A Season of Change

A Season of Change

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Harry/Hermione, Draco/Ginny

Disclaimer: I only own my computer - can I have Draco instead?

Summary: The war isn't the only thing heating up in the Wizarding world.

Author's Notes: I know, I know. I only have about a zillion fics going right now, and I have no business starting a new one, blahbitty blahbitty blah, *insert admonitions here*. You may now carry on.

Oh yeah, and if you want access to my other fics, you can visit my webpage. Please remove the & symbol, and insert a / instead, and in place of the [dot], insert a .

http:&&cliodnawrites[dot]150m[dot]com

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Hermione stared up at the ceiling, her eyes wide and unblinking. She wanted to cry; the urge to sob and wail had welled up inside of her so strongly that it was causing her physical pain - but she just couldn't do it. No matter how fervently she wished that she could, and no matter how hard she willed the moisture to spill forth from her eyes, the tears would not come. She had cried too hard and too long, and she was becoming quite convinced that she, in fact, had no tears left within her to shed.

She'd been lying on her bed in this same position for nearly twenty four hours solid. Her entire body ached; her chest felt hollow and her head was pounding. Her limbs had gone numb long ago, and she was sure that her eyes were red and swollen from the crying that she'd done. She was aware that when she finally did move from her bed, it would most likely be a painful ordeal. This was still not enough motivation for her to budge, nor move at all.

She vaguely registered the knocking on her bedroom door, and ignored it. The same knocking had persisted since yesterday around suppertime, and she had refused to answer it then, as well. Eventually, she thought, whoever was knocking would give up and go away, leaving her to her own devices.

She waited until the knocking had subsided, and the smallest of sighs escaped her. Even that small bit of movement was enough to cause pain to rip through her, and she began to worry her lower lip between her teeth. The past four days had been the worst of her life, and she wondered, upon hearing the noises of life continuing below her, how everyone else was able to go on living as though nothing had happened, when she had drawn into herself in order to survive.

“Hermione.” The voice near her ear startled her enough to turn her head in the direction of the door, an action which she paid for by way of a neck cramp. She remained mute, her lips loosely pursed together. “Hermione, you're going to have to come out sometime, or you know that one of us will come in to get you.”

Oh, Harry, she thought, her eyes still trained on the door, which was locked only by Muggle means. Darling Harry, who loved her enough to be concerned about her, yet at the same time respected her enough not to meddle with the easily picked lock in order to invade her sanctum. Harry, who had already lost both of his parents and his Godfather, the people in the world dearest to his heart. Harry, who was the only one among the visitors of her house who could possibly understand what she was going through.

“Come in,” she whispered, her voice ragged and broken from swollen throat and disuse. She watched with detached interest as the doorknob turned and Harry quickly entered, pulling the door shut behind him. When he turned to face her, she was relieved to see that his eyes held no pity, only concern.

“Hermione, everyone is worried sick about you. Mrs. Weasley has worked herself into such a right state that she's made damn near every kind of cake and pie, and Mr. Weasley has had a stomachache for two days, trying to eat it all so she won't think that no one is eating. Ron won't play chess or talk about Quidditch, and T.V. can only entertain him for so long…” his voice trailed off as he eyed her expressionless face.

She did not respond.

“Ginny is stuck cat-sitting, and I don't think that Crookshanks really feels like being around anyone but you right now,” he said softly. “He keeps meowing at night, and he's kept everyone awake. It would be really nice if you'd at least let him know that you're hanging in there.”

Hermione's glassy eyes and blank stare unnerved him more than he was letting on. No matter what happened, no matter what tragedy befell them, she had always been the one to keep her head about her. She had always been his voice of reason; his conscience outside of his body. Now here she was, lying in an almost catatonic state, watching him with eyes that were eerily uncomprehending.

Poor Harry, she thought. Poor Harry, you have far more important things to worry about than me right now, and we both know it. Why do you insist on burdening yourself like this?

His eyes were focused intently on hers, and it was only after his brow knitted with worry that she realized what he must have been doing. Somehow, though, she couldn't bring herself to be upset at the invasion of her thoughts. Certainly if she wasn't voicing them, she reasoned silently, then he had to do something to communicate with her, didn't he?

“I can't do this without you,” he whispered, averting his eyes. “You know that I can't do this without your help. And we both know that I have no right to involve anyone else in my fight, so you know what it means to me to have you on my side.”

Hermione's already sore throat ached with the tears that she wanted to shed for Harry, but could not find.

“I wouldn't be sitting here today, if it weren't for you. You've helped me out of more scrapes than I like to think about.”

“Harry,” she rasped finally. He shook his head.

“Don't try to tell me that it isn't true, either. You know that neither one of us believe it.”

“My Mum,” she whispered, forcing her eyes closed. “My Dad. They're gone.”

“I know,” he said, his tone not unsympathetic. “And you have every right to mourn; no one is going to try and stop you or rob you of that, Hermione. If you get the occasional annoying prat trying to cheer you up, though, you have to remember that it's human nature. The people around you - the ones who love you and are still here with you - hate to see you upset over anything.”

She opened her eyes and searched his face, wondering at the wisdom of his words. He didn't sound like the boy she'd made friends with nearly seven years ago; he sounded like a boy on the threshold of manhood, about to step over. She remembered all too well his severely depressed state after Sirius' death, and the righteous anger that had followed quickly in its footsteps. The person sitting on the edge of her bed seemed a far cry from that child; his eyes, which should have held the exuberance that comes with being young held instead wisdom - knowledge of pain that no human being should ever be forced to experience.

It was this that bolstered her enough to give him a weak smile, which he answered with a comforting smile of his own.

“What if I can't do it?” she asked softly, watching his smile fade. “What if I get out there and freeze the moment someone looks at me? What will I do?”

“You can do it,” he said firmly. “You're stronger than you think you are.”

“And if I make it through today?” she challenged, her throat hurting more with each word that was issued forth. “Who's to say that I won't freeze tomorrow, or the day after that?”

“It's okay to grieve, Hermione,” he said, pushing his glasses back up. “But you can't let it take over your life. You can't dwell on it. It's okay to think about it - you're always going to think about it - but you can't let it block out everything else and prevent you from living your life.”

His answer was sensible, and deep down, she knew it. Still, it didn't stop her from worrying. His forehead creased again as he glimpsed her thoughts, and his frown deepened.

“You can't live your life like that, Hermione. I wake up every morning, worrying about what's going to happen today that I can't handle - about the people who will suffer at his hand that I can't possibly protect. Thinking like that makes you tired; it makes you feel old. You can't worry about things that you can't change.”

“But if I had been here,” she protested weakly.

“You wouldn't have been able to stop them,” he affirmed. “And you'd be gone, too. Where would that leave me? Ron? The Order? If you'd had the chance to die with them, would you have really done it, knowing that you'd be leaving everyone here behind to die as well?”

“I wouldn't be leaving anyone to die,” she denied, ashamed that he'd seen through her the way he had. “They'd still have you, and you're all they need.”

“I may be many things, Hermione, but I'm no one's savior,” he said, his eyes burning into hers. “My death warrant has been as good as signed by that prophecy, and we both know it.”

“You're a powerful Wizard, Harry. You can beat him.”

“Victory over Voldemort doesn't necessarily mean survival of the final battle,” he replied candidly. “You and I worry about the same things, you know. It's not like I've never thought about it, or about what might happen during the course of the war.”

“It's unfair, isn't it,” she said, rather than asked. He sighed. “That children should be saddled with so much responsibility, when all they should really be doing is wondering whether or not their crushes will notice them, or silly things like that.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth at this.

“Funny, to hear that from you. I would have thought that you'd have said that all we should really be doing is studying.”

This drew a smile from her; the first genuine one that he'd seen since she'd been told that her Muggle home had been invaded. “That, too.”

“You know that we can't go back, right?” he asked suddenly, his smile slipping a bit. “We made the choice to fight a long time ago, and we can't go back on it. We can only go forward.”

“I know,” she breathed. “I know.” He surprised her by lunging forward and wrapping his arms around her, enveloping her in an emotional hug.

“I wouldn't know what to do if I'd lost you, Hermione. Without you, there is no forward.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and for the first time in two days, Hermione found that she could cry again.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

“I don't get it,” Ron said, frowning at the television screen. Arthur looked up from the generous helping of Shepherd's pie that he'd been working on for the last half hour.

“Don't get what?”

“How do the people inside the box stand being trapped like that?” He puzzled. Molly bustled into the dining room and deposited a basket of freshly baked rolls. “I mean, the glass has to be keeping them in there, but why don't they act upset about it? They don't even look like they know they're trapped!”

“That's because they're not trapped, Ronald.” Several pairs of astonished eyes flew to the bottom of the staircase, where Hermione stood with her hands on her hips. Harry stood just behind her, a smile as bright as the sunrise plastered across his face.

“Merciful Morgaine,” Molly declared, rushing towards her. She wrapped her in a crushing hug - one that smelled of lemons and meringue. Hermione's mouth began to water as she realized that she hadn't allowed herself a morsel of food since the funeral. “Thank Merlin! Oh, dear - I was so worried about you! You must be starved - come with me, and we'll get you something to eat.” Harry smothered a laugh as Hermione shot him a helpless glance, and watched Molly drag her into the kitchen.

“Well done, Harry,” Arthur said, grinning broadly at the boy he'd long considered a son.

“Blimey,” Ron said, clambering to his feet. “How'd you do it? How'd you get her to come down?”

Harry shrugged modestly and chose to remain silent. Ron opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, a hissing, spitting ball of orange fur streaked through the room.

“Bloody hell!” Came the oath from the redhead entering the room. Her father's head snapped up, and he gave her a look of severe disapproval, at which she had the good grace to blush. “Sorry, Dad. Crookshanks won't even eat now!” She said, directing this last bit at Harry and Ron. “If Hermione doesn't snap out of it soon, I'm going to-“

“She's in the kitchen, getting something to eat,” Arthur offered. Ginny's jaw dropped.

“Being force-fed, more like,” Ron muttered. Harry sniggered.

“How? When?”

“Harry went up there, and when he came back downstairs, she was with him.” Ginny turned amazed eyes to Harry, and he shifted uncomfortably. The admiration written so clearly on her face was embarrassing, and he wasn't sure how to respond to it.

“I think I'm going to go have a spot of something, too,” he said quickly, turning and heading towards the kitchen. He could have sworn that he heard a sigh of relief from the Weasley patriarch, and he stifled a laugh at it. He pushed the door to the kitchen open just in time to see Molly put a particularly large slice of lemon pie on Hermione's plate.

“Oh, hello, Harry,” Molly said, looking to be in better spirits than Harry had seen her for the last week. “Pull up a chair, and I'll fix you up a plate as well.”

Harry obeyed and sat at the small table across from Hermione, who slipped a forkful of the lemon confection in her mouth. Her eyes slipped shut, and Harry held back laughter at the look of pure enjoyment that crossed her face. In the next instant, Molly had given him a plate piled high with ham sandwiches, boiled potatoes, rolls, and other assorted vegetables.

“Can you eat all that?” He looked up at the sound of Hermione's teasing voice. Damn, he thought, picking up his fork. It's good to have her back and sounding normal again already.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Molly chastised gently. “He's a growing boy - of course he can eat all of it - can't you, Harry?”

Not knowing how to answer and not wanting to upset the delicate balance of happiness that had been temporarily restored to them, he simply smiled at her. Satisfied, Molly turned back to the stove, where she was working feverishly on some new concoction. Hermione raised her eyebrows at him.

“You are so bad,” she whispered, shaking her head. He grinned and shrugged before pointedly eyeing her half-eaten slice of pie, and the untouched plate of sandwiches beside of it.

“Sweet-tooth Hermione goes for the dessert before the real food, and you're saying I'm the bad one?” She rolled her eyes, eliciting a laugh from him.

“Oh, honestly! I know you're not really hungry, Harry. You just came in here to get away from Ron.”

“What would make you think that?” he asked, taking a small bite of one of his sandwiches.

“You know that Ron wouldn't follow you in here, because his Mum would make him eat something.”

“And since when has Ron ever not wanted to eat?” he asked, grinning. She looked down at her pie, gently pushing it around on the plate with her fork.

“Thank you,” she whispered, lifting her eyes to meet his. His smile slipped a bit when he saw the unshed tears there, and he nodded.

“What are friends for?”

She smiled and took another bite of pie as he struggled not to acknowledge the tears that were slipping down her cheeks.

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