
"Harry" she smiled absently. Nice dream…nice change she nodded against the arm of the sofa. She was reminded of the one at the Burrow when Harry had held her for a bit. "Best dream," she muttered.
Harry shook his head. What was she muttering about, and why was she sleeping in the common room? Probably studying, said a voice that sounded remarkably like Hermione. Remember that Potter, what it's like to S-T-U-D-Y?
He rolled his eyes. Unhelpful voice, was, again, being a nuisance. "Hermione?" Harry asked softly.
Hermione's eyes flew open and, realizing it was in fact, no dream, she sat up, pulling her robes tightly around her. "Harry?" She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the firelight. "What are, um…" she trailed off, searching Harry's empty expression for any recognizable emotion. Gods this used to be so easy, she thought.
Right…since when has knowing Harry EVER been easy?
"Good point," she said reluctantly.
"What's a good point?" Harry asked, surprised she was bothering to talk to him. Yeah, you're lucky that's all she's doing to you, you stupid sodding git…
Of course he regretted the way he'd acted that day. Just leaving her in the middle of the common room so he could sulk off all self-righteous-like. He spent the rest of the summer refusing any news of her, tossing her letters in the fire, out the window, into the wastebasket. All that time, of course, assuming they were groveling apologies or teary confessions or wedding invitations…
In the end he told Ginny to stop letting Hermione use Pig else he'd blind the sodding bird.
He'd spent the earlier part of the summer pining…no not pining… worrying over Hermione's being alone at Hogwarts with some burnt-out Moody in the making. And then, gods, Harry'd heard Arthur and Molly discussing Draco's being there.
Harry had immediately flooed to Hogsmeade to see if it was true. As he made his way to Hogwarts, he was sure, positive, willing to bet his life, that his Hermione was alone, most likely miserable from missing him. He imagined their having a laugh over it, after she'd nagged about his leaving without telling anyone, of course. They'd spend the rest of the time catching up, talking, touching…friendly like, until one of his keepers came to fetch him. Then they'd hug a bit and reaffirm their friendship before he flooed back to his summer without her…
Of course all that changed when he'd come into the common room to find her smiling and playfully groping Malfoy, laughing like she couldn't stop.
It was that bloody laugh that did it. Set him right over the edge. She never laughed like that around him. The rare times she did manage a half-hearted chuckle was when Ron or Ginny said something typically funny. Sure, she smiled whenever he came into a room and was always watching him and knew what he was thinking and feeling before anyone else, but great gods, Malfoy had his hands all over her And. She. Just. Kept. Laughing.
So he ran away. That's what he always did. After all, the best way to stop feeling something was to stop feeling anything and everything.
The rest of the summer had passed in a blue-gray blur. He and Ron flew their arses off playing Quidditch. He'd collapse on his mattress in the attic, too tired to dream and too tired to wonder what Hermione and Draco were doing while he was screaming at himself to close his eyes and go to sleep.
He'd arrived at Hogwarts, and, for the first time, regretted being there. He dreaded having to watch Drake and Hermione act their little Romeo and Juliet drama out between classes. Admittedly, it proved less sneaking off for snogging and more researching curses and doing reading assignments.
Apparently they were, he swallowed back a bit of bile, friends, and now Draco was dating Luna Lovegood, with Hermione's blessing no less.
And then, when he'd come out of the hospital, she'd told him…what? Something about her always watching him?
"Gods, maybe I did overreact," he thought as Hermione looked at him expectantly.
Maybe? Hermione-sounding voice piped in. 'Maybe's' a bit of an understatement Potter. The girl stood by you for five years, risked her life more times than you'd care to count, and you wouldn't let her explain what'd happened. Let her explain, ha. She didn't need to explain. You should have trusted her like she trusted you. Like she let you lead her into an obvious trap at the DM. Like she got cursed for you, put in the hospital, never so much as mentioned it, and would do it again just to keep you alive that much longer…
"All right….enough," he said firmly. Unhelpful voice tended to sound off whenever the topic of Hermione came up.
"Enough what?" Hermione asked, surprised he was talking to her. She was enjoying the play of emotions across his face though. Anything was better than that blank-dead look that usually clouded his brilliant eyes. Gods she missed those eyes. Couldn't find that color green anywhere. She tried.
"Oh, um," he stammered, "what are you doing down…here?" He motioned around before realizing it wasn't any of his business. Still, he just couldn't right come out and grovel. Or could he? He was considering it when she answered.
"Why?" She asked.
"What?" He shook his head.
"Why do you want to know?" She repeated slowly, honestly confused.
Really, that had been the last thing he'd expected her to say. What? You thought she'd apologize to you again Potter? Oh, I can just hear it now: 'Harry, I sure am sorry you're a jealous, stubborn, self-righteous prat whose dedication to his oft misunderstood duty comes from a sense of steadily growing entitlement."
Wow. Unhelpful voice was on a roll. Nothing that little frontal lobotomy couldn't cure. Or maybe a drink. Of course, right now he'd settle for hitting himself over the head with the empty bottle. Yeah, neither would she you self-righteous prat.
"You already called me that," he reminded the voice.
Yeah…well…I meant it.
"Harry are you all right?" She asked, concern momentarily clouding her features as he stood there, wordlessly staring at her.
"Yeah, fine," he answered distantly.
She shrugged and looked back into the fire. Once upon a time she'd press for a better answer. Now, she didn't have the right to. Not that I ever did…
"So Harry?" She sighed. "Just what are you doing here? Off on some unforeseeably dangerous, boy-will-be-boys adventure?"
He smiled darkly at that. "No." He studied her as she watched the logs crackled and burn in the fireplace. He tried to think of something more meaningful to say, failing miserably of course. Come on Potter. Focus. Try and ignore the fact that she's wearing a lacy nightgown under her robe. Ugh. Try harder. Potter! Come on man…
"I'm sorry," she muttered, interrupting his musings. "I'm sorry for not telling you about Draco."
"Sorry?" Harry echoed absently.
And just like that they were back in the common room on that summer day. Draco had just gone up the back staircase and Hermione and Harry were, once again, left facing each other.