Disclaimer: See Part 1.
From My Soul
Part 18
It was rather anticlimactic, after their hurried departure from Hogwarts, to find that Grimmauld Place was still just as deserted and desolate as ever.
Remus didn't let down his guard, glancing around the square warily, as he ushered them inside Number Twelve once it had materialized in between Numbers Eleven and Thirteen. He turned to leave again almost immediately. "I'm going to go back to Hogwarts, make sure McGonagall has everything in control there. You three stay here," he emphasized pointedly, looking at Harry, and Harry realized that Remus was even more perceptive than he'd realized (or simply knew Harry well enough from his years of friendship with James and Sirius to be able to predict what Harry would think and do) and was very aware of Harry's smoldering disgruntlement at being forced to hide. "I'll be back later to let you know if all is well or not."
He looked at Ron and added, more gently, "I'm sure your family will be fine."
Ron nodded numbly and with a last glance at Harry, Remus left.
The door had barely closed behind Remus when Ron bolted upstairs followed almost immediately by the sound of his door shutting.
Harry hesitated, staring after him, tormented with sympathy and a wish to do something, help in some way, but hampered by uncertainty and some awkwardness. He was released from his paralysis by a gentle nudge from Hermione.
"Go," she said simply. "He'll probably want to talk to you." She left unsaid what they both knew, that Ron would be more likely to talk to Harry alone than he would be to talk to both Harry and Hermione, in spite of their closeness.
Harry squeezed Hermione's hand briefly and then followed Ron.
"Ron? Can I come in?" he ventured, after knocking.
"Oh, why not?"
It wasn't the most enthusiastic welcome in the world but Harry hadn't expected one under the circumstances.
"You okay?" he asked lamely as he stepped inside, his gaze going to where Ron was sitting slumped against the wall.
Ron shot him an incredulous look that was almost a glare. Harry flushed. "Sorry, dumb question," he apologized. "I'm sorry about Percy," he added rather tentatively, after a moment.
Ron let out a bark of un-amused laughter. "Sorry, that Percy proved he's a git? Don't bother. He's just keeping an eye out for the main chance, wants to stay in good with the Ministry." He made a disdainful noise. "Always was a prig."
Harry sat down beside Ron. "I suppose so."
A silence fell for a long, few minutes, finally broken by Ron who asked abruptly, "How do you deal with the guilt?"
Harry flinched a little at the bluntness of the question but said what he knew he had to. "You just do, but you know, it's not your fault."
Ron shot a disbelieving glance at him at this statement from Harry, who was adept at blaming himself for everything from the weather to everything You-Know-Who did.
Harry fought not to react and only went on, gamely. "It isn't. You didn't know what would happen; you couldn't know what Dolohov would do. You shouldn't blame yourself. It won't change anything and Charlie wouldn't want it."
"When did you get so smart?" Ron asked sardonically, pointedly reminding Harry of his hypocrisy.
"I'm not," Harry said promptly. "I'm just channeling Hermione," he added, half-jokingly, half-seriously.
Ron studied Harry for a minute and then responded with a wan attempt at lightness, "There's something scary about you saying that."
Harry half-smiled fleetingly but then sobered. "Seriously, though, you just learn to live with it. But it is true that you shouldn't blame yourself. Blame Dolohov."
"Yeah." Ron was silent again and then he murmured, "I can't believe Charlie's gone, that I'll never see him again. He was so cool, you know. I always wished I could be more like him."
"Yeah, Charlie was a great fellow," Harry agreed, his voice quiet.
"He wasn't around much after he left for Hogwarts," Ron went on, in a reminiscing tone, "and then later because he was in Rumania but when he was around…" Ron trailed off and then, after another long moment, began, "I never--" his voice broke and he swallowed hard before he finished, very quietly, so softly Harry could hardly hear him, "I never thought one of us could die." He said the last word with a slight shudder and covered his face with his hands.
Harry could only sit there in silent sympathy and he couldn't help but think of Sirius, think of his parents, think of Dumbledore- and wonder with a sick sense of fear and dread who would be next. Who would be next- -and also, would Ron and Hermione be okay?
He tried not to dwell on his fears for them much, but the terrifying images intruded on his nightmares mercilessly, haunting him until sometimes he couldn't push them back. The thought of anything happening to Ron was quite bad enough-but Hermione… The thought of Hermione ever being hurt in any way was enough to paralyze him with mind-numbing horror. It was too terrible-he couldn't bear thinking about it. Nothing could happen to her; he couldn't do anything without her, needed her…
He was abruptly recalled to the present when he heard Ron's somewhat muffled voice. "I want to be alone now."
Harry hesitated, but then settled for saying, "We're here if you need us," before he left. He knew, somehow, where to find Hermione and was proven right when he went to the library.
She looked up as he entered, putting her book aside. "How is Ron?"
"I'm not sure, but he said he wanted to be alone." He paused and then added, as he settled down beside her, one arm automatically going around her shoulder as she leaned against him, "He feels guilty."
"He shouldn't," was Hermione's swift (predictable) response.
Harry gave her a slight smile. "I told him that."
"Good."
"Actually, I told him pretty much exactly what you've told me, that he couldn't be blamed because he had no way of knowing and that Charlie wouldn't want him to torture himself."
Hermione gifted him with a soft glance and nestled even closer against him, before she sobered and asked, "What did Scrimgeour want to talk to you about?"
Harry grimaced. "Oh, nothing too important."
Hermione gave him a look. "You mean, nothing you wanted to agree to. What, did he want you to tell him what you're planning so he could leak it to someone, give people some hope?"
Harry stared at her for a moment. "Why do you even bother asking if you already know the answer?" he asked, with a mixture of mild irritation and humor and affection in his voice.
She smiled slightly. "I didn't know the answer; I was just guessing. People have been getting restive and I'm sure it's spilling over into discontent with him, as it always does. It's not surprising he'd try to boost his standing by trying to get closer to you. More people still turn to you in this war than will ever turn to him."
"I don't know about that," he shrugged one shoulder, "but you're right. That was what Scrimgeour wanted, almost exactly. He wanted me to tell him something inspiring so he could quote me on it."
"And you told him, no."
"In no uncertain terms," Harry affirmed.
For a moment, Hermione hesitated, tempted for the first time since she'd known him, to simply stay quiet and not question him, because she loved him and she hated to think of disturbing his fragile peace in any way, especially after Charlie-but no, she couldn't do that. She couldn't just stay quiet-not when it might help so much, not when she truly believed he was wrong, even if she understood his answer. "Harry, do-do you think that was really the right thing to do?"
Harry stared at Hermione, drawing back from her. "What, you don't mean I should just let Scrimgeour act like he's some great help or my best mate or something?"
"No, no, not that part. You were right to refuse him," Hermione clarified hurriedly. "I was thinking about saying a few encouraging words to the people."
"I don't have much to say. What could I really tell them?"
"That's not the point, though, Harry," Hermione explained calmly. "Minister Scrimgeour isn't all wrong about the importance of giving people something to hope for, to inspire them in some way."
"Why should I try to inspire people who aren't fighting anyway?"
"Because, even if they don't join the Order outright, you do want to make sure that no one else goes over to Voldemort. People will, out of fear even if they don't agree, you know."
"The Pettigrew way," Harry grimaced.
"Yes, Harry, like Wormtail did. He's not unusual, you know. You don't need to tell people exactly what you're doing or anything about the Order specifically. All you need to do is tell them that you haven't given up, that the war's not over yet and they shouldn't give up."
"Offer myself up as a symbol of hope, in short." His rather curt tone expressed all his distinct lack of enthusiasm for the prospect eloquently.
"Well, yes. I know you don't really want to do it but it's what you should do. You are, whether you like it or not, seen as the real leader of this resistance, especially now that Dumbledore's gone. You need to give people something to believe in, give them hope."
The pause after her words stretched out for more than a few seconds as he considered her words and she sensed his acceptance of her reasoning before a shadow crossed his eyes again and he sighed.
"I don't know if I can give them that hope. I mean, I've just been sitting around and look what's happened to your parents, Charlie…" he trailed off. "Maybe Dumbledore was wrong or the Prophecy was wrong and we shouldn't be relying on me anyway. I haven't done much."
"Oh, Harry," Hermione sighed. "You shouldn't think like that. It's not true. You've already faced Voldemort so many times and you're still alive; you're still here. What happened to my parents and Charlie wasn't your fault and you shouldn't blame yourself. No one really blames you." She paused, her tone and her expression softening. "And for what it's worth, I believe in you."
For a long moment, he simply looked at her, amazed anew by the quiet strength of her, of her faith. "I don't know how you can."
She allowed herself a slight smile. "I believe in you because you've proven that I can. Every year, you've somehow managed to do what you had to do and you've won."
"I've had a lot of help. I always had you to help me."
She shook her head as if to minimize her role but there was a pleased flush on her cheeks, even as her tone tried to shrug off his words. "I'm still here."
He brushed his lips against her forehead. "I know. I guess there's hope for me after all."
He paused and then asked, in a distinctly disgruntled tone, "Do I really have to give some sort of inspiring speech?"
And she knew he had given in. "Just look at Percy. He's the last person to believe in the whole purity of blood thing but because of his ambition and his fear of being on the losing side, he just got cut off from his family. I'm not saying he's right but there are going to be a lot of people like him. And you're the only person who can talk to people, really give them something to believe in. You know you are."
He looked at her for a moment. "Why are you always right?" he finally sighed.
She flushed and smiled slightly. "I'm not always right."
He snorted a little. "If you're not, you're close enough to it as makes no difference." He leaned forward and kissed her quickly, before smiling into her eyes. "Lucky for you, you're pretty when you're teaching me something. Besides, I never did like silly girls."
Her smile brightened as she nestled just that little bit closer to him. "I'm glad."
And for a moment, he pushed away all thoughts of anything and everything else as he kissed her, letting his hands stray under the hem of her shirt to touch the smooth skin of her back (and he was rapidly getting addicted to the feel of her skin under his hands), loving the shiver that passed through her and the way she leaned into him, her hands fluttering from his hair to his neck to his shoulders and down to touch his chest. His lips left hers only to trace the line of her chin to her ear and down her neck, to kiss the gentle, lovely curve where her neck met her shoulders, glorying in the gasp that escaped her.
God, she was so lovely… And at times, he couldn't understand how he hadn't seen it long before now. He didn't know how he could have looked at her for more than six years of friendship and not seen just how very pretty she was, looked at his best friend and not seen, too, the girl who was everything he wanted…
The kisses and caresses became gentler, less intense, until she brushed her lips against his one last time and shifted so she was only leaning against him, her head tucked under his chin in one of their habitual positions. (Sometimes, he couldn't get over his surprise that they even had habitual positions this intimate, that this new-thing-between them wasn't so new anymore…)
And for several minutes, they were silent, content, but soon, what they had been talking of nudged its way back into his consciousness, not focusing so much on the depths of her faith in him but in the concrete task she wanted him to do and in her reasoning for it.
He hated the idea of playing on his fame and his story and saying a whole lot of nice, inspiring words; it wasn't like him to be eloquent and he disliked publicity and was more inclined to avoid it than seek it out. Part of him wished he could argue against it, wished he could simply refuse to listen to her-but always, somewhere in the back of his mind now, was a small voice that whispered, simply, think of Sirius, and he knew he couldn't. As usual when it came to things like this, her logic was unassailable, her reasoning sound-and he wasn't stupid enough to make the mistake of ignoring her when he, of all people, knew how often she was right. And he did understand what she meant, even agreed with it-didn't mean he liked it anymore but he did see her point.
He mentally grimaced, resigned to this whole giving-people-hope idea, as he turned to her. "So how should I tell people this inspiring speech? Surely you can't expect me to actually talk to everyone."
"No. I was thinking more along the lines of you sending a letter to the Daily Prophet. I'm sure they would print it."
"And say what? Even I'm not that hopeful. We still don't have any idea where the last horcrux is or how to destroy the ones we do have," he added gloomily and unnecessarily. "How do I give people hope that I don't feel myself?"
"We'll find it, Harry. We will. And as for the letter, well, we'll work on it together and think of something to say that will acknowledge that times are bad but that there's still hope. That we need to work together, everyone doing their parts if we're going to win."
"We few, we happy few, we band of brothers, for he today who sheds his blood with me, shall be my brother," Harry quoted with mordant irony.
"Harry!" It was Hermione's turn to look at him in surprise.
Harry grinned in spite of himself. "What? You're not the only person who reads, you know."
"I know that but I didn't know you'd read Shakespeare or knew him well enough to quote him."
"The Dursleys had a copy of a Complete Works that someone had given them once and I- erm- basically borrowed it and never gave it back. They never missed it. Dudley was never interested in it, that's for sure." He edited out the fact that what had really happened was that Dudley had decided the very large, heavy book would made a satisfying missile and had thrown it at Harry's head one day. He'd missed (fortunately for Harry) but it had hit Harry on the shoulder and upper arm, leaving a bruise, and Harry had quickly grabbed the book and shoved it into his broom closet to deprive Dudley of the chance to throw it at him again. It was only later, when he was again locked inside for some imagined crime, that he'd pulled it out and begun to flip through it and then to read it. Admittedly, he'd understood very little of it other than the general plots at his young age but he'd read most of the plays anyway, for lack of anything better to do, and he had, at least, found that several speeches and lines appealed to him.
"And you read all of it?"
"Most of it," Harry admitted. "There wasn't much else to do in those times when they'd lock me in, you know."
Her face darkened at this casual mention of how badly the Dursleys had treated him and wordlessly, she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him hard.
He closed his arms around her, loving the familiar warmth of her, the familiar scent of her hair against his cheek… And he decided that he didn't care about anything the Dursleys did anymore; whatever they'd done, this, right here, having Hermione in his arms, made everything worth it.
~
Harry's letter, when it was finally finished (written in large part by Hermione with Harry's acquiescence and a few suggestions from Ron-that mostly consisted of things to cut-- as Ron's first reaction was more to find the entire idea either comical or a likely waste of time) was printed and given pride of place on the front page of the Daily Prophet on Christmas Eve.
Harry had tried to argue, rather half-heartedly, against sending the Daily Prophet something that was bound to make subscriptions to it go up by leaps and bounds, since Harry still rather disliked and distrusted the Daily Prophet for all its false articles about him in the past, but Hermione had reasoned that they did not have the luxury of waiting for other papers to pick it up from the Quibbler and they especially did not need to have Harry's letter alongside an article about the Crumple-horned Snorkack or some such creature. Harry had been unable to deny the validity of that point and had given in.
The letter was relatively brief-although it was still longer than what Harry was comfortable with but even he had to agree that just a few sentences would hardly be enough.
Christmas is called a season of hope and there is never a better time to remember and celebrate hope than in a time of war like now.
This is a war and too many people have already died in it. With all this, it is sometimes easy to forget the importance of hope and despair is a feeling that I am all too familiar with. But to despair is to let Voldemort and our enemies win by default, in a sense. And that is something I will not, cannot, do. So I ask you all to remember to hope-and to continue to fight.
I do not promise victory immediately or easily. I will not lie to you to give you all hope.
All I can say is that this is not a war we can lose. We are fighting-we will fight-we must fight for freedom to live and learn without fear, freedom from blind prejudice and senseless cruelty.
It's a fight that affects us all and everyone must do their part, however small. As it has been said, all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. That cannot-it must not-happen now.
I will make no false promises but I do promise you that I will not give up. As long as Voldemort lives and as long as I have breath in my body, I will oppose him with everything in my power. And I hope you will all stand with me as well.
The letter sounded rather hopelessly stiff and unlike him but Harry could think of nothing to say that would not sound stiff and unlike him. And as Hermione reasoned, it could do him no harm to have people momentarily forget in reading it that Harry was only a 17 year old boy.
Harry's letter was, naturally, read by everyone and within the week, according to what Ron heard indirectly from his father, everyone was quoting it to everyone else and everywhere, the most common topic of conversation was "that brave young lad, Harry Potter." (Harry had grimaced at that particular epithet but refrained from commenting.)
Harry was immensely thankful that the Fidelius Charm prevented most owls from finding him but he knew (from what Remus told him) that Hogwarts had been deluged with response owls.
People's reactions were almost overwhelmingly positive (with the exception, naturally, of those few people who may not have been Death Eaters themselves but agreed whole-heartedly with the beliefs of people like the Malfoys). It seemed as if those who may have been wavering were given new energy and hope with this proof that Harry Potter was very much alive and willing to fight (as Hermione had predicted).
People read his declaration of not giving up and remembered that he had lost his parents to Voldemort as well as his mentor in Dumbledore (no one mentioned the loss of Sirius as that was not a generally-known fact, plus Sirius was still generally believed to be an escaped criminal and no one knew he'd been Harry's godfather)-and were moved, in spite of themselves, at the idea of such a young boy being so heroic.
Harry violently disliked the pity that was implicit (if not overtly expressed) in the response owls to the Daily Prophet which he saw, but his grumbling subsided after Hermione's reminder that the important thing was not the pity but that people didn't give up and simply surrender. He still wasn't happy about it but he did, at least, stop grumbling.
~*~
With all that, Harry never expected that he would remember that Christmas as one of the best ones of his life but what happened ensured that he did.
Hermione had been oddly subdued during the day, as indeed they all had been.
(The Dursleys' gift to him had consisted of a ripped tissue and a piece of paper that said, in Aunt Petunia's handwriting, this is no longer your home. It was, undoubtedly, the worst Christmas gift the Dursleys had ever given him, including that dirty old sock of Uncle Vernon's one year. He had tossed both away and not mentioned it to Hermione, not wanting to upset her.)
They received a surprise package by stealth owl from Mrs. Weasley containing the usual, knitted sweaters for all three of them. Hermione's was Gryffindor red with a book on it; Harry's was also Gryffindor red and had two small animals on it, a stag and beside that, a black dog-the sight of which had Harry blinking furiously. Ron's was, however, the one that hit them all the hardest. It was dark blue and had a dragon on it. The accompanying card, which was very brief and spotted with tears, exhorted them all to be very careful and had a note at the end which said (in letters blurred by tears) that Ron's sweater had actually been made for Charlie but she thought Charlie would want Ron to have it instead.
It was the first time Harry and Hermione saw Ron close to tears and he stared at the sweater for a long moment before putting it on with a solemnity he'd never shown about the annual Christmas sweater before.
All in all, it had been a quiet day, but even with that, Harry had noticed that Hermione was rather thoughtful and even distracted. He guessed that she was thinking of her parents and did not bother her about it.
She went up to her bed early and he had felt a pang of hurt and guilt when she did so without kissing him good night, for the first time in weeks.
He had just gotten into bed when he heard a knock and then her voice. "Harry, can I come in?"
She sounded rather nervous, he thought with some mingled concern and apprehension, as he told her to come in.
He felt himself flush as she sat down on his bed. He could feel the warmth of her body through his blankets and swallowed, suddenly excruciatingly aware that they were alone, on his bed, and he was in his pyjamas, as was she.
"What is it?" he asked, and was thankful that his voice didn't emerge as a croak.
Her answer wasn't in words; instead she leaned forward and kissed him, her lips soft and warm and inviting against his.
God, he loved the taste of her and the feel of her…
And as always when he kissed her, he lost touch with the rest of the world, forgetting everything but the touch of her lips, the warmth of her, and the softness of her skin. He forcibly pulled himself back to reality, breaking the kiss with a gasp, when he became aware of the growing hardness in his pyjamas.
"Erm, Hermione, we'd better stop," he managed to get out, drawing back from her, trying to put some much-needed distance between their bodies.
"You don't have to stop."
He stared at her, convinced he'd misheard her. "Hermione, are you-do you--" he stopped.
She brushed her lips against his again, quickly this time. "I love you and I want to be with you."
His heart positively stuttered in his chest, his breath seizing, as he stared at her and he knew he would never, as long as he lived, forget the way she looked right then at that moment in the dim light, her lips slightly swollen from his kiss, her cheeks flushed with some uncertainty and with the stirrings of desire, and the glow deep in her eyes that spoke of so much certainty and so much love it took his breath away.
"Hermione," he breathed and reached for her, only to hesitate at the last instant. "I- we don't have to," he said, unsure of himself and whether she had thought he was pressuring her or something.
"I want you, Harry," she confessed very simply and leaned forward to kiss him again, murmuring, "touch me," against his lips.
And so he did, his arms going around her, as he kissed her and touched her with all the tenderness he felt…
~To be continued…
Author's Note: For those of you who are over 18 (and please, don't click on the link if you are not over 18! I promise you will not be missing any plot.) I've written and posted a smutty interlude over at my fic journal: http://avonlea-dreamer.livejournal.com/66704.html .