Prologue:
Home
It was strange how years could feel like eternity, strange how when someone you love is gone for so long the nights seem ominous and too much colder. It wasn't the least bit strange how the hurt of his sudden leave-taking affected everyone that loved him, how it made the days so much harder to get through (and not one went by when they didn't think of him). All of this ran through her mind as she lay there in bed unable to sleep again, staring out the window and thinking like always. She looked at the young man asleep beside her, thanking everything and anything she could think of that she still had him. She reached out and touched his mess of red hair, smiling a little at the way his limbs stuck out from the blankets; some thought a long time ago that their relationship was bound to be something beyond friendship, but it never was. He had remained her best friend for years now, and they never so much as shared more than a friendly hug or a friendly peck; when she had the worst times sleeping he offered to let her stay with her, as any best friend would. She sat up and leaned over, kissing his forehead softly as he slept. She carefully slid out from under the sheets and moved to the window, wearing a white cotton shirt with the buttons down the front (it used to be Harry's). She opened the window, feeling the breeze immediately as it blew the sheer curtain and her long, curly hair. It was unseasonably cold out, but then again, it always felt too unpleasantly cold since he went away.
The two of them never expected it, never saw it coming (honestly, no one did). They knew he was distraught and distracted, maybe even a little obsessed, but they never thought he'd go and leave them the way he had. The two of them felt like they had lost more than a best friend; they felt they had lost a brother (they both loved him as such, and maybe she loved him as more). She cried. He cried. They worried and ached and worried more. They wondered every single day that went by if he was ok, if he was even alive. They heard nothing from him, but never stopped hoping for one minute there might be an owl one day with a piece of parchment with his handwriting scrawled across it. But the hoped-for-owl never came; there was neither parchment, nor handwriting they were longing to see. They didn't know where he was or if he was ever coming back. They just knew that he was gone (and they knew that it hurt, hurt so deeply).
"Hermione?" She turned to see Ron walking towards her, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "What are you doing?"
"I was just…" she looked out the window again, fighting tears she thought would have stopped coming by now. "I was just thinking," she said softly. He stood beside her now, a hand on her shoulder.
"About Harry?" he asked quietly. She looked up at him with tears in her eyes and nodded. He smoothed her hair and put his arms around her, letting her rest her head against his chest. "I know," he said quietly. "I always think about him." She sniffed and lifted her head, wiping her tears and looking out the window again.
"Ron… do you think he'll ever come back?" Her voice was so quiet, so hopeful and fearful and pained. And he was at a loss. There were so many nights he sat up hoping his best friend would come back, trying to figure out where he had gone, why he had gone so abruptly. And he had come to the same conclusion every time: that he didn't really know anything.
"I don't know," he said quietly, staring out at the bright moon. "I don't know, Hermione." He watched another tear roll down her cheek, watched her wipe it away, her lips trembling slightly. "But we can't keep torturing ourselves like this."
"I know that. I know that, Ron, I do, but… He's our best friend. We don't know where he is. We don't know what he's doing. We don't know if he's ok. We don't…" she took a shaky breath and was even quieter, "we don't even know if he's alive."
"I think about those things too, Hermione," Ron said quietly, staring outside. "I think about him every single day. I think about…if he had just told us, let us come with him - wherever he went - that we could have helped him. I think sometimes, that… maybe I could have stopped him."
"I just want him to come home, Ron," she said softly. "I just want him to come home, and be ok…"
"I know; it's all I want too," he said quietly. She stood from the windowsill, wrapping her arms around him and resting her head against his chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat. They worried endlessly, tortuously for the first year; the second year they still worried, but it was a little easier to sleep at night (not that they didn't take turns having horrible nightmares of what might have happened to him); the third year they had yet to stop worrying, but it was a little easier to get through the days, a little easier to fall asleep without waking up an hour later from awful nightmares. Three years had gone by and they had heard nothing (no one had). Three years that felt like three lifetimes.
September had proved unseasonable. It rained almost every day, accompanied by unusual cold, and it stormed every night. Hermione often shivered at the remembrance of Dementors; weather like this always reminded her of them. She and Ron were sitting by the fire; the Ministry had been particularly busy with the investigation of increased Death Eater activity and now they were simply trying not to think too much of what it could mean, and just trying to enjoy each others company and take comfort in it. It was quiet; it felt almost too quiet. The darkness of the night seemed endless, and it felt as if the cold were creeping into every corner. She snuggled closer to him, wanting nothing more than to be warm, silently wishing to be close to Harry and tell him she loved him (and hear him say that he loved her and he always would), and chase away the feeling of iciness that seemed to have seeped into her bones. The rain outside was pelting the windows, the lightening fierce, the thunder roaring so loudly so often the panes of glass shook. He kissed her head softly and rested his chin on the top of her head, thinking (always thinking they never seemed to be able to stop). She jumped at the sound of the deafening thunder, sounding as if it had cracked the very foundation of the house; she didn't realize at first it wasn't the sound of the thunder that scared her. Feeling the wind suddenly whipping through the room and the bitter coldness from outside, they looked to the doorway.
"Oh my goodness…" she whispered, feeling the color drain from her face. They were up in an instant, rushing to him. He was soaking wet, dripping, his skin cold and pale; he looked sick.
"Harry…" Ron said in shock. He and Hermione ushered him into the living room, bypassing the sofa and getting him as close to the fire as they could. He had been gone for three years - three entire years, left without a word, and he was there now - he just showed up. And it was ok. They didn't care about anything else; the only thing that mattered was that he was alive. Hermione threw a blanket around his shivering form. She and Ron didn't ask questions (not that they didn't care or didn't want to know); Harry would tell them when he was ready, whatever it was he needed to tell them. His eyes were a duller green than they remembered and they seemed blank. Hermione and Ron looked at one another, Ron sitting next to Harry trying to warm him up and thankful to see him alive. Hermione knelt down in front of Harry, taking his cold, wet face in her hands, lifting his head just a little to look at her.
"Harry," she said softly. "Are you alright?" He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He shook his head, his eyes vague and suddenly coated with a sheen of tears. She hurt for him. This Harry with them now was not the Harry that left them; something had happened and this Harry was broken. She could see it in his eyes, feel it through his skin, and it was breaking her heart. The pain radiated from him, and one look at Ron told her he knew it, too. "Harry?"
The vacant look in his eyes was replaced by one of great pain and he whispered, "None of it made any difference…" Ron looked at Hermione, not quite understanding what Harry was talking about, or what he meant. They didn't even know what he had been doing all this time. He muttered the same thing a second time, staring blankly at the flames in the fireplace, shivering slightly.
"Ron, get some tea," she said, her hands on Harry's knees. He looked between her and Harry for a moment, unsure for a moment if he should leave her with him. What if something had happened to him, and he wasn't himself? What if he hurt her?
"Should I leave him alone with you?" he asked out loud, regretting it immediately from the reproving look she shot him. "I mean, he could be like Neville's parents. What if someone used the Cruciatus curse until he went mental?"
"Ronald Weasley," she hissed. "How could you even think something like that let alone say it? Tea. Now." With one last look at Harry, he turned and made for the kitchen. Meanwhile, she stayed kneeling at Harry's feet, looking up at him with worrisome eyes. It was obvious something was wrong but it didn't seem he was going to tell them, and she wasn't sure if she should pry since it could be, and probably was something traumatic. She looked for signs of both a physical and magical struggle. His clothes were ripped, frayed, drenched and dirty. His hair was a mess and matted to his head from the rain. His glasses were cracked, and he had some scrapes above his left eye and a cut across his cheek. The only obvious conclusion she came to was that he was fighting someone, but she was at a loss for who and why. She shifted in front of him, touching his cold cheek, but he didn't seem to notice. This wasn't the return she had been expecting. She knew enough that this was something she and Ron shouldn't handle on their own; they needed to contact the people who needed to know, and who could help Harry out of this…whatever it was.
The floorboards creaked as Ron reappeared with a steaming cup of tea. He was foolishly relieved that Hermione was alright, scolding himself for even thinking that Harry ever would or could hurt her. He handed her the mug without a word and sat down next to Harry, who hadn't moved since he left.
"Wait," she said, before he got comfortable. "They have to know he's alive."
"Hermione, if anyone gets a hold of the news he's alive, or here, they are going to go crazy. The entire wizarding world is going to be on our doorstep!"
"Ron, you don't need to inform the entire wizarding community. But we need to get someone here to help him. I think you can see that he's not right." With her words he looked at his best friend again, knowing that she was right and that if they tried to do anything to help him there was a chance of only making it worse. He nodded. "Send an owl to Lupin, tell Pigwidgeon to get it there as fast as he can, and mark it urgent. Don't mention Harry's name; there are still threats out there."
"What about Tonks? She's an auror, so shouldn't we owl her, too?" he asked.
"Chances are wherever Professor Lupin is Tonks is there, too. Then send an owl to Professor McGonagall."
"And what about you?" he asked. "Are you going to sit with him?"
"Yes. Someone needs to watch him. There could be any number of things wrong with him, and I don't want him to do anything to hurt himself."
"What if he tries to hurt you?"
"He won't," she said surely. "I know he won't. And you know it, too."
"You'll yell if you need me?" He looked down at her and she nodded. He bent down kissing her quickly, and ran upstairs. This wasn't at all what he had hoped for. He had hoped that Harry would have come home perfectly fine, gotten berated by him and Hermione and just about everyone else for leaving without telling anyone where he was going, and then settling comfortably into the life they had known previously. This was not going as he had imagined.
Ron flung open the door to the bedroom, greeted by Pigwidgeon's angry chirps. He went immediately to the desk Hermione had insisted on him having in the corner and pulled out some parchment. He grabbed the quill sitting in the inkwell and began writing furiously. Pigwidgeon perched on his shoulder, nipping at his ear.
"This isn't the time to be a prat, Pig," Ron said agitatedly. "Harry's home and he's in trouble." The little grey owl stopped nipping, stopped chirping, sitting still on Ron's shoulder as he wrote to Lupin, and then McGonagall.
Professor Lupin,
We need you. He's here and he's not right. There's something wrong and we don't
know what to do. Tell Tonks we need her here, too. Hurry.
Ron
He folded the parchment somewhat haphazardly, sealing it in an envelope and marking Urgent on the front. He tied it to Pigwidgeon's leg and looked square at him as he perched on his arm. "This is important," he said. "Pig, you need to get this to Lupin as fast as you can. Understand?" The little grey owl chirped and Ron tied the other message on. "This one goes to McGonagall." He chirped again, nipping Ron's finger affectionately before taking off in a little flurry of grey feathers. Ron dropped down into the chair at the desk, sighing. He moved his hands over his face as if washing it with invisible water and then ran his hands through his hair. Harry was downstairs and soaking wet; he needed some dry clothes. Ron knew he had enough to spare, even if they were huge on Harry. He stood and made his way to dresser in the corner, opening draws and rummaging through them for something - anything - that was dry and warm for Harry to change into.
Hermione sat on the floor at Harry's feet doing nothing more than watching him. He had yet to acknowledge hers or Ron's presence, and she wasn't entirely sure what to do about the whole situation. What if it wasn't even Harry sitting there? She shook her head, cursing herself and Ron silently for putting the crazy ideas in her head in the first place. She knew it was Harry; she couldn't explain how she knew, but she did. She was still holding the mug of tea, warming her own hands instead of his; he hadn't seemed to notice she was offering it to him, or he was completely ignoring her - neither was improbable. She looked around the room nervously, impatiently, for something, anything to give her some idea on how to just get through to him. She looked for something that might jog his memory if that was the problem, or a book with a spell or a charm to pull him out of this daze, but the rational side of her won out, keeping her from trying to do any such thing. The last thing she wanted to do was cause any more harm that may have already been done.
"Harry," she tried again softly hoping to get some kind of reaction. She sat up on her knees, holding the mug with one hand and using the other to reach out to touch him. For a moment she was hesitant, unsure of how he would react. She put her hand on his but he didn't look at her, rather continued to stare past her at the fireplace. "Harry." She reached up and gently touched his face, but nothing. She gently stroked his cheek with her thumb, wishing there was something she could say or do to make this better, to wake him up from this trance. "Oh Harry," she said softly. She sat there on her knees, feeling tears sting her eyes as she gently caressed his face. All this time they had wanted him home and he was here, but he wasn't the way she had expected and it hurt. She caressed his cheek and for a moment she watched his eyelids droop, almost as if he were relishing in her touch, comforted from the contact. It was short-lived. He leapt up, knocking her backward and knocking the tea cup from her hands. It crashed to the floor and shattered, bringing Ron bounding down the stairs.
"Hermione!" Ron rushed passed Harry, nearly knocking him down to get to Hermione. She was lying on the floor staring wide-eyed at Harry. "What happened?"
"I-I don't know," she stammered. They both looked at him and realized he was clutching his forehead and the expression on his face had become one of excessive physical pain.
"Bloody hell," Ron said quietly. "What's the matter with him?"
"His scar," she said knowingly. They watched him drop to his knees on the floor, hands pressed firmly to his forehead. Ron helped her up and they both rushed over to Harry who fell back onto the floor, his face and forehead breaking out with beads of sweat. She moved to go to him and Ron grabbed her arm, pulling her back
"Don't."
"Ron! Harry needs our help!" She shouted at him, wrenching her arm away from him and running over to Harry, wrapping her arms around him and holding him close to her chest. He had suddenly become very still against her, his breathing rapid and his pulse quick. His skin was cold and clammy but sweat dripped from his forehead. She looked up at Ron, who was looking down in confusion and dismay. Harry's eyes were closed but his face was still slightly contorted. "I think he passed out," she said quietly.
"Well…we can't leave him there," Ron replied. "Let's get him on the couch; Lupin and Tonks can take care of him when they get here." She nodded in response and helped Ron lift Harry up (not that it was very difficult) and place him carefully on the couch. "You don't reckon he's been cursed, do you?"
"No," she said shaking her head. "This isn't the after effects of a curse. This is something else entirely, but I'm not sure what."
"So what do we do?"
"You stay down here with Harry until Professor Lupin and Tonks get here. I'm going upstairs to check some of my books; though, I'm positive this isn't a curse, it doesn't hurt to be a little extra cautious." She nodded at Ron, bent down and kissed Harry's forehead quickly and headed for the stairs. She was fairly certain she knew what had just happened, but quite unsure of why. She knew, as well as other members of the former Order that Voldemort and Harry were connected and it was quite often through his scar Harry felt his presence. She knew that when Voldemort was close Harry felt a burning sensation in his scar; she also knew that when something was happening concerning Voldemort and his followers that Harry felt that, too. When Harry felt extreme joy, Voldemort felt it and for him it would be pure torture, and to retaliate was only too easy with his connection to Harry through that same scar. She wondered why now, would Voldemort see a reason to attack Harry? Did he know that Harry was with them, and was he trying somehow to locate him? She wasn't sure. At that moment, she couldn't be sure of anything.
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