Chapter 7
Shattering
The cool wood of my office door soothes my burning forehead as I lean against it. My hair is a mess, my shoes and the hems of my pants are covered in mud, and my shirt is plastered to my back. After a few minutes, my breathing evens out and the immediate urge to hyperventilate has passed. I push myself away from the door, wishing I could take a shower. Cleaning charms work just fine, but nothing calms your muscles like a good shower.
I walk behind my desk and plop into my chair, relaxing against the cold leather. With a few soft `pop's, three departmental memos materialize above my head. Tiredly, I reach a hand out and let them land lightly in my palm. All three are from my secretary, Malia, who is a stickler for taking messages.
The first one alerts me of the annual Ministry of Magic Masquerade Ball, held every October 31. I toss it into the rubbish bin and go to the next one. It reads in Malia's tidy scrawl:
Mr. Weasley stopped by to take you to lunch. I told him you were out with Darren. Said he'll drop by again later.
Great. Maybe if I had gone with Ron, I wouldn't be in this whole proposal mess. For a moment, the image Darren holding out the velvet-boxed ring flashes in my mind. We haven't been going out long enough to think about marriage; we haven't even talked about it. And seriously, what was he thinking when he bought that ring? It's ENORMOUS. It could sink a bloody cruise ship! There's no way I would walk around the likes of Diagon Alley wearing such a monstrosity. I bet he could just picture us, parading around like a couple of show dogs.
Still simmering, I lay the note aside and open the last one.
Your mother rang you on that fellytone thingamajig of yours. Wants to know when you, Mr. Potter, and Mr. Weasley can come by for dinner.
Mum. When was the last time we were over at the house? Gosh, it's been ages. Mum fell in love with Harry and Ron within moments of meeting them when I brought them both to the house for dinner the night after Harry announced that he had just bought us a house. Mum and Dad were anxious to meet the two boys...men...that had been my life for the better part of seven years. Harry instantly volunteered to help her in the kitchen, delighting her by donning the red-and-white-checkerboard apron she handed him and whipping up a last minute batch of chocolate truffles for dessert. Ron, of course, ate with gusto and kept her smiling and blushing throughout the meal with buckets of praise. It suddenly hits me how much I miss her and Dad. I hate how I seem to have pulled away from everyone over the past few months. Perhaps Ron was right; maybe I have made Darren too big a part of my life.
"Ms. Granger!" Malia's somewhat shrill voice echoes throughout the room. I hate this newfangled magical speaker system the Ministry is using.
"Yes, Malia?"
"Mr. Weasley is back. Are you available?"
I take a deep breath, pausing a second to mumble a few refreshing charms on my exhausted body.
"Yes, send him in."
From behind my door, there comes a glowing blue light, a harshly muttered `Ouch! Bloody contraption!' and a series of clicks.
"Come in, Ron," I say in the sing-song voice I reserve especially for him. My door knob turns and Ron walks in, shutting the door behind him and holding the fingers of his right hand in the other.
"Must we always do that when we come visit you? That stupid laser thingy always stings my fingers."
I smile, despite my current situation.
"I'm sorry, Ron, but yes. Security thing, you know."
"Yeah, whatever. Are you still hungry? `Cause if you are, we can go catch a bite."
"Yes," I say gratefully, grabbing my purse and looping my arm through his, "I've had the most horrible day..."
~*~
Four hours later, after seeing Ron off to a last minute practice session, I apparate onto our front porch, looking forward to that shower. However, I am surprised to find two vehicles in our driveway, not one. A brown mini-cooper stands in sharp contrast next to Harry's silver Mercedes. The now familiar panic that took over me this afternoon envelops me again, and I take a few deep breaths before muttering a soft "Alohomora" and tip-toeing into the foyer. Cautiously, I leave my Doc Marten's on the mat by the door and climb the stairs.
The door into Harry's flat is cracked just enough to let a stream of light issue onto the hallway floor. With a small push, the door swings open silently, and I make my way into the den. There, I hear Harry's baritone from the kitchen. It sounds fatigued, as if he's been arguing with someone for quite some time.
"She already told you no, Darren."
Darren's slightly higher alto answers exasperatedly, "But she obviously wasn't thinking clearly. I mean, c'mon Harry, we're perfect for each other! We work in the same department, enjoy doing the same things. She's just scared because marrying me means leaving the two of you on your own. Doesn't like change much, does she? But sacrifices must be made for these sorts of things. All in all, I believe the transition in living arrangements will do her some good."
Not thinking clearly? Transition in living arrangements? How dare he? And `Do her some good,' my arse. Pfft! I think that one swift kick in the groin would do him some good.
"There is nothing wrong with her living arrangements," Harry counters, and I can bet the muscle in his jaw is clenching, even though I can't see him. The stern note in his voice confirms what I already know.
Harry's always been a bit sensitive about the three of us living together. I think he knows that one day we'll all meet someone, get married, and move away, but a part of him wishes that things could just stay the way they have always been. That the three of us can have the unburdened years together that we didn't have when we were at school. Personally, I don't see the reason why the three of us shouldn't stay together. After all, we have been friends for...well...ever, really. And I don't quite know what I'd do if I woke up and knew I wouldn't be seeing them at breakfast that morning, or that I wouldn't be able to listen to them babble endlessly about Quidditch over dinner, or argue over the remote control with my dad when we visit my parents' house. For a second, I forget about the interactions I'm listening to and wallow temporarily in the realization that one day, when I do decide to get married, they won't be the most important part of my life anymore.
"Pish-posh," Darren's interjection brings me back. "It's unhealthy for a woman of her stature and emotional status to be in the constant presence of two single men; especially two that rely on her for so many things. Seriously, mate, when all this gets straightened out, I don't know how the two of you will get on without her here to do your bidding."
The loud crash of a chair falling over and a tea cup clattering on the ceramic-tiled floor makes me start, and I use the commotion to mask the sound of me hastily opening the kitchen door just enough to see through the crack in between the hinges, hoping they won`t notice the difference in position. I struggle to hold back a gasp at the sight. From the looks of it, they're too pre-occupied to worry about the door.
Darren is pinned against the wall with Harry's hand firmly fixed at the base of his neck. The air around the two of them seems to crackle with static.
"First of all," Harry growls, his voice shaking with apparent rage, "let's get one thing straight. You're no mate of mine, and the sooner you realize that, the better. Secondly, Hermione isn't here to `do our bidding,' I believe you said, and neither is she with you to do yours. Any wizard who plans to reproduce knows that."
Darren's face is turning an unbecoming plum sort of color from lack of oxygen, and I silently pray that Harry doesn't hurt him. As Harry's grip tightens on Darren's neck, the first explosion occurs. With a load tinkling of glass, one of the wine bottles in the kitchen combusts, sending glittering shards through the air and dark red liquid onto the floor. All my thoughts of intervening quickly disperse; with Harry's magic out of control, I don't want to risk any injury to the three of us.
"You crazy bastard," Darren chokes out, and a second bottle shatters. This time, the glass is thrown their way, the shrapnel leaving cuts on their cheeks. Darren flinches away from the pain, gasping for breath, but Harry doesn't seem to notice. I want to cry out; I want to stop it, to help them somehow, but my muscles are frozen, and my shout is stuck somewhere around my tonsils.
"And thirdly," Harry continues, his tone a deadly calm, "if anything in Hermione's life is unhealthy, it's you. Last time I checked, she, Ron, and I defeated the most powerful Dark Lord in a century. I don't believe people who go through that sort of ordeal are doing anything unhealthy by living together, do you?"
Darren's fingers claw at Harry's skin, but Harry only pushes him harder against the wall.
"Do you?"
Frantically, Darren shakes his head no, and Harry releases him from his grasp, letting him fall unceremoniously to the floor.
"I thought so," Harry says.
For a moment, I am jarred by how much they resemble each other. Not just in appearance, but in emotional intensity as well. Suddenly, their fight doesn't seem to be directly about me and my well-being anymore. It's about their places in my life. It's about their status almost. The revelation both frightens and excites me. At no point in my life have I been in this sort of situation. And finally, I realize that this isn't a fight; it's a battle, a war. And obviously, it's something that's been brewing for a while without my knowing about it.
Darren's eyes shoot him a fiery gaze as he struggles to get up. Harry turns, probably with the intent of cleaning up the mess he just made, when Darren picks up a particularly large piece of glass and pulls back his arm, as if to strike him with it.
"You really don't want to do that," Harry states, almost offhandedly, and flicks his hand toward Darren's. The shard rises sharply out of his hand.
"Evanesco," Harry mumbles, and the glass disappears.
An awed, yet crazed look comes over Darren's face.
"You're insane. No wizards or witches besides Grindlewald and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named have been able to perform wandless magic. I'll bet all the money in Gringotts that the Ministry doesn't know about this little talent of yours. And won't the Daily Prophet be pleased to hear that their Golden Boy possesses evil powers like the Dark Lord himself. Dumbledore's Man, indeed. You're just a worthless piece of trash that got in his way of solitary victory and he used you as a weapon, as a way to channel He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's thoughts."
A third, fourth, and fifth bottle explode, and I can almost feel the atmosphere darken as Harry's temper skyrockets. Of course, Harry knows that every word out of Darren's mouth is misinformed. Darren knows nothing at all about the prophecy that laid out Harry's fate. Yet, deep down, I know that what Darren is saying is awakening long laid-away doubts that Harry was simply a stand-in, a pawn in Dumbledore's plan to vanquish Voldemort.
"I'll ask her again when the time is right," Darren goes on, "and when I do, she'll be begging me to take her away from you."
"Really, now," Harry replies, his eyes glittering dangerously. "Why don't you ask her that yourself?"
"What are you on about?"
Harry smiles. It's sardonic, yet victorious, and that, along with his words, chills me to the bone.
His voice rings out in the harsh silence of the room, "Come on in, Hermes."
A/N:: I was soo pumped when I read everyone's reveiws! Thanks so much for all of your support. Of course, without my precious reviewers, there would be no story. Kudos, yet again, to Mabel for beta-ing this chappie! And always remember:: Reviewing is good for the author's soul!
~Mandy
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