Leaving Home

Leaving Home (4/6).

Hi everyone! Yes, this is your usual author's note disclaiming profit or responsibility, and warning you of a character death ahead. Yes, another one. Angst abounds, before happy(ish) ending - but not in this part. You have to wait until part 6 for that, sorry. And sorry about the trick with Ben, last chapter, heh. Well, not really, LOL. On the bright side, Harry's back! And no - he's not the one dying. You might wish he had, though… but as I've said to some of you in your reviews (which I'm really grateful for, by the way) I've been thinking of doing a sequel of the same time period but from Harry's point of view, because he's not just sitting on his arse all the time Hermione is away, of course. Given the ending of this chapter, you might be curious to know what he HAS been doing… and with that hopefully mysterious hint, on with the story!

No wait. There was something else before “on with the story” (I'm just editing this in now, as pity has over-taken me). You see, as dark as this story is, it gets darker. You might want to line up something fluffy if that isn't your cup of tea. The chapter after this, number 5, really is depressing, and although I've nearly finished it, I'm going to wait for a week or two until I've finished number 6 (and thus the whole story) so I can post them together. It seems kind of cruel, knowing the end to #5 as I do, to make you wait longer and frankly - some of you may read it and decide to cry off altogether. So please take this as an announcement in advance. Now, on with the story!

Chapter Four.

I never thought that I would return to this place.

Now that I have, part of me wishes that I hadn't. The castle defences are obviously failing, and there are great chunks of rubble where once there weren't. The wing that once held Madam Pomfrey's hospital and dispensary has been blasted into rubble, along with the healer herself. Seeing it now, I realise that I hadn't really noticed Neville's injuries before. I had seen them, of course, and seen the obvious pain on his face, even when he tried to hide it, but - it never occurred to me to wonder why it was so, and why he hadn't been really healed. There is nothing left to heal him with - and that includes the greenhouses, which are shattered beyond repair. I somehow think that Neville minds this more than his ribs, more than his leg.

I can see it in the way that he refuses to look at them, and so I refuse to do the same. Perhaps my not noticing will give him some comfort - the reassurance that he will not have to explain, to gloss over the loss.

Perhaps it was a mistake to come here, but I no longer have anywhere else to go. It is madness to bring a baby into what is clearly an active war zone, but I am too afraid to leave him with strangers. I don't know who would find him again, and cannot leave him without even the small protection that I can give him. It is hard to hold him now, or to look at him, for he reminds me of what I have done and lost, and what he has lost, unknowing. His little face is watchful, and I know that he is unhappy, but he still looks at me with trustfulness. That one thing hurts me more than anything has ever hurt, more than I thought anything ever could. It is so misplaced.

It amuses me that he seems to have latched on to Snape. If it was a surprise to find my former Potions Master hard at work in the failing wreckage of Hogwarts, the acknowledged headquarters of the resistance against Voldemort, it was an even bigger surprise to see Ben gurgle up at him, charmed. Snape was not charmed, not one bit. I don't think that he has any time for babies - especially a Muggle baby, who can never appreciate his ability and who spits up on his ingredients. Poor Ben seems to think that his disdain is a game, and I am too much of a coward to try and disillusion him. If I could disillusion a baby, that is. Crookshanks is a better nurse.

We have spent a lot of time together, Snape and I, in the few days since I have returned. He has drafted me into some of his simpler Potions work, as it is obvious to everyone here that I am unsuited for fighting. The faces are ghostly, and there seems to be an unspoken agreement to pretend that I don't exist. Space is made for me, food is set out for me, but it is plain that I am an outsider and only grudgingly welcome. Only Neville and Professor McGonagall make any effort to be friendly.

Harry is not here. Neither is Ron. Neville tells me that they had a lead on the last horcrux, and that they are expected back any day. I am afraid to see them, and feel myself jumping at every sound, every creak that might herald their arrival.

What is there for me to say to them? I'm sorry? But that is not enough, and only partly true regardless.

So I assist Snape, and do not ask what I am assisting with. It is better that way, I think, as then I do not have to face the fact that finally, I am ready to betray myself. It should be no surprise. I have proved so adept at betraying others that there is no reason for me to baulk at this final step - the final stage of Unforgivable. Witnessing the murder of my parents has blasted something from me that I had tried to hold onto - even after all else. I no longer believe that there is anything that can stand against betrayal, anything more important than the self. Nothing is sacred. There is no “thus far and no further”.

At last, I believe, I am capable of anything.

Is this what Voldemort feels, I wonder? That there is nothing sacred, nothing worth preserving? That he has the power, and the right, to be capable of anything. Have I gone that far?

I believe that I have. But the tiny part of me that remains the Hermione Granger that watches over Ben and hates herself for her capacity for betrayal is afraid to find out. For if it is so, then what is left? So I mix the potions, and do not ask. I do not ask, and I do not tell - not what I am doing here. Not what I have hidden in the bottom of my backpack when, in the few hours after our escape, I briefly left Ben and Crookshanks with Neville in order to retrieve something that signified my new life and the wasteland that has been made of it. And I do not tell Snape the purpose of my potion - not when he looks at it and rolls his eyes in clear disgust, not when he sets it aside to work on more important things - and not when he gravitates back to it in his few free moments, mixing and combining in a way that I have never been able to emulate.

I think he does it for pity of me, but that is not enough to make me speak.

It is only when Harry returns that I am able to find my tongue again. For when he returns, with a brief, distracted nod to McGonagall to show that the last horcrux is no more, he is supporting, half-carrying, the broken body of another.

Ron.

They pause briefly when they see me, both faces chalk-white - one with grief and the other with pain from a curse and loss of blood. For a moment I wonder why Harry does not levitate him, but then I realise that this contact is the last, and that the touch of a hand is important to them. Nevertheless, Harry cannot support him alone forever, and I find myself running forward to hold up Ron's other side, to direct him into a nearby chamber. Harry is rigid with tension. I can see the anger in his eyes, the refusal, and know that the only thing preventing him from throwing me off Ron is the fact that he would have to let go of him himself to do it.

The hatred in his face is blinding, but “Leave it,” I hear softly, and realise that Ron has spoken for me, leaning into Harry tiredly. Wordlessly, he accepts it, and we get Ron onto the pillows of a shattered couch, rip down curtain to make a pressure bandage for the largest wounds.

“Home sweet home, eh?” Ron says tiredly, and his voice is barely raised above a whisper but he is looking at me intently, and I can see the double meaning behind his words. He sighs deeply, and requests water.

I can see Harry glare at me, not trusting himself to speak, and the message is obvious. But when Ron summons the energy to speak again, it is clear that he expects Harry to leave, Harry to fetch the water, and not me. And he does leave, refusing to look at me, and I can see by the rigidity of his body that it's tearing him apart to do so - to have to leave his best friend to me, even for a moment, when their moments together are coming to an end.

I stumble to Ron, and the blood on my hands as I press down on the bandage to try and stop the bleeding is brighter than anything I've seen for the past two years, when I thought it was colour that would numb the pain. It's a useless thing to do, as it's not the bleeding alone that is killing him but the curse, but I don't know what else to do and I can't bring myself to look at his face, to see the pain and the fear that goes with the wrenching gasps, the shudders that wrack his body and bring bubbles of blood to his lips.

Then his hand grips mine on the bandage, and I realise that there is still some strength left in him, although I know that it cannot be for long.

“Look at me,” he says.

It takes me several moments. I want to keep looking away, to let my face screw up into this awful mess so that I truly can't see for tears and have a good excuse not to see the condemnation, the disgust, on his face, but… this is Ron. He deserves better - he stayed when I did not, and he deserves better. So I force my eyes open as far as they can go, and let the water spill out of them before it can obstruct my vision, and I force myself to look full into his face.

I can't see any condemnation there, but I can't see anything else either. I used to be able to read him so easily, but this war has changed him, as I suppose it has changed us all. I barely recognise the man in my arms, bleeding his life onto the floor around my knees. I don't know what to say, and I don't know if anything I can say will reach him. There's no excuse, and every excuse, and it is too much to hope that he will understand now what he would not before, when I left and he turned away from me.

“I don't forgive you,” he says, and there is no hate in his voice, but no warmth either. It has bled out of him, left him pale and cold. I can't help the sob that breaks through the calm I have so carefully tried to construct, but I don't say anything, don't try to excuse myself.

This is justice, I think to myself.

But because I keep looking into his eyes, because I don't allow myself to turn away from the judgement that he has the right to inflict upon me, I can see them soften slightly, and a cold finger comes up to caress my cheek, leaving a smear of blood across it.

He almost smiles. “I'm glad you're alright,” he says. “I've always been glad for that. But still…”

“You don't forgive me,” I confirm, and he nods, the movement painful. His eyes don't leave mine.

“We trusted you,” he says, and his body wracks with coughing. There's nothing I can do to stop it, or to ease the pain, and all I can do is hold him close to me, cradle his head against my chest, and let my tears rain down into his blood. His hand still holds mine, and I let him squeeze it - is it for comfort, I wonder?

Then - “That's enough,” says a voice roughly, and I realise that Harry has re-entered the room. He stands by the door, fists clenched, glaring at me as if he cannot stand the sight of me here, with his best friend dying in my arms. “That's enough. You need to leave.”

“Harry-” I plead, but he cuts me off.

“Get out.”

If I had stayed and fought with them, I would have argued now, because staying at this moment would have been my right. But I did not stay, and all of us know that I am an intruder on this moment, and the few moments allowed me to say goodbye were given by grace. They have not been earned.

Ron is shaking, from cold and loss of blood, and I press him close to me for a moment, let his face rest in my shoulder. “Goodbye, Ron,” I whisper, and the words suffocate me so that it barely comes out. His grip on my hands tightens even further, and I feel him choking against me. It's as if he is trying to speak.

For a moment I curse the loss of my hair, which would have fallen down around us like a shield, hiding what he has to say to me. For in that moment, with Ron using what remains of his strength to drag his lips a little closer to my ear, I know that it is something meant only for me.

“Stop him,” he breathes. “Help him…stop… Hermione…”

I don't understand. How can I stop Voldemort, or help Harry to do so? I couldn't even save my parents. Death is all around me, and shatters what is left of my heart. And then Harry's hand is on my shoulder, pulling me away, and he is taking Ron into his arms, and they are regarding each other with an expression that I will never be able to translate, because it speaks to shared experiences that I have not been here to share. And I know that neither of them will notice me again, and that I am no longer in the room for them, and so I leave, give them their privacy.

It is my judgement, and it is fair.

I wait outside the classroom, and although I know that it cannot be more than a few minutes, it seems like forever. There's nothing to be done. I retrieve Ben from Professor Snape, and I almost think he looks relieved, which isn't surprising as I don't think he's done anything but rather ostentatiously ignore the baby. Ben, on the other hand, seems slightly happier than he has been. I take his warm little body in my arms, and feel the weight of him sleeping on my shoulder - a soft body that is warm against mine, where Ron's was cold and heavy. Ben is quiet in my arms but he feels alive, and I am glad for the comfort of him, his confidence and trust. He does not yet know how to betray, and how easy it is for others to betray him.

The door, when it opens, is silent, and I know that it is over. There is barely a creak, and when Harry walks out I would think that he is calm if I couldn't see his eyes. They are blasted within him, and I wonder if he sees me at all. I take deep breaths, breathe in Ben's baby scent, and try not to sob, lest he wake. Harry begins to walk past me, and there is a slight check in his step that tells me that he has seen me after all - and the baby. He hadn't seen Ben before, and he must wonder whose he is. Or is the fact that he is mine enough?

He moves down the corridor, stiff, like a clockwork toy that is winding down. Slow, and in spurts, disappearing into another room. Out of our sights, and out of sight of Ron.

I wait again, but for a long time he doesn't come out. Neville comes to stand beside me, his face creased with grief, and wonders. He is not the only one who does. The few that remain in the shattered remains of this castle nearly all ignore me, but the movement of their eyes towards the place where Harry stays alone is unmistakeable, and the tension rises. We are all afraid, and no-one will go to him.

“He shouldn't be alone,” Neville states quietly, but he makes no move towards the door.

I wonder why he is telling me, as surely none of these people expect me to go to him, or think that I would be welcome if I did. Still, I am increasingly sure that someone needs to go, although I cannot tell how much my knowledge of Harry's needs has changed over the past two years. And no-one else seems prepared to do it… I give Ben to Neville, surprising him, and one of them whimpers pitifully, I'm not sure which. Neville is definitely not used to babies, and I am sure that Ben senses his nervousness, and it unsettles him.

“Hermione,” Neville starts, and there is a warning tone in his voice that I refuse to hear. “Are you sure that this is a good idea?”

I'm not sure, but no-one else is moving and it can't go on like this. Cautiously, I move out of the way of Ben's questing little hand, and make my way away from him, trying to look more confident than I feel. In truth, I am numb. I know that what is coming will most likely be extremely unpleasant, but I at this point I don't see how I could feel any worse. So much has happened that I think I am losing my ability to feel, at least for the moment. I think of what is hidden in my backpack and wonder if that is a blessing.

I hesitate outside the door, and wonder if I should feel afraid to go inside. I'm not sure whose reaction I am afraid of more - Harry's, or my own. When I left Hogwarts, I was so sure that I would never see him again, that he was lost to me. The last is still true, but to speak to him again, to be able to touch him… how can I react to that? And how will he react to me?

My betrayal hangs between us, and for Harry and myself it can never be undone. For Ben, I can be dimly glad that it cannot - but that gladness will wait until another day.

When I am inside, I shut the door behind me and lean against it, to prevent an easy escape. There is no escape for me here, and there should be none.

Harry is sitting on the floor, leaned against the far wall, feet flat and elbows resting on his knees. He looks calmer than I expected - too calm, and far older than I remember, like horror has touched him and left its mark. Has grief, self-loathing done the same for me? We regard each other flatly for several minutes, not speaking. He doesn't bother to evade my eyes any more; there is no pretending that I don't exist, or looking past me as if I was nothing. In a silent flash of understanding - that, at least, remains - I realise that Harry has come to the same conclusion I have, that we cannot run from this. We have been the great disappointment of the other's life, and there is no getting away from it.

When he speaks, it is not what I expect. His voice is rusty, made hoarse with grief.

“You're cut your hair,” he says. I blink, and give a belated nod. Harry assesses me silently, and the anger that is absent in his face finds expression in his voice. “I hate it.”

“So do I,” I say immediately, and am surprised by the vehemence in my own voice. I realise that it's true - while certainly easier to keep, the shortness of my hair has done its job. It has been a constant reminder of what I would rather forget, of the things that I am capable of which I would rather not admit.

I wait for him to ask about Ben, but he does not. I won't bring him up myself - I will answer, but not initiate. I will not begin to excuse what I have done, or trip over my tongue telling him how sorry I am. I will not reduce the target I make for him.

The silence stretches on, and he is again the one to break it. Again, it is not what I expect.

“Go home, Hermione,” he says tiredly.

A lump rises in my throat, and it's all I can do to shake my head mutely. He doesn't understand. There is no home to go to. This is it - the ruined remains of Hogwarts, the people who can no longer look me in the face. My parents used to tell me that home is where you go when there is no-one else to go, and they have to take you in.

But they don't have to, and what happens when they don't? I have missed having a home so badly, and I know that soon I will have to make one for Ben if not for myself, but I cannot face the thought of it. Always home has been somewhere that I came from, or went to. It existed outside of me, and was not something I ever had to make.

“Go home, Hermione,” he says again, and this time there is force behind it.

I shake my head again. I cannot seem to make myself speak, and I know that my muteness is chipping at his clam, and making him angrier. He tilts his head and glares at me, and for a moment I see something flash in his eyes - but I cannot make it out.

“I don't want you here,” he enunciates slowly, each word clear and well-aimed. There is no chance of my misinterpreting, but I find myself not only dumb but unable to move. I am not sure if it is merely seeing him again, or the death of Ron, or the anger he so clearly feels for me, but I am frozen in place, like a rabbit, my head shaking in place and I cannot stop it. Something curls in my stomach; it is cold and twisted.

Harry bounds to his feet, and the movement makes me flinch against the door. His eyes flash again, and my stomach coils.

It almost feels like fear.

“Don't you understand?” he cries, his voice rising, getting louder and stronger, face twisting with anger, and what I would like to believe isn't hate. “You don't belong here any more. I don't want you. I don't need you. You left, and you can't come back now, and think that looking all sad will make it go away! How could you? How could you?” He stops suddenly, panting with rage, and I can see him force himself to stillness. I almost preferred him angry, as the coldness that succeeds the rage is darker, and more disturbing.

“Leave,” he says. “Now. Or…”

I finally find my voice. “Or what?”

He glares at me. “Or I won't be responsible for my actions.” I can see his fists clenching and unclenching, and I know that he, like me, is on the verge of losing all self-control. So be it. I never did hesitate to argue with him if I thought it would help, and I know we're not going to get anywhere by pretending to hang on to the last remnants of our civility.

He hates. He has been left too many times, by death and betrayal, and I believe he knows that he cannot make it stop.

I hate. He is not the only one with losses, and if our hate is directed in different directions, it is as deep. I believe that he shares in my self-loathing; however I am not sure whether that loathing is directed at me, or at himself.

It's probably both.

I swallow, and raise my chin, ignoring my tears. This is no time for crying, and I've never been the type to use tears to get what I want. “I'm not going. I know that you must hate me right now, but I'm not going. Besides, Ron said-”

“DON'T YOU SAY HIS NAME!” Harry roars, and I flinch not only at the noise, but in the sure, pure knowledge that the wand he suddenly points at me is only a few last shreds of self-control away from being used. My throat dries horribly, and I know that I have left my wand back in the pack with Ben's baby things. It makes no difference. I wouldn't have used it anyway.

I believe that Harry won't use his either. I can see that he is afraid - not just of Voldemort, but of the pain inherent in the possibility of trusting me again. I have lost all claims to that trust, and we both know it, but with Ron gone… he will try to drive me away before letting anyone in again. He will threaten, and scream, and try to make me afraid, but he is still Harry.

He will not hurt me.

It takes me several moments to speak, and they hang between us like years. His hand is shaking, but he doesn't lower his wand.

“I'm not leaving,” I say. I leave out the fact that there is nowhere else for me to go, and that I am afraid to leave Ben anywhere that he could be found and used against me. “You can't make me go. And Ron…” I trail off, because I see that his wand has suddenly stopped shaking. I should have taken his advice, should not have mentioned Ron's name. Should have remembered his face against my neck, his silent plea. Harry is suddenly calmer than I have seen him since my return, and a coil of true fear begins to spin in my gut.

“I hate you,” he says, and I know that he means it. His voice is somehow both hard, and hurt beyond belief. “I hate you.”

And it is then that I realise how badly I have erred - not just in my betrayal and abandonment, but in my return. For his eyes flash again, and this time he is close enough for me to see that the flashes are not of anger, or grief, but are what these have become after being burned into despairing and loathing. They are red, and they spark in the green eyes as though belonging to somebody else.

I hear Ron's voice again in my mind, his last words to me as his blood streams over my hands and pools about me in a slow red death.

“Stop him… Help him…stop… Hermione…”

My breath dies in my throat.

I had thought that Ron had meant Voldemort - that Harry needed my help to stop him. What a laugh that is - my help, who has not seen Dark Magic for years. My help, that could not even save my own parents. The help of a traitor, and of a coward.

Then the wand raises, and I shrink against the door. In the next moment, I can hear only three things. The second is my own screaming, in a voice of empty agony that drowns almost everything but the memory of the first, of the memory when Harry looked at me through anguished, triumphant, horrified, vengeful eyes, and breathed a single word.

“Crucio.”

But the last thing I hear, the thing that overwhelms even this pain, is the memory of Ron's voice. Stop him. Help him.

He hadn't meant Voldemort.

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