Shadow Walks
My shadow's the only one that walks beside me
--Green Day, "Boulevard of Broken Dreams"
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Chapter Thirteen:
Sometimes I wish someone out there would find me. Till then, I walk alone.
--Green Day, "Boulevard of Broken Dreams"
Harry was vaguely surprised when he arrived exactly where he'd been before. Ron and Luna were gone, but the forest still loomed large at his back, and Hogwarts still stood in front of him. He looked down at the grass springing around his shoes, and his hands shook so violently that he nearly dropped his wand.
She was here. Five years ago, she was here, alive, standing on this very spot.
He shoved his wand in his pocket, and took an experimental swipe at the trunk of the nearest tree. His hand passed harmlessly through it. So I exist here somewhere… He relaxed a little, knowing that he was invisible, out of phase, and therefore unable to be harmed.
He had no clear plan in mind, but began to walk, taking a direction that carried him parallel to the forest, in the general direction of the main pathway. He supposed he had the vague idea of going up to Hogwarts, and checking out the lay of the land, so to speak, but that was quickly abandoned, as he drew closer to Hagrid's hut.
It was gone. Nothing was left, but the crumbled foundations to claim that it had ever existed at all. The garden was grown over to such an extent that even Harry's inexpert eyes could tell that it had been years. It also seemed that insidious tendrils of the forest had crept outward, teasing at the edges of what had once been cleared land.
Reflexively, he looked up toward the castle, and gasped in astonishment and horror, as his new angle revealed what had been hidden from him before. Hogwarts carried a gaping hole through its heart, the entire front face demolished. The Astronomy tower had been utterly destroyed, and Gryffindor Tower was open to the night air. Giant, jagged holes pockmarked the roof, and sundry bits of flotsam dotted the landscape - blasted furniture, rotting cloth, broken glass. Only snaggly clumps of uneven stone remained, and tall grass tufted here and there between the cracks.
But I'm still alive… I'm alive…how could this have happened?
He wondered wildly if Hermione had been in phase when she arrived, tried to imagine her horror at the sight now before him. Had she been here during the battle itself? Had it occurred five years ago, or longer? How had he lived, and yet not kept this from happening? Had it been a draw or a defeat? Was there now some kind of underground movement?
Shaking his head, he turned his back on the skeletal remains of the much-beloved home, and began to make his way toward Hogsmeade. He thought he glimpsed Dumbledore's tomb glinting in the scant moonlight. The grand gates hung half off their hinges, bowed and distorted and beginning to rust. The walls were partially crumbled, the path to the castle rutted and unkempt, and verging on overgrowth.
Hogsmeade appeared more normal, with lights spilling from windows, and the sound of raucous conversation from the Hog's Head reaching his ears. Harry found himself darting into shadows more than once, before remembering that he effectively did not exist. In a sudden panic, he thrust his hand toward his collar, to feel the reassuring intricate metal of the necklace chain, his link, his grounding, his way out.
As he made his way down the main street, he noted changes. The sweet shop was gone, as was Zonko's. Other, less savory looking establishments had taken their place, and there was a distinct, but indefinable air of seediness. Harry supposed that businesses like Honeyduke's would have more trouble staying open without a school nearby.
That thought caused his ruminations to drift back toward Hogwarts and its ruined state. If it had been damaged in battle, why was it not rebuilt? Surely five years was more than enough time to reconstruct a school - especially when the builders had magic at their disposal. Were times so bad that the renowned school was forced to languish in ruin?
It took two ineffectual grabs for the door handle at the Hog's Head for Harry to recall his status yet again, and he ended up merely strolling right through the wooden planks of the door. The pub had always been somewhat on the shady side, but now it appeared positively Dark. Wizards were hooded in grimy black, huddled in shadows, and hags clacked their toothless gums at the bar. A fight broke out in one obscure corner, and, though Harry jumped violently at the green flash of light, no one else seemed terribly concerned at the Unforgivable curse that had just been used.
"Oy!" called the barkeep. "Clean it up, or you'll receive the same!" The wizard who'd just committed murder grumbled under his breath, and Vanished the body. The noise of conversation, which had diminished at the bartender's instruction, resumed its previous level. Harry found himself backing away, eyes wide with disbelief, staring at the spot where the body had once been. Where were the Aurors? The MLE? What about that man's family? This can't be real. This can't be real.
Just then, the door was thrust open forcefully, hitting the wall behind it with a noisy bang. Three Death Eaters, fully hooded and cloaked, strode in, knocking aside any and all who could even be remotely considered to be in their way. In a low, unintelligible snarl, the one in front ordered drinks.
"And make it quick," he added.
"On a mission tonight?" the bartender asked, with a kind of detached curiosity. He appeared to be desperately trying to contain any simpering fear, trying to escape the cowering, groveling manner that most of the customers had.
"Classified business for the Dark Lord," the first Death Eater answered in a surly way that brooked no further questions.
"I'm glad to help in any way I can," the proprietor replied, offering them their drinks. Harry was trying to take it all in: Hogwarts was gone, the Dark Lord was in power, yet he was still alive, doing what for Merlin's sake? He felt like his brain might implode, or his head topple off his shoulders.
Just then, there was another scuffle near the back of the pub, as a particularly disreputable-looking wizard had taken it into his head to grope the serving girl, whom Harry could see was quite young and very dirty. The empty tray she'd been carrying fell to the floor with a metallic clang. Harry felt his heart leap with sudden, desperate hope until he saw the long ebony plait down her back.
The girl seemed shocked and embarrassed at the attention that was now centered on her, and she backed away toward the shadows, pulling nervously on one ragged sleeve.
"Hey!" Another of the Death Eaters called to her, just before she melted completely from sight. "You! Com'ere." The obscured form of the serving-girl moved warily toward him, her eyes wide with fear. She moved slowly, lightly, with that wary compunction of one who comes because she must, not because she wishes.
When she got within arm's reach, the Death Eater grabbed her wrist in a lightning-fast move, and twisted it around until an involuntary cry of pain escaped her lips. He peered closely at her forearm, and turned to glare at the bartender.
"You employin' a Mudblood?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. Now the man behind the bar showed fear, paling and backing away, wiping his hands nervously on his apron. A hostile murmur wove around the bar like an insidious viper. The girl became very white and very quiet, but did not move to flee or protest.
"I - I wouldn't - I didn't know - "
"'Sright here on her arm," he said, lifting up the girl's arm for all to see. Some kind of serial number, followed by a symbol, was tattooed on her pale skin. "You know what that means…" He let go of the girl so abruptly that she fell, and the third Death Eater administered several vicious kicks to her abdomen. She laid in the floor, curled up, and vomited weakly, tears tracking through the dirt on her face. Harry thought he saw blood. No one moved to assist her, all eyes fixated on the scene playing out before them.
"P - Please…" the man raised both hands defensively. "I assure you I didn't know. She - she must have magically obscured her number…"
"I saw it quite clearly," said the Death Eater who'd discovered her. There was a low ripple of assent in the tavern.
"The Dark Lord's orders are quite clear." The first Death Eater spoke again, drained his drink, and then raised his wand. "No one is to disguise, harbor, employ, or in any way assist a Mudblood. She offer to warm your bed for you in exchange? You know what the penalty for that is…" The bartender let out an incoherent cry and wavered violently on his feet.
"No! No! Please, I - I'm sorry. I didn't know. I won't do it again. Please… surely Lord Potter would show mercy on me - I've always been a loyal servant, always…"
"You dare speak his name?" The second Death Eater's voice was sharp. The bartender's pleas for mercy became high-pitched and incoherent, but Harry no longer heard them, as his head snapped up, his heart roaring in his ears.
It can't be true. It can't be true.
The other Death Eaters raised their wands, and as they did so, the loose sleeves of their black robes slid towards their elbows, exposing their Dark Marks. Harry had noticed them on the forearms of several patrons, but had not looked at them closely. He did so now.
They appeared identical to the ones he'd seen in his universe - the snake still twining sinuously from the skull's gaping mouth - except for one small detail.
A jagged lightning bolt adorned the shiny broad forehead of the skull.
Harry had seen enough.
He did not wait to find out the fate of the hapless tavern manager.
Not even paying attention to his flight through the bar, he passed noiselessly through an entire party of people, their table, and the grimy window. He ran through the town blindly, heedless of his surroundings, hearing his own breathless, disbelieving sobs resound in his ears, and did not stop until he reached the middle of the forest. He collapsed to the ground, folded over his knees, and thought he would vomit, until he realized that he could not.
I can't be the Dark Lord… I can't be… I wouldn't…
He had never felt betrayal so acutely. Knowledge that any version of himself at all had the ability, had the desire to turn into something fouler than even Voldemort had hoped to become sickened him, shook him, scared him.
I'm not like that. I'm not like that. I'm not like that.
He didn't know how many times he'd thought it, before he actually realized that he was chanting the phrase like a mantra. He wondered if he said it enough times that he could prove it to be true. The brisk night breeze whipped around him, rustling the leaves above his head, but not stirring one hair on it. Harry wasn't sure how long he stayed out there in the heart of the forest, trying to reconstruct the toppled castle of his perceptions. Had he really even understood what Luna had meant, what Malfoy had meant by an alternate reality? Had he really thought that they were merely places where he'd chosen to play Quidditch instead of become an Auror, or had selected sausage at breakfast instead of bacon?
"Oh….God…oh, God," he moaned; it sounded low and deep and painful, as if it had been torn from the deepest parts of him. Here, people feared and loathed him. Here, he hated those of Muggle descent and everything for which they stood. Here, he'd killed - who knew how many times, and how many were those he'd considered friends?
Friends… In a flash of frenzied terror, he thought of Hermione. If she'd arrived in this universe - if she'd been in phase - if she'd tried to find out what happened….
…if she'd come looking for me… he supplied for himself, and felt his stomach knot in fear and began ascent. If the sight he'd seen in the Hog's Head was typical, then it did not bode well for her chances, especially if she'd sought him out. Gingerly, he stood, looking longingly at the dim chaos of dirt and dead leaves at his feet, wishing that he could throw up. Have I come so far, only to find that she has died at my own hand? It was too terrible, too heart-rending to contemplate.
He reached into his collar and wrapped one hand around the pendant again. He couldn't deactivate the crystal yet.
He couldn't move to the next universe on his journey, until he'd determined his Hermione's fate in this one.
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Harry was standing in the tiny confines of a call box, having strode purposefully through the red-and-glass paneling, and was eying the phone and its accompanying directory with baleful frustration.
"How can I find Hermione when I can't bloody touch anything?" He shouted, and grew even more annoyed when a lone vagrant shambling by didn't appear to hear him at all, as he realized anew that no one did, no one could. Clenching his fists, he closed his eyes and replayed Luna's words in his head.
No one will be able to see or hear you. You won't hunger, tire, or age. You won't be able to physically interact with anything.
He swore under his breath, pointed his wand at the telephone directory, and commanded it to open.
As he expected, nothing happened. He cursed again, wishing that he'd paid more attention to Hermione's conversations, in the vain hope that he could have perhaps gleaned some clue as to where exactly she lived.
But then a thought occurred to him, and his eyes brightened considerably. The Burrow… he knew where it was. He closed his eyes and pictured the ramshackle cottage in his mind, and disappeared in some sort of semblance of Apparation, though he made no noise at all.
He recognized the topography of the landscape around him, but did not see anything else that looked familiar. The familiar topsy-turvy home was nowhere to be seen, but Harry strolled down the slightly sloping drive to where it was supposed to be.
There were signs of life, a few scraps of parchment fluttered on the breeze, hung in the tall grasses, and the drive had two parallel ruts in it, but the house was quite simply gone. Unlike Hagrid's, no trace of its existence remained.
Harry's mind shrieked in protest of its impotence and its frustrated desire for answers in a world that seemed turned on its ear. But before he could adequately rail at a Fate that seemed eager to mock him, even in a universe that he could neither control nor even touch, his attention was arrested by a low murmur of voices.
"Ron?" he called out, quite forgetting that no one could hear him. "Ron? Mr. Weasley? Mrs. Weasley? Are you there?" There was, of course, no answer, and he felt more than a little foolish.
Vivid red hair stood out, even in the now-graying, pre-dawn landscape, as two lean figures emerged from the woods. The twins! Harry felt his heart sing with joy.
"We have another order ready," one of them said.
"Did you set a delivery time?"
"Don't be daft, Fred! We've got to have confirmation first. Remember what happened last time?" George's voice was unmistakably bitter and dark.
"Bill's told you a thousand times that it wasn't your fault. Ron - "
"I don't want to talk about Ron," he sounded like he would have shouted if they hadn't been trying to maintain a low profile.
"We can't change what happened. He's made his choices," Fred said in a matter-of-fact way. George muttered something unintelligible under his breath.
"To go over to - to him... when we all saw how he was in school. He was a bloody Slytherin, for Merlin's sake!"
"George, will you shut up? What if someone hears you?"
"What would it matter?" Anguish dripped from each syllable.
"There's still Ginny… you know - George, you know she can't take care of herself. We've got to stay free for her… if nothing else." George seemed to calm down somewhat.
"Yes," he said, almost to himself. "Yes, there's still Ginny to look after. After what Potter did to her in the Chamber of Secrets…" Fred hushed him again, looking around furtively, as they made their way up the slope toward him, evidently making their way past their anti-Apparation wards.
Harry thrust both hands jaggedly through his hair, unable to process anything else, his mind reeling, his throat closed with dread and despair. The Weasley family scattered, in hiding… Ginny, apparently somehow permanently injured by his own hand… Ron, spoken of with a dripping sort of loathing-beyond-contempt that hadn't even been formerly reserved for Percy. And the Slytherin mentioned? He could only assume they were referring to him, and to Ron's alliance with him. Harry wanted so badly to leave that he could taste it, wanted it more desperately than he'd ever wanted almost anything, but he couldn't leave without finding out what happened to Hermione.
He paced up and down the hillside, without fatigue, trying not to look at the place where the Burrow should have been. Fred and George were passing him now, just to his left, and Fred readjusted the strap on his knapsack, swinging it wide as they ascended past him. The tattered bag was coming straight at him, and he flinched instinctively, even as it harmlessly passed through. He saw an invisibility cloak, a cloth bag full of Galleons, a shield hat, and three bottles of potion protected by cushioning charms.
Even as he logged that information somewhere in his flustered brain, he heard dual cracks, as the Weasleys Apparated away. He toyed with the idea of venturing into the small copse of trees to look for their hideaway, but suddenly he stopped, as inspiration struck him.
He had seen what was inside Fred's bag, as it swung through him. Might he not be able to look inside a telephone directory in the same way?
Haven't got any better options, he thought laconically to himself, and Apparated back to the call box he'd abandoned earlier.
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A bare five minutes later, he was strolling up a well-tended street, lined with pristine green squares of lawn and tidy houses. He reflected that it appeared to be a rather nicer version of Privet Drive.
When he came to her house number, his heart swelled in his chest, and he made his way up the walk, going right through the white-painted front door. There was a pretty little vestibule with polished hardwood floors, and a stairway ran up to the right. The end of the corridor opened out into what looked like a great room, and there was a door to the left. He heard voices from behind this door, and proceeded through it as well.
A nicely dressed, vaguely familiar couple sat at a breakfast table, sipping tea. Toast and fruit were on the table, as well as pots of honey and jam. The man was looking at the front page of the Times, while the woman perused a magazine, occasionally jotting a note in the margin with a ballpoint pen. Harry tried to make out the title, and thought he could see Journal of Dent -
They were Hermione's parents. He lifted his eyes toward the ceiling above his head, and wondered if she still lived here. Almost as if he were broadcasting his thoughts, Mrs. Granger sighed and said, as she laid down her pen,
"This house feels so empty without her."
Mr. Granger lifted his eyes from the paper, and patted her hand affectionately.
"Now, you knew this would happen eventually." Mrs. Granger's look of chagrin told her husband that she knew he was right.
"She didn't have to go early - take that summer term."
"This is Hermione we're talking about, dear. She was so thrilled when she got into Oxford's doctoral program that I'm surprised she didn't camp out down there immediately."
"I know." Mrs. Granger's little laugh ended in an almost-sigh. "I hope - do you think she'll be happy there?"
"It's Oxford. She'll have a million dusty old books in which to bury her head, and dozens upon dozens of brilliant people to have discussions with - though none as brilliant as she, of course. She'll be in her element. We'll be lucky if she thinks of us at all." The twinkle in his eyes belied any real belief in his last statement.
Harry couldn't help a wistful smile at Mr. Granger's speech, as he ambled soundlessly up the stairs, poking his head through doors until he found the one that led to Hermione's bedroom. He had to momentarily struggle for his composure, as he was confronted with the essence of - if not his Hermione's, then at least a - Hermione's life.
Numerous plaques and academic awards adorned her walls. The décor was simple, classic, but no-frills. The bedcovers were deep green, with a few coordinating throw pillows. There was a desk along one wall - mostly denuded now that she'd moved out, he assumed - with a well-worn, wheeled, leather chair. A few framed pictures sat neatly along the back of the desk: Hermione and her parents, Hermione and a friend at a waterfront, an elderly woman he did not know. None of them moved.
Feeling a little like a pervert, he inspected her shelves, her closet and a few of her drawers, keeping an iron-tight grip on the emotions that welled up in him, to keep his Auror-like detachment in his search for answers. He found no memorabilia from Hogwarts, no Gryffindor pennants or rosettes, no red-and-gold scarf or old school uniform, no magical books of any kind.
He let out a sigh that was half-disappointment, half-relief. He simultaneously had longed for and dreaded to see her, knowing that she would not really be his Hermione. And yet he was satisfied with what he'd found - Hermione appeared to have never had any magical ability at all in this universe, and, for the time being at least, seemed safe enough from his counterpart's own machinations.
He felt a shudder of nausea, accompanied by no shortage of eagerness to leave this horrendous place. Belatedly but correctly realizing that he would not be hampered by any wards against Apparation - if indeed any remained intact at Hogwarts - he traveled back to the spot where he'd first arrived, and fingered the crystal delicately, closing his eyes against this twisted and derelict version of his old school.
Hang on, Hermione. I'm coming.
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AN: Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I had a lot of fun writing it. A/U gives you a great excuse to write whatever you want, so this was a blast.
And may I take a moment to thank each and every one of you leaving reviews. They are much appreciated, even if I don't get time to reply to all of them. I am thrilled with the response to this story so far! Thank you all so much!
You may leave a review on your way out, if you like
lorien
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