Disclaimer: I don't know why I write this every time. I do not own Harry Potter. If I did Hermione would still be Hermione!
Hi everyone. I big thankyou to Katie you is still with me after my absence. I have been very buys with final rehearsal,
exams and I also got the flu in case anyone wanted to know why there wasn't an update. I'm feeling better now.
Important note 1: This will be my last update until September as I am in the UK and Edinburgh from 27/7/07-----31/8/07 for the Edinburgh fringe festival.
Updates will commence from September 12/9/07 and I hope to update more frequently as I will have a much less work load than now.
Important note 2: Regardless of the 6th and 7th book of Harry Potter I WILL FINISH THIS.
Hermione is my favourite character and I shall try to do her justice.
I do hope you'll enjoy this part and feel free to PM anytime to ask questions and badger and whatnot…..
Rating: has been changed to R…..overall (the story) I don't think it would be NC17…it may do….
I'm not too sure. If you feel, however, the rating needs to be changed. Please let me know
Finally thank you for your continued support. I only write for enjoyment.
Any mistakes and grammar errors are from my last minute corrections.
_ _ _ _ __ _ __ _ _ __
Chapter 11
Harry slipped his hand in hers; his small calloused hand led her back to the girl's dormitories.
Hermione was unsure on how to think. Since her brain flawlessly calculated the pros and cons and logistics of every situation a simple matter of the heart always confounded her.
How was she supposed to cope with the random mood changes of Harry?
Logic told her that Harry needed information, support and loyalty.
Her heart, on the other hand, whispered otherwise.
The boy with broken horn-rimmed glasses and a boyish smile had died and a total stranger took his place.
Sure, he was the same friend she'd befriended in 1st year
but there were obvious differences that made her feel torn inside.
Despite what she saw Hermione felt that someone else was wearing Harry's skin.
She was unsure, despite what Sirius had told her, if she could put complete faith in this new Harry.
He never smiled. His full lips, normally dry or chapped had been fused into a horizontal line; some would think that he had cement for lips instead of flesh.
His eyes no longer had soul. Two deep pools of black jade---cold and unflinching----it made her wonder if the potion he took made him void of all emotions.
This reminds me, I must find out the ingredients' of this so called potion that caused this mess to begin with…
He walked taller, no crouching or head titled to the floor. His voice, still a scratchy tenor hummed with a deeper undertone.
His other hand poised at his side, unflinching or showing any sign of movement.
Most importantly, he rarely carried his wand.
A wand was more than just an instrument of magic; it was an extension of one's body, mind and soul.
Her wand enabled Hermione to channel the magic stored inside to flow outwards in bright sparks. Not carrying your wand was like having no soul.
This is what troubled her the most, Harry not carrying his wand and her not knowing the reason why.
They stood in the shadows a few feet away from the stairs leading up to her room. Harry's hand seemed to clutch hers a little tighter.
She turned and looked up into his green eyes. She saw her friend but there was a whole unknown that stood between them. It was suffocating her.
Yet, it caused things inside her to bubble and her breath became somewhat shallow as he stood closer to her, placing a wet kiss on the top of her brow.
"I'll see you in the morning"
She watched as he walked with his head held up high---almost on a mission---down the corridor and she felt her heart break.
Her childhood friend had died and a man took his place and the thing that troubled her most was that she didn't mind at all. Not one bit.
** **************************** **
Jonas Smith, newly appointed human representative at Azkaban Prison was not having a good day.
First off, he was late to his shift courtesy of his late-girlfriend, Cassandra, whom informed him that for the past six months she had been sleeping with their next door neighbour, Rohan Vestaburg, a potion master from Berlin.
Secondly, their newest arrival, Peter Pettigrew had somehow escaped the magic bonds that bound him to the boat in which he was sent from the Ministry of Magic.
The prison of Azkaban was a tall 19th century castle built by Mosaic Azkaban in 1806.
It was mostly rubble now, and the majority of the cells were housed in an underground labyrinth except for the ones housed in the four towers that stood at each point of the castle.
The four towers housed the most insane and colourful inmates of Europe.
A small group of twenty Azkaban guards searched through the prison that stood on the end of a rocky cliff face.
At the bottom of the cliff was Jonas, walking along the pebble stone shoreline, losing himself in the endless roll of dark waves and wondered how he was going to get himself out of this mess.
A few metres up, Louis Baton, his comrade, was distraught; blubbering between French and English he cursed out orders to a small herd of Dementors. Out of everyone, Louis was crazy enough to speak with those creatures face to face without throwing up.
«Regarde-la Non ! Non Ce n'est pas vrai …oh-la…Look in cell24!»
Louis Baton was twenty six (two years older than Jonas) was six foot two with shoulder length black hair and piercing grey eyes.
A pencil thin scar blazed against his left cheek. He was wearing customary guard uniform, black pants and grey shirt and a dark green robe that was billowing against the cold sea air.
The dementors floated away and the cold air became somewhat bearable as he walked closer to his friend.
Louis smiled as he drew closer.
" Salut Jonas-Ca va- "
Jonas had no idea what his friend was saying when he dropped back into his native tongue.
He simply nodded and pondered how he was going to explain to the ministry that their prized prisoner, Peter Pettigrew had escaped just barely two hours after he had arrived.
"The dementors have informed me that someone from the ministry is here,"
Louis's grey eyes flickered over to the left and Jonas's heart sank, he saw a single figure in maroon robes heading over to them.
How did they know? Jonas wondered? How did they send someone here so fast? His heart began to pound more loudly in his head.
A petite figure of 5'6 was visible, with long fair hair and green eyes.
A black crest on the upper left shoulder showed a simple patch design of a broom and a wand crossed.
Hang on, Jonas thought. That's the sign of the Department of Magical games and sport. Why send…
Louis didn't notice the symbol; he was already calling out to the female.
"Ah ministry lackey," he heckled. Louis wasn't a big fan of the ministry. "Come to check on our progress? I assure you that everything is going to----"
The woman walked closer, close enough for Jonas to see the fear visible in her eyes. Her lips were moving but no sound came out.
Jonas's ears perked, something was not right.
His friend on the other hand saw nothing and continued to mumble curses in French.
She was a foot away when he recognised her-----Bertha Jorkins. She worked for the notorious loon, Barty Crouch.
His friend fell silent.
It was then he saw what the word Bertha was mouthing.
RUN
Her eyes shone with tears and he saw a flicker of a man behind him.
A gloved hand jolted him from his reverie and he whirled around to see his friend lying dead on the beach and two blazing brown eyes hidden underneath a silver skull.
A flash of green followed, unmistakable pain and he felt no more.
** **************************** **
Barty crouch Jr. didn't really mean to do it but that man was asking for it. Typical, get mesmerised by a gawking witch and not hear his friend die right next to him----he flicked out his tongue like a hungry snake----although, he stopped briefly to look at the dead bodies submerged in black sand, his friend died pretty well, unlike the others.
He didn't scream or draw attention to himself. He just fell over like a big silent statue. He should win some kind of prize.
Was there some kind of prize for the best death? Barty smiled to himself. He would ponder this later. Meanwhile……
Bertha Jorkins stood rigid but he could feel her screaming in hysterics underneath his imperius curse.
"Aww," he crooned, smiling at her softly, he whispered into her ear. "That's not a way to act---" he drew back and made sure Bertha got a full view of his silver skull before saying, "you started it," he waved his gloved hands to the two dead men on the beach.
He waved his wand with a gentle turn of his wrist and whispered the killing curse underneath his lips.
He watched as she fell to the ground, unlike the others, she flopped like a fish, her tongue lolling out with a sickening pop, and wiggled against the black sand. He tutted, he leant down and placed a glove hand on her rib cage, caressing her gently he lulled her to stay still.
Obviously------he thought, looking at her now still form, her eyes were half lidded and her tongue remained half sagging out, so bits of sand decorated her chin and foamed around her mouth.
-----------------------------She didn't know how to die properly either.
An unmistakable smell of rotting cheese and mud filled his nose before he could ponder this further.
Ah, he thought with distain. Peter.
He never questioned his master's plan but Peter? Why him? Hadn't he shown enough loyalty? Hadn't he shown loyalty when many others, many unworthy of mentioning, fled?
Barty slipped his wand inside his leather overcoat----which, he might add, was quite useful and sexy----- with a large rigid collar; rows of zippers decorated each breast pocket, its silver teeth shining in the moonlight. I could get shagged in this, he chuckled.
Shaking himself from his thoughts, Barty followed the horrid smell until he came upon a balding plump-like creature huddled between two dementors.
Barty bowed to the two dementors and if they could speak they would've but they preferred to nod and float away.
He grinned, terrible creatures but always fascinating and very dark, very dark……Barty flicked out his tongue at peter and wiggled his eyebrows.
Peter whimpered.
Barty used the heel of his leather boot to kick peter hard in the back with a satisfying wet thwack; the sound of bones creaking made him all warm and fuzzy inside.
"Get up," he snapped, his tongue touching the brim of his mask. "Take my hand," he added, holding out his right hand.
As soon as Peter's slimy podgy hands touched his, Barty focused on the location his master had fed him in his sleep.
The thought of washing his hands was his last coherent thought before he dissipated with Peter to the Riddle house.
The thickness of the wind told Barty that he was in Little Hangleton. He heard a loud thump behind him and a second later peter whined.
He kicked him, pushing his body with his foot hard into the dirty footpath. When would Peter learn to keep quiet? He kicked him again
.
He never liked rodents.
Barty's left arm throbbed, despite his many layers, and he clutched it gingerly before looking up at the old battle-torn Victorian house with wonder.
It suddenly dawned on him. His master was inside that house!
He wished he had a mirror or something, sighing; he ruffled his thick brown hair, horribly pulled back by his silver death mask.
He pulled the mask off his face and traced his three-day beard, evident by the sand-paper texture of his skin, with his gloved forefinger.
Sighing, he placed his mask back on, crouched, grabbed Peter by his neck and hurled him upright and dragged him sobbing incoherently into the house.
** **************************** **
The summer leading up to fourth year was full of unexpected changes for Harry and Hermione.
For one, Harry never dreamed of volunteering to stay with the Dursleys but he knew that he had to stay (because of his
mother's spell) until he was seventeen, again.
There was also the problem that his Godfather, although Sirius had invited him to stay at his new cottage via owl post Harry wasn't quite ready to face him yet.
Part of him was still bitter of his actions towards him; another couldn't face the idea of what might happen if they resolved the issue right now.
His summer was as usual, Dull and boring. The weather never changed.
The constant dry and harsh heat caused many of the inhabitants of Privet Drive to seek solace inside their air-conditioned houses.
Usually Harry spent his days fighting the constant bearing heat to weed Aunt Petunia's garden or hording over the kitchen stove until blisters became second skin.
However, this time, Harry found a way to pass the time with revenge.
He never really liked the idea of placing sleeping drugs or poison into people's drinks but a couple of months training with Mahir and he got over it pretty quickly.
In fact, it was quite useful to know that any household items could be used to cause his cousin, Dudley to have a bad case of "runs" for three weeks after eating his takeout he had asked Harry to purchase. Petunia's usually flawless skin seem to ooze out in big blistering sores from a lotion she normally used.
Harry knew that he shouldn't be doing this and he could almost hear Hermione's voice chastising him for stooping so low and reprimanding him for his almost Malfoy-like actions but it was the subtle way of his actions that kept him sane while he endured his relatives.
It was Friday afternoon, the day before the Weasley's were due to pick him up to see the Quidditch World cup that Harry realised that he needed to see Hermione beforehand.
First, to discuss with her what had happened before and to also explain that during his time at the Weasley's he would need some help to remain civil.
It's not like he hated them. No, he didn't, but past actions from the Weasley family caused him great grief and wounds that have yet to be healed.
It's always people who are closest to you that cut you deeply. That's what Mahir always used to say to him before he died.
Harry just wanted, no needed to speak with Hermione-----before he did something he'd regret and lash out at Ron or, more importantly, Mrs. Weasley, for her obvious attempts of putting Ron and Hermione together.
"And what do you think you're doing!" Aunt Petunia snapped from the kitchen once she saw him heading out the door. Her high heels clacked loudly along the hallway as she rounded upon him in high-pitched hysterics, "There is still so much to do and you haven't done anything you ungrateful-----"
"I'm going to visit a friend." Harry interrupted, really not in the mood for Petunia's tantrums. Up close he could still see the hard bumps splotched all over her high cheekbones. He really shouldn't have used too much lavender in that concoction.
"You------!" her eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring "-------my dear boy are going to weed the garden, trim the hedges and clean the living room in time for Mr. Brim's arriving. A very prominent and potential backer for …."
"I've been weeding, trimming and mowing." Pushing his glasses upwards, he gritted his teeth "I'm going out."
"No you're not….I'm calling Ver-"
"… and what will the neighbours say Petunia" Harry whispered, arching one brow and smiling slyly, "I
wonder what Mrs. Button-belle would say if she knew that you approved of child slave labour?"
Harry nudged his head over to the house behind him with a large white picket fence, rows upon rows of yellow cherubs and lilies and one over-the-top bird fountain.
"Oh…you,"sighing, Petunia squinted her face at him, eyes glaring between him and the house across the street.
"If you let me go," He continued, "I can guarantee you a spot on the neighbourhood-cook-chat club that you keep badgering on about."
Harry knew that by saying those magic words he had Petunia, hook, line and sinker.
For weeks all he ever heard was about how the neighbourhood-cook-chat club was the most exclusive club in Surrey and that not even brown-nosing-always-has-her-garden-in-pristine-condition is in it.
"Wash your face with lemon and garlic," He told her, knowing that once she did the spots would fade. Petunia nodded.
As he was closing the door, he added "Tell Vernon not to do his golf joke," he smiled, "It
sucks…"
_
Hermione's room was plain, Spartan and organised.
It wasn't bright pink but a soft yellow with a queen's size bed against her right wall.
Her inbuilt walk in wardrobe was opposite her bed and her bay side window on her left.
Her bedroom door was half open on her right, which showed a patch of cream carpet followed by the top step of a staircase.
Hermione couldn't sleep. Every time she did she found herself in a precarious position with her best-friend, Harry Potter.
She didn't know how it happened really. Her summer started off just fine. Fine, fine, fine.
She had already finished the majority of her studies for the summer and managed to not think about what Harry said to her before the end of term.
Voldemort
She dare not speculate on the dark wizard's return and the best way for her to avoid thinking about that was to plan, plan, and plan.
It worked during the day but at night, lately, she felt something was a little off.
Her dreams normally didn't make sense.
For example, dreams of making a floating popcorn machine or that everyone decided to wear orange pants to school were farce, unmentionable and quite silly actually.
No one would use dreams to explain their feelings.
It was one night that she dreamed something a little bit differently and till this day puzzled her.
She dreamed that she and Harry were in the library and that she had dropped a book on her right ankle.
Being the gentlemen that she knew, Harry grabbed two chairs, placing her on one and him in the other and then picked up her injured foot.
She watched in fascination as he gently tugged off her black shoe, paying careful attention to her thin black shoelaces she felt a gentle tingle swirl up from her toes to the centre of her thighs. As she watched him fondle her naked swollen foot she felt something inside her start to build up. It was churning; buzzing and white hot.
Sweat started to bead on her forehead and her lungs struggled to breathe as his hand slid further up her calf, pushing her leg wider for him to encase himself between her legs. His left hand, caressed her hips underneath the hem of her bunched up skirt while his right hand tucked a strand of unruly hair behind her ear and whispered.
"Hermione------"
Hermione was speechless; she couldn't hear a word after that but felt the supple wetness of his lips,
the tip of his tongue flickering against the shell of her ear, his harsh warm breath causing her to bit down on her bottom lip, hard.
Hermione shuddered and hummed, her lips rubbing together as she felt herself heat up.
His face, now inches from hers, and she could see the vibrant green almost sparkle as his lips descended on hers.
Hermione then woke up before she could feel his lips on hers, drenched in sweat, her heart beating rapidly and her underwear was soaked.
I must be out of my mind, Hermione mulled over the image of her soaked thighs and that sharp ache she felt every time her hands slid past her hips.
I must have wet myself or something….
She was in her bedroom staring outside from the bay window as the sun set. Her parents, Rose and John, had left to attend a conference in Adelaide about dentures.
Her babysitter, Julia, their next-door neighbour was downstairs watching re-runs of Doctor Who.
Heavy rain started to patter against her window; drops of clear water swamped the glass and created a haze of blurred greens, blues and brown.
Sighing, she slid off her bay side window and headed to her closet to find her pyjamas. It wasn't like she was going anywhere anytime soon.
Fishing out her plain cotton blue pyjamas she turned to see her window open and the wind tousling the snow-white curtains.
Her breath hitched and felt something step behind her. She whipped around and screamed.
Her friend, Harry, was right beside her.
Harry winced. "Alright, sorry, I was trying to act inconspicuous,"
"Inconspicuous?" she breathed, her heart was racing a mile a minute. She went numb, cocking her head to one side she asked, "Do you even know the meaning of the word?"
"True," he replied, grinning, he leaded forward, "I could be a death eater in disguise…"
"But you…" She suddenly realised that Harry was in her room and despite the fact she was clutching her undesirable pyjamas (since when did I think that??)
Harry knew where she lived and can't remember for the life of her recall telling him where she lived.
She knew the word Death eaters was the name given to Voldemort's devout followers but why mention it?
Hang on, Hermione thought. He said Voldemort was coming back…did that mean his followers' as well?
"Now, this is when I ask you a question only Hermione would know the answer to," Harry crossed his arms and Hermione backed away slightly, just a couple inches towards her bed where she kept her wand.
"Right, as long as you agree to do the same," Hermione quickly supplied, standing at the edge of her bed she tried to think of a way to get her wand without acting inconspicuous herself, she smiled at the thought but quickly shoved her feelings aside and waited Harry to say something.
"Okay…." He breathed out a loud sigh. "When did we become friends?"
"Well technically I would like to think we became friends when I repaired your glasses on the first train to Hogwarts, " She smiled in memory, " but no…it was when you saved me from that troll in first year, along with Ron and he finally got that wi---"
"Okay" holding up his hands, smiling "…I believe you…"
"But why all this …"
"Later, Hermione," he interrupted, "ask the question,"
"Okay…." She thought for a moment before blurting out, "What's my boggart?"
"Me,"
"Excuse me," Hermione breathed, taken aback.
"Well-----," Harry shrugged his shoulders, "----technically to use your words. Everyone had heard that it was Professor McGonagall but you told me during Fleur's wedding that actually it was me. Dead-----" he stopped, eyes narrowing to dark green behind horn-rimmed glasses, "That was too much information. We really need to work on asking better questions,"
"What do you---"she stepped closer, clutching her pyjamas in fright.
"When voldemort returned it was standard procedure to ask a question to make sure that person is actually that person." Harry explained, his eyes darted around the room "I think ever since Barty used polyjucie potion to impersonate Professor Moody that the ministry thought-------" Harry did something he never did before. He wiggled his eyebrows and swooned in a high falsetto voice, "Oh, we'd better make sure that doesn't happen again."
Hermione looked at her friend, mouth agape, she suddenly realised he spoke about he-who-must-not-be-named in past tense and it made her realise that it was indeed, her friend Harry.
Harry's eyes darted around the room; she could hear him mumble the words, "Right. shouldn't have down that…sorry,"
Hermione couldn't stop herself. She laughed, hugging her pyjamas closer to her chest, she enjoyed the feelings of mirth he'd created until Harry sneezed.
Hermione mentally slapped herself, dropping her arms to her sides---her pyjamas fell to the floor---, she went over to him, touching his cold wet shoulder.
He was completely wet, his longish hair whipped around his neck, making his skin even paler than before.
"Harry you're soaked." She gasped, his light olive-green shirt seem to stick to his skin and outlined the contours of his seeker-built body.
She traced patterns on his chest before she realised that she was close, her hand sprawled on his nipple (she could feel it harden underneath his wet shirt)
…..So….very close. His breath felt warm and she could her heartbeat thumping against his.
Blushing she backed away.
Harry smiled, cocked his head to one side. "Yes that normally happens when one apparates into the rain,"
"You," eyes opened wide she took a step closer and swatted him
<THWACK>
"Ow-------"
"….but that's against the law Harry…"
how could he do this? Was the ministry on the way? Oh my god…how am I going to explain this to my parents?
Hermione groaned, clutching her hair in panic.
Harry noticed her distressed and said, "I didn't use my wand or anything so how are they going to detect anything unless I plan on using my wand---"
Hermione shook her head. "There's a dr---"
"I was in a public place Hermione," Harry said, waving his hand in front of her. He added, "There is a reason that I came around you know," He whispered, eyes now on her carpet.
Silence filled the room except for the rain outside her open window.
Water continued to trickle down his soaked pant legs. Make that beautifully and yet interesting legs---Hermione blushed.
"Well…." She shook her head of the image of Harry's nicely shaped legs and tried to remain business like. It didn't help when he smiled at her though.
"I felt that I needed to explain what's going or may not happen this year. You need to be prepared…"
"Prepared for what?"
He looked at her briefly before gazing outside her window. "For when voldemort returns------- Also," he turned and was now looking at her, " I need to know everything there is to know about polyjuice potion and potential antidotes that we can use for when Barty Crouch Jr impersonates Professor Moody this year,"
Hermione nodded eagerly, making mental notes of all possible books she could use to help him.
Harry seemed silent for a while; he looked at her, eyes brimming with sadness that she could feel acid in her gut.
Something was wrong. There was something he wasn't telling her.
"This is all for now." He smiled but it didn't reach his eyes and made his way to her open window----her curtains still flapped heavily from the rain.
Before she could stop herself she followed him and grabbed his hand, it was cold, hard and wet from the rain.
Hermione flinched but as soon as she felt him squeezed her hand her shoulders sagged with relief.
"Whadda mean for now Harry? I can help you…" Her voice became muffled as she leaned her head to rest against his shoulder blades.
He used his fingers to caress her hand, his back still not facing her he whispered. "You are by making sure I know everything about this potion…"
Hermione sighed, obviously he isn't going to tell me but he will, she reasoned. As soon as they get to the Weasley's house she would beat it out of him if she has to. "See you at the Weasley's then,"
"Yeah…," His voice sounded flat and devoid of emotion. It scared her. He let go of her hand and he didn't even look at her when he said goodbye.
She couldn't sleep well after that.
Hermione spent the next hour finding anything she could about the polyjuice potion before her eyes became sore from reading the fine lines in her text books and her hands numb from holding her quill for too long.
He was just so unreadable at times that it hurt. Her eyes welled up, she felt her cheeks flush with anger, tears leaked in beads and her shoulders shook.
"No," she meekly told herself, clutching the pendant close to her chest.
She wasn't going to cry over this, over her frustration at Harry and at herself and the necklace around her neck.
Something is going to happen and she was going to find out as soon as she sees him at the Weasley's.
With that thought, she went to bed, her thoughts became blurred and she felt herself drift into dreams.
It was way past ten o'clock and still Harry hasn't entered the Great Hall. Mione was anxious.
Mione knew something was wrong. She felt raw, numb and tired from Dumbledore's funeral but she knew, no, she felt that Harry was not alright.
Despite Ginny's persistent jabbering that although they've broken up she would remain by his side Mione knew that Harry was keeping his grief to himself.
She couldn't sleep. Not even when the rest of the school had adjourned to the great hall for supper. Mione had to find him.
She found herself outside Hagrid's hut. The light wasn't on, so, she knew Hagrid wasn't there, and yet, she had to keep moving.
She didn't want to think. She didn't want to stop. She didn't want to mull over the months of heartache, the fights, the accusations, his green eyes blazing.
How she knew very little of Professor Dumbledore and yet the way he was towards Harry.
"What are you doin' here?" Harry's rushed words pulled her out of her reverie.
Harry was leaning against Hagrid's doorframe. His hair, unruly and unkempt framed his blood-shot green eyes and glasses.
His clothes were torn and ripped and speckles of blood were evident on his collar. He looked heartbroken.
"Oh Harry," she breathed, racing to his side she enveloped him in a tight hug.
His arms dipped low around her waist, leaving no space between their bodies and for one moment she lost herself in his scent. The scent that was just her Harry.
"You should be inside," his lips were dangerously close to her ear that she blushed.
No, Mione. Mustn't think those thoughts. Not Now. Not Ever. He made HIS choice.
"I know," she whispered, her hands travelled upwards at their own accord and ruffled his hair, pushing his forehead against hers she looked up into his eyes. "But you shouldn't be alone,"
"I know," He replied, he leaned closer and she could almost taste the wetness of his lips. His breath was warm and rushed.
"It's okay," Mione whispered, looking into his eyes, eyes that never shed tears that never showed emotions. Eyes that showed he was never afraid.
"I won't tell anyone," She let go of the warm embrace, despite not wanting to but she knew that Harry needed someone.
He needed someone to be with him. He needed someone to not say anything.
He stood, looking aghast at her for a while, puffs of breaths filled the space between them.
Then, without warning, he turned away, shoulders slouched, he trembled and she heard him moan.
He dropped, she was right behind him, looping her arms underneath his and held him close to her chest.
His cries, his incoherent whispers, his fears----everything bled out but it was quiet.
Quiet so only she could hear and Mione's heart broke that even in his most vulnerable moments he didn't want to draw attention.
Suddenly, it stopped. He pushed her arms away and he got up, wiping his tears with his torn sleeves.
"Harry, its okay…."
"No, It's not," he sighed. "I don't have time for this," He held out a hand and she took it.
"Let's go, Hermione,"
Right then----as he led her back to the castle----- she made a promise.
To be at his side, through life and death and swore that there will be a time when he needed a shoulder to cry on and it would be hers.
Hermione woke up the next morning with a pain in her chest.
The memory of Dumbledore's funeral still fresh in her mind Hermione tried to find a piece of paper so she could write it all down.
She tried to cling to that memory but as the minutes passed it slowly faded until, Hermione had trouble remembering why she was sad in the first place and why did she have a piece of paper in her hand?
She got up, had breakfast and spent the next hour preparing for Mrs. Weasley, whom was going to pick her up today and together-they were going to her house and await Harry's arrival, who would arrive later this evening in time for the Quidditch Cup this Sunday.
Then, Harry was going to stop protecting her and tell her what was REALLY on. Honestly, Hermione sighed. She wasn't easily fooled.
Mind made up she began making a list of the books she needed to buy for this year.
She wondered if her parents would give her enough money to buy the newest Hogwarts a history edition or a new ink kit she saw at Monsieur Louis's Inks and Quills.
Merlin knew she needed new supplies.
Walking into the kitchen, she opened the window to let the breeze in and wondered what to do before Mrs. Weasley picked her up.
A Letter addressed to her parents was resting on the kitchen table. It was from Mrs. Weasley.
Seeing as Julia had already left this morning, Hermione opened the letter and read the contents. Her heart sank.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Granger.
I am sorry to inform you at such late notice that due to a misunderstanding at work Arthur doesn't have any tickets for the Quidditch final this Sunday.
We are all quite distraught. Especially our son, Ronald.
I'm sorry for the inconvenience
Mrs. Weasley
Why didn't he tell me last night, Hermione frowned, she placed the opened letter on the kitchen table.
She was looking forward to telling Harry all the interesting information she found about polyjuice potion.
A tiny owl bustled into her kitchen and hooted around her head.
She shrieked and battered it away with her hands and a tiny letter dropped onto the table.
"Honestly," sighing, she opened the letter to find it was from her friend, Ron Weasley.
Hey Hermione
Like the owl? His name is PIG! Sirius bought it for me since scabbars was Peter Pettigrew----didn't you know that?
Brilliant that man---Sirius----wish he was my godfather…
Harry told me that you caught the flu or something…
how can you catch a flu anyway???
And he said you couldn't come to the Quidditch final----
Hermione's blood ran cold. Dropping the letter she bit her lower lip--hard.
Everything suddenly clicked into place.
Harry being distant. The Quidditch Final. The cold foreboding of something about to happen.
Something bad is going to happen at the Quidditch final and he----- Hermione's eyes watered, pain flashed around her chest. He never told me.
She rushed around the kitchen to find a piece of paper and pen. She had to write a letter to Sirius.
Something bad was going down and Harry was in no way capable of doing this alone.
He needed help and whether or not he realised this----no one messes with Hermione Jane Granger and gets away with it!
Scribbling down a note to Sirius, Hermione held up the note to PIG (what an unfortunate name) and said. "Give this to Sirius,"
PIG hooted and fluttered outside the window.
Please hurry, Hermione thought. An image of Harry's face came into her mind and she blushed, her heart waned, and she shook her head.
Oh Harry…
…………..why couldn't you tell me?
………………………………………Why couldn't you trust me?
Clutching the pendant to her chest Hermione spent the new hour alone, wondering whether or not Sirius would receive her letter in time before something bad happened to Harry.