A/N: Hello again, everyone. I would apologize for taking so long with this chapter, but I doubt any of you want to hear my excuses. I have re-organized this fic and made a proper outline that will no doubt help me in the writing the rest. However, as I write I do go off on unplanned tangents that considerably lengthen the chapter past its estimated conventions. Blah, blah, blah. Anyway, I hope that you enjoy chapter 5 and thanks to all of you that have reviewed so far!
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all his little friends= not mine.
Chapter 5~ Dream a Dream
She struggled violently against the envelope of blackness, the inky tendrils that wrapped tightly around her ankles, pulling her back down, down. Her body was sinking back into that abyss of memory, weighted down as though her wings were sodden with wetness and fusing to her skin. Matted chunks of hair flew into her face even as her voice was forced through constricted vocal chords to cry at her own unseen demons. And all the while, the still, stale air pushed from all directions without quite filling her lungs so that her protests were muffled in panicked gasps.
Without even looking beneath her, she knew what-or who-was there. Dull gray eyes, glinting like hard stone, glaring at her malevolently. These were not the eyes of the victim to who she had pledged to save, but a poor imitation, mutilated by her subconscious into an angry and vengeful spirit. Even in her sleep, her mind was acutely sharp and comparatively more inclined to torture her. This much she knew, but that did not enable her to wake up.
She shielded herself but the eyes were everywhere and all-seeing, just as accusatory as they had been in every nightmare since Robert's death. She wondered when exactly she had slipped so comfortably into the use of his Christian name as though he was an old acquaintance from her childhood or a mutual friend of Harry or Ron. Except that she took great care never to mention him by name, not to anyone, and most particularly not to Harry or Ron, for Harry would purse his lips and furrow his eyebrows in that pitying way and Ron would shuffle about uncomfortably and attempt to change the subject. Thus Robert became a specter often visited in nightmares like this one-or perhaps not like this one, Hermione thought as the images around her began to blur and change color.
Where once was gray was now a fiery red, splashed in great brushstrokes against the black curtains that seemed to surround her on all sides. The scene morphed into a replica of her Ministry office, complete with the mahogany desk and a merrily cracking charmed fire in the grate. Movement from the doorway drew her attention and, not unlike as in a pensieve, Hermione witnessed her dream's projection of herself and Charlotte seemingly in the midst of parting. Only this time, the chagrined Hermione noted, Charlotte's stooped body was raked in a sobbing fit as Hermione's dream self patted her shoulder awkwardly and thrust tissue after tissue into the poor woman's fists.
That's not how it happened, thought Hermione confusedly, even as a creeping doubt settled over her mind's recollection of the interview. Perhaps Charlotte had been quite emotional, and understandably so after probably breaking the silence of the details behind her husband's death after so many years. It was like a dam that, once the water broke through in a slow trickle, the pressure built up and it became harder and harder to stem the flow. Had it been like that for Charlotte, Hermione wondered as the scene ended and repeated like the wizarding photographs on her simulated mantel, only each time appeared more and more tragic. Hermione was held captivated by what she believed was obviously the way the appointment had really gone-why had she recalled it in such a positive light when clearly the woman she shut the door on was wasting away wretchedly after the death of her husband?
Maybe she did not always have all the answers. She had been wrong about a lot of things in her life-her feelings for Ron, Malfoy's involvement with the Death Eaters in her sixth year-was Charlotte's true state of mind just one of them? Was this the purpose of her dream then, to help her recognize this? The questions each contributed a leaden weight to press her down, but strangely, she felt herself buoyed upward by some invisible force and she looked down to see her body rising and the forms of Charlotte and her dream self diminishing against the once again black backdrop of her subconscious.
Hermione's eyes opened to find shafts of broken moonlight entering through the slits of her drawn blinds and perfectly illuminating the concerned green gaze of her best friend. His face relaxed when she blinked sleepily at him and his hand went from where it had been resting on her forehead to smoothing away the strands of hair that had become plastered to her face with the perspiration of unpleasant dreaming.
She sighed softly and looked away to where to moonlight pooled near her bed. As much as she loved waking up to the sight of him, she would have much preferred different circumstances. "I'm sorry for waking you," she whispered when the silence became unbearable.
His warm green eyes were still on her face though it was turned away. "You're just lucky I drank one too many butterbeers at dinner," he replied.
Her amusement was expressed in a thin-lipped smile and a quick expulsion of air through her nose. Somehow, even when he was avoiding the real subject, he comforted her.
"What is the same one?" he prodded, shifting back against the bedpost. Hermione ignored the fact that her legs were tangled in the sheets and her duvet lay somewhere on the floor and settled back more comfortably into her pillows.
"It started out that way," she answered, frowning at the tricks she managed on herself, "but then it was all different. It was Charlotte this time." She looked up to find Harry nodding at her in that maddeningly pitying way she had grown to dislike so much over the years. In a slight huff, she continued, "But no matter. I've realized that maybe I was idealizing the situation a bit too much. She was a weepy woman when she met me and a weepy woman when she left me, a far cry from the pillar of strength I had been imagining. I only saw her once, that doesn't mean that I was suddenly an expert on all things Charlotte. And I wasn't her counselor yet, there was no relationship established. I shouldn't have supposed that I knew her so well-she probably did poison herself."
She said all this very fast, anything to wipe that expression from his face. All too late she remembered his steadfast support in her request for an investigation even against the authority of his own Auror team, and she thought this was the reason why he blinked at her confusedly. Her hand flew up to her mouth and she breathed out a stuttered apology, "Oh Harry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to push you into anything! I was just upset about what happened and I guess I never thought to really look back on that morning because it was too painful."
He seemed to accept this but his features were still arranged in a bemused frown. She felt his gaze rake over her shiny eyes from her impassioned tirade and her flushed cheeks from her following apology, and she felt the color in her face deepen even more. Silently, she blessed the thin beams of moonlight not for their reflection off Harry's roving eyes but the inability to permeate the shroud of darkness that protected her blushing face from proper scrutiny. Involuntarily her breathes came faster and she feared that her quickened heartbeat was loud enough for him to hear just how glad she was that he couldn't fully make out the features of her face.
She made a business of extricating her imprisoned legs and he hastily stood up to assist her, seemingly glad to hurry his goodnight she thought with a touch of hurt. When he threw on the duvet and pulled it snugly under her chin, she dared to ask the question that had been floating through her mind since the silence had descended.
"Will you stay with me, Harry?" she whispered. His hands froze where they had been smoothing the wrinkles of the material and she became aware of just how close his face was to hers. "Please, Harry," she said even more quietly.
His body seemed to find its will again and he finished patting down the soft satin of her duvet before giving his answer in two simple words, "Anything, Hermione."
She smiled and released a breath she had not known she was holding, watching him watch her as he rounded the bed, pulled back the blankets, and slipped in beside her. She hated how pathetic her request sounded, especially since it was to the one person she wanted to think she was strong and in control, not an emotional mess. But she was more worried, and strangely exhilarated by the utterly naked honesty with which her mouth had formed the words. At the back of her mind, she wished she had chosen something sexier to sleep in, not that this was a seduction ploy by any means.
They had never tread this far before, even in the war-torn days of Horcrux hunting, and it was frightening to see how close to toeing their invisible line of friendship they were getting. Her thoughts were stilled when Harry's hand emerged from underneath the blankets and grasped her own, his eyes never leaving hers.
She thought she would never get to sleep after that, but her eyes must have closed in slumber not long after, because the next time they opened, pale sunlight had replaced the gentle moonlit beams and her room was bathed in the warm morning glow. Reluctant to break the spell, she gingerly shifted position to face Harry, noting with a suppressed giggle that their hands were still joined.
A glance at her alarm clock indicated that she still had another three-quarters of an hour before she had to get up for her first day back at St. Mungo's. Just the thought of going back to work made her want to groan out loud, but luckily she held it in. Nothing was more beautiful to her than the sight of a real, flesh and blood slumbering Harry in the space that she would normally imagine him when she woke up on gorgeous mornings like this. Though his emerald eyes were hidden beneath heavy lids, she absorbed the rare sight of a Harry sans glasses and was awestruck at how the years seemed to fall away and an innocent and maybe even somewhat vulnerable Harry lay by her side. His raven hair was even more tousled than usual and the sight of them plucked at those hidden maternal instincts that made her want to lick her palms and push it flat. With her hand in mid-motion toward fulfilling this very fantasy, Hermione remembered herself and retracted her hand at once.
She found herself having to do that more often these past few weeks, having to hold back at just the last moment from hugging him too long or studying his face more closely or even just smiling a bit too widely. Perhaps it was due to her time off from work, but she reckoned the real reason was that she was slowly cracking. Years of pining away after Harry had done this to her, she thought, and eventually she would become as mental as Ron had always claimed.
It seemed that Hermione had reached a crossroads in her regard for Harry: either she could suck it up and admit her feelings and suffer the possible consequences or she could actually try to move on. But to continue on trying to simultaneously suppress her romantic attachment while carrying out her role of "loyal and dependable best friend" would be cheating herself out of the happiness she deserved. As she gazed at the plaster patterns in her ceiling and debated the matter so dear to her heart, she felt Harry stir next to her. It was when she looked over at her bed partner just as he yawned and rubbed his eyes that her decision was made for her. How could she give him up?
He blinked open those emerald green eyes that had so often been the centerpiece of many a nighttime fantasy and aimed them sleepily in her direction. She tensed up, anticipating the same grand entrance of awkwardness that had descended that morning so many weeks ago when she and Harry had awoken on the couch.
"Hello, Hermione," he said pleasantly, as though waking up beside her wasn't at all unusual. Of course, once that thought was conjured, her heartbeat immediately quickened, though she was still awaiting the arrival of those awkward feelings.
She affected a cheeky grin and joked, "Why hello, Harry, fancy meeting you here." A blush worked its way up her neck at the bold comment despite her sassy delivery, but she did not allow herself to look away. If she weren't mistaken, there seemed to also be a faint tinge of pink on Harry's cheeks as well-
"Did you sleep all right?" he asked, all business.
Hermione's grin faded and she rolled back to resume her study of the ceiling, as though by avoiding Harry's eyes she could also hide her shame for reverting to a blubbering child every time she had a nightmare. "I slept very well, thank you," she said formally, tightening her arms around her sheets.
Harry's throat cleared once and then again. Hermione stifled a groan. Well you wanted awkward, Hermione. Congratulations, now you've got it. She turned to apologize for her ungrateful behavior and thank him properly for keeping her company, but he was already pushing back the sheets to get out of the bed. He almost to the door-she was distracted by the wayward wondering of when during the night that he had removed his shirt-when she stopped him.
"Harry, wait!" She wrestled from underneath her covers and met him where he stood shifting his weight uneasily between his feet. "I'm sorry, Harry. I have no right to speak to you that way when you've just…done what you did. You didn't have to stay with me, but you did. So thanks," she said, trailing off lamely.
Harry shrugged in his characteristic way. "What are friends for?" he replied with the smallest hint of dejection. "Hermione listen, about what you said last night-"
"I know, it's just that…it's hard for me to let myself be seen in…vulnerable moments," she continued earnestly, determined to explain her behavior no matter how much dignity it seemed to cost her.
To her relief, Harry did not look on her in sympathy but she could see in his eyes that he understood her jumbled explanation. He chuckled and said, "I think I've been guilty of that once or twice," causing her to break out in a grin. "You don't have to apologize for that, Hermione. You were there for me when I was clinging to my Mr. Repressed Emotions persona after the war, now I get to be there for you. It's just what we do."
Hermione blinked back the tears that were accumulating. "I just wanted to thank you properly anyway," she said, her voice made scratchy by the sudden emotion.
Harry gave his modest half-smile and whispered, "You're welcome, see you at breakfast," before kissing her forehead softly and leaving her to get dressed in privacy. She wandered aimlessly across the room toward her closet, catching the goofy grin she was wearing in the mirror above her dresser and wondering when Harry had become such a physically affectionate person.
Her mind was still thus occupied ten minutes later, after she had buttoned herself in a tasteful blouse and skirt and donned her stockings and plain black flats. As far as she was concerned, Hermione was the only woman that Harry treated so openly, which warmed her heart considerably and sent a lovely blush up her cheeks, but she conceded that she was one of the only women in his close acquaintance. A nasty voice in her subconscious pointed out that over a decade of friendship was bound to make even the most emotionally repressed persona capable of brief human contact; it didn't meant that Harry had any romantic intentions toward her. He probably didn't even realize he was doing it, she thought, the goofy grin now gone from her face.
Ruthlessly she combed her bushy locks into submission and secured them tightly in a practical knot at the base of her neck. With one last glance in the mirror, Hermione sighed, grabbed her briefcase for the first time in weeks and headed down the hall for breakfast. Her steps slowed slightly when she caught her name being used by one of the male voices in the kitchen. Pausing just around the corner, she listened intently to the whispered conversation that seemed to be about her, and banished the scolding voice in her head-that sounded suspiciously like her mother's-reminding her of all the eavesdropping she'd been up to as of late.
"-sure doesn't sound like Hermione, mate," came the familiar voice of Ron. "I mean, her skills in that department are a little scary. Need I remind you of the pork pie incident? I'm still living down the shame."
Hermione furrowed her brow in confusion. What were they talking about? Her musings were cut short by Harry's hasty reply.
"No! Ron, please, I think I'm set for life on that one. I'm just saying it seems a little out of character for her to be changing her mind about something important like this so…extremely."
Ron snorted. "A woman that changes her mind suddenly? Someone alert the Prophet!" he said sarcastically.
Hermione could almost see Harry rolling his eyes, but she still had no idea what Harry was getting at. She was about to make her presence known when Harry made his reply.
"I'm telling you, Ron, it's strange. She doesn't even seem to remember how intent she was on proving Charlotte unlikely to commit suicide. Now she's saying the woman was weak and practically on the verge of collapse!" Harry exclaimed, his voice still an intense whisper.
There was a pause while Ron seemed to be considering Harry's earnest claim. Finally he said, his tone even softer so that Hermione had to turn her head to hear him, "Now that you mention it, with the way you made that woman Charlotte sound when Hermione first met her, it does seem off that Hermione would suddenly think otherwise. But I think maybe you and Hermione have been living together too long-it's usually her that reads too much into everything, which it seems to me, exactly what you're doing."
Hermione could take no more listening in on a discussion that centered on her but made no sense to her whatsoever. She was fine, in excellent health (or at least in a state that nothing but a bit of exercise could improve further), and she was finally admitting to herself that her so-called faith in Charlotte Fairclough was unfounded-it was high time to stop deluding herself. She decided to consider the matter fully later and in the meantime, prepare for her grand return to work. She back-tracked a few steps toward her bedroom and exaggerated the volume of her walking on her re-approach to the kitchen. She could detect the sound of Harry and Ron both clearing their throats and one set of footsteps moving away from the table.
Rounding the corner, she gave a false start at the sight of her ginger-haired best friend. "Ron!" she exclaimed, putting a hand to her chest, "What brings you to our humble abode at such a wee hour?"
While Harry came over from the stove and distributed bacon on Hermione and Ron's empty plates, Ron explained that not only had the WWW's polyjuice cloaks been optioned for early release by several European and Asian wizarding sponsors, but that in honor of the occasion he was going to treat his two best friends to dinner.
"Congratulations, Ron!" commended Harry and Hermione in unison as Harry clapped Ron loudly on the back. Briefly Hermione and Harry made eye contact before Hermione looked away, Harry's mysterious concerns about her echoing in her mind.
"Thanks," said Ron in a choking voice. "I also thought that I'd drop the bother of you off at work, seeing as it's your first day back, Hermione."
Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Wow Ron, that's rather thoughtful of you, as long as I don't end getting killed in that deathtrap of yours," she said, only sort of joking.
Ron pretended to be offended. "Deathrap!? I'll have you know that The Canon was outfitted by the most skilled, er, mekanicks in Muggle London! Besides, anyone who can survive being Crookshanks' mistress without dying is certain to survive a short ride with me at the wheel."
Harry was choking back his laughter at Ron's outburst, but Hermione was busy schooling her facial features into a sharp look of reproach aimed at Ron for abusing the memory of her cat in that way. Soon she failed, her mouth breaking out into a grin as she admitted to herself that it was the things like Ron's ongoing feud with Crookshanks that kept him alive in her memory.
When the dishes were cleaned and, in Ron's case, fourth helpings of scrambled eggs were consumed, the trio headed out the door of the flat and down to where Ron had managed to squeeze his already miniscule car into a minute space right in front of the front door to the building.
"Now how's that for door to door service," he said, puffing out his chest proudly as she and Harry rolled their eyes.
With Hermione and Harry safely ensconced in the passenger and backseat respectively, Ron gave the horn a hearty toot and asked in an affected posh accent, "Where to, miss?"
Hermione sighed, her good humor sapped by the thought of her destination and what she might find there. "To St. Mungo's, if you please," she replied as she sagged into her seat.
Harry seemed to have picked up on her anxiety. "I'm sure it will be fine, Hermione." He reached forward from the backseat to rub her shoulder reassuringly. She smiled softly to herself and patted his hand, grateful that Harry was her best friend first and foremost.
"Yeah, you'll knock `em dead," said Ron jovially. It took a few moments for him to notice the glares his two friends were shooting at him. "What?" Another pause. "Oh," he said, his entire hairline seemingly moving back with the realization. He smacked his forehead with his left hand. "Sorry, `Mione."
Hermione sighed as she watched the pedestrians on their morning commute enjoying the unseasonably lovely sunshine. "It's fine, Ron. I just hope we never lose our senses of humor."
Almost on cue, Harry and Ron burst out into laughter. "Listen to you!" Ron said, glancing over at her from the corner of his eye.
"I'm serious!" she exclaimed indignantly.
Still laughing in broken spurts, Harry said, "Hermione, if we haven't lost our sense of humor by now, I doubt we ever will."
Hermione cracked a smile at her own expense and soon the car was filled with the sounds of laughter. Not too long later, Ron was pulling in to a parking stall in a shopping area near to the entrance to St. Mungo's. Hermione opened the door and stepped out, clicking the lever on her seat to move it forward so that Harry could take her seat. For a brief moment, she and Harry were standing alone on the curb out of Ron's sight.
She looked down the street at where St. Mungo's was hidden to the Muggle world. Harry saw her apprehension and whispered her some last words of encouragement. "You'll be great, Hermione, you'll see."
"Thank you, Harry," she replied just as quietly. They held eyes and Harry looked as though he was going to say something more when Ron interrupted.
"Oi, hurry it along, will you? Places to go, people to see!"
Hermione bent down to thank her driver despite his being a total prat, and laughed, "I feel like you lot are dropping me for the Hogwarts Express."
"Does that mean I won't see you for another nine months?" he asked with a feigned hopefulness.
Hermione rolled her eyes and stepped away so that Harry could close his door. Through the open window he said, "Don't worry. I'll see you later on tonight."
She nodded and watched the orange Mini drive away as she made her way through the entrance of St. Mungo's and down toward her office. If it's still there, she thought bitterly with the slightest bit of genuine fear.
She had just said good morning to Isabelle and was listening to the familiar clopping of her flats on the shiny wooden floor when she noticed that her footsteps weren't the only set she was hearing.
"Miss Granger!" came the loud bellow of Hermione's boss. She turned around, cursing the fact that if she had walked just a tad faster she could have missed this run-in completely. She waited the several moments it took for Ebenezer Powell's lumbering form to meet her and arranged her features into a polite greeting so as not to betray her impatience. He finally arrived, out of breath from the quickish pace. Mopping his shiny forehead with a pocket square, he panted, "Back from leave, I see."
Hermione bit back her instinctive praise to his ability to state the obvious and nodded dutifully. "Back and ready to work, Mr. Powell," she said, trying to gain some knowledge on what footing she was on with her employer. Unfortunately she could read nothing from his piggish watery gray eyes but detected from the lovely shade of purple he was turning that he was not entirely pleased. If his next words are `Now see here,' I'm done for, she thought morosely, plastering a sweet smile on her face.
"Now see here, Miss Granger," Powell began as Hermione grumbled internally. "I trust you received the letter regarding your limited job duties for a short probationary period upon your return to employment."
Hermione stuck up her chin defiantly. "I received the information you were so good as to send me, sir. However, I must contest the restriction on seeing the clients that I already have. If I may say so, sir, what is the use of bringing me back to work when I can't even keep my scheduled appointments?"
Powell's jaw flopped open and closed in shock; Hermione had never spoken so plainly to him before. Hermione's heart was beating double time but she was convinced that she was in the right. After all, how would she fill her days with no clients to see and no reports to make?
Finally Powell returned to himself. "The Ministry is not accustomed to negotiation in these matters, Miss Granger. That is to say, it is not proper to abandon protocol-"
"I'm not requesting that you `abandon protocol,' sir, I'm simply looking out for my clients' best interests, which, despite recent events, are still to keep their scheduled sessions with me." She waited while Powell appeared to be considering her plight.
With a deep breath and a final stroke of his bushy moustache, he replied, "You support your case well, Miss Granger. Of course, as you know, there were some unfortunate circumstances in the past regarding that Fairclow woman, and we here do not hold you personally accountable. It is then my decision that you should resume your usual duties under the condition that you refer all new patients to another psychotherapist. Are we clear?"
"Yes, sir," Hermione responded with a true smile. She resisted the unprofessional urge to jump up and down and clap her hands and even managed to ignore her boss' mangling of Charlotte's name. Her happiness evaporated however when Powell continued.
"Unfortunately, as the events of Mrs. Faircloff's death are investigated, I have been ordered to seize all files and notes you possess making mention of your session with Mrs. Faircloo and her character," he said in a rush.
Hermione was speechless. "Ordered? By whom? Excuse me sir, but this is not standard procedure in a case like this," she spluttered, her confidence wavering having been caught off guard.
It was Powell's turn to tilt up his chin. "Under the orders of the Ministry of Magic, I must confiscate these files, Miss Granger. You had your negotiation, this is the payment. Do you want to see your patients or not? That privilege can easily be revoked," he said, his bulky form bearing down on her.
She gasped at his implication. "Are you blackmailing me, Mr. Powell?" she asked in a dangerously low tone.
He immediately stepped back and the color of his face returned to normal. "No, Miss Granger, merely keeping you apprised of the developments of your practice. I will not have you bring down this department." He dropped his tone to match hers and said, "And this time, not even your friends in high places can help you."
All at once, Hermione realized that Powell knew about her involvement in the investigation of Charlotte Fairclough's death. Angrily she thrust her briefcase into the unsuspecting arms of her employer. "Fine," she said, opening its latch and digging in its depths for the folders comprising Charlotte's information that her quill had committed to the parchment during the single session. Forcefully, she shut the case and ripped it from Powell's arms, replacing it with the now confiscated case files. "Fine," she said again, and continued on her journey to office. Throwing open the door, she looked up to see that she wasn't alone.
A/N: This one was originally supposed to be twice as long, but I like to keep a consistent word count and this seemed the best place to cut it. But since I know exactly what the next chapter will hold, I don't think it will take too long to get it out to you all. Thanks for reading, if you want to let me know what you think in a review I would really appreciate it. Now I must go watch "Cash Cab" on the Discovery Channel!
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