Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I'm only playing.
A/N: Enjoy!
***
--Chapter Five--
The house shrinks around a single candle in the kitchen. She's curled in the armchair, Crookshanks on her lap. He sits at the table. Ron's been gone for hours. Words have been scarce. Harry looks out the window trying to swallow down the sense of disaster rising in his throat. A half-hearted storm cavorts outside. He gets up to rekindle the fire which has died down to cold cinder. Then he returns to the table, lays his head on his arms and waits for warmth.
*
"Harry, Harry, wake up!"
"Shit, Ron, where've you been? We've been worried sick--"
"I'm fine, I'm fine. No need to worry. Listen, mate--that's Hermione in that chair, isn't it? Is she asleep? Good, good. Come on, come out here, I want talk to you, don't want to wake her up, don't wanna--"
"All right, calm down, I'm coming."
'Look, Harry--I--"
"Ron, stop and breathe, okay? What is it? Where've you been all this time?"
"I went home--well, almost. Anyway, doesn't matter. Harry, can I take a ride in your bike?"
"Ron--"
"Harry, don't say--"
"Of course you can, Ron, when you're…when you're well enough--"
"What the fuck are you talking about, Harry? Didn't you hear him today? I'm never going to get--"
"No, that's not what he said, he didn't say that--"
"Oh fuck you, Harry! That's exactly what he said and you know what, it's better to know that than to keep thinking that one day, just one day I'm going to wake up and it's all going to be just peachy--Harry, let me take the bike, just once, just once I want to be able to--just--"
"Ron, it's not safe--"
"That's bollocks. You flew it over all the way from Hogwarts, and all of a sudden it's not safe?"
"It's the middle of the night, and it's windy out there--"
"Look, Harry, let's go upstairs or I'll wake Hermione up this minute and tell her everything--"
"Ron--"
"I mean it, Harry, I really do--"
*
Through the trapdoor, up to the roof. A Silencing charm strains to hold everything in its grasp. The rooftop is wet and refracts streetlights. The starlings are quiet, the street empty. His bad leg's propped up on one pedal, his hands grip the throttles like claws. There's no moon and the sky hangs low. Harry stands near the stairs, jaw set, eyes almost black.
No more waiting. A deep breath, a rolling of shoulders. Then the air grabs him and hauls him clear off the ground.
The wind rushes through him.
Clean, clear space.
Speed.
The world below blinks with a hundred faltering lights. It doesn't matter if the ground's never solid beneath his feet, he's far up in the infallible sky.
He whoops with the joy of it, his shirt flapping around him. The bike moves easily, tuning smoothly to the body riding it. One hand arches through the clean currents. Has flying ever felt like this? It's as if all the times he's flown before has merged into a single, exquisite rush through the air. Only the memories are swifter. The shimmering sky over the paddock at the Burrow, the exploding colours of the pitch at Hogwarts; everything blurred and earthbound and him far above. Flying has never felt like this. He can't wait to get back down to share it. He swoops in a low arc over the far end of the street and sweeps towards the rooftop of Number 12, towards the lone figure at the edge. He means to slow down to a hover, just low enough for Harry to hear him, but the current rules over him and the bike responds, drunk with speed. He's got the use of only three limbs, and the other one, the bad one begins to tremble, doesn't stop, and the low swoop becomes a scraping, screeching skid: the roof wet, the night blind, the silencing charm pops like a balloon, and--
Get OUT of the way--
*
Hermione's curled into a well-worn dream. The road stretches like a ribbon before her, flanked with familiar things. Here's where she first met Harry and Ron, here's where they freed a dragon. Here's a black dog, here's the whispering veil. Here's a fireside armchair and a window full of snow. Here's fear, and over here its passing. She's weary but hopeful. The end is in sight. There are footsteps on either side of her, sometimes running ahead, sometimes falling behind, but mostly marching alongside. As it happens in dreams, she can't tell whose steps they are, but they too seem familiar. Ahead she can see where the road bends and is supposed to end. Relief pools in her belly.
But then someone snaps the black ribbon and the bend disappears. She shouts after it, not fair, but the road stretches interminably once again. Its familiarity suddenly frightens. Not again, she shouts, not all of it all over again. She looks about for her companions but their footsteps are fading, drowned in other sounds, loud and insistent, explosive, nearer at hand--
Abruptly awake, she stares.
Crookshanks stares back from her lap, unblinking. She pushes him away and jumps to her feet. Her limbs are frozen. She stumbles through the dark kitchen and several open doors. Upstairs wildly, rushing through empty rooms. Her heart rushes ahead of her. Another flight of steps, tripping over the kneazle who bounds into Buckbeak's dank room. She can't see anything.
She climbs. The clean air hits her.
There's a fraction of a second when she tries to sort out the scene before her. A stain on the ground. A large wheel. A motorcycle. A motorcycle up on the roof, sprawled on its side--
But her mind doesn't hold and she runs over to where Ron's on his knees, bending over Harry.
"What happened? Ron, what happened? I heard a crash--Harry, are you all right? Oh god, Ron, what happ--he's bleeding--"
"I'm sorry, so sorry, Hermione, I think I've--I've--I'm so sorry, I've--"
"You haven't killed me, if that's what you're trying to say, you dolt--"
"Harry! What on earth happened? Oh god--"
She leans over him and pushes his hair back over his face white with pain. He avoids her with a shoulder, not meeting her eye, cradling his arm.
"I'm fine, really, I'm fine--"
"You're NOT fine--"
"Only a cut--"
"Just let me look at it, please, Harry--"
"Take Ron downstairs first, he's pretty shaken--"
"What on earth were you doing up here in the middle of the nig--"
"I'm sorry, Hermione, so sorry, all my fault--Harry didn't want to--"
"Ron, stop whining, mate. Everything's fine, it's fine--"
"Didn't want to do what?"
"The bike was a bad idea, he told me, but I just wanted--just once--"
"What bike? What--"
"Sirius's bike, Harry found it--and now it's all a mess!"
"Ron, it's fine. We can fix it, Ron--"
"It's all a mess, I've--"
"Ron, just go with Hermione, we can fix it--"
"Ruined everything."
*
She's patching him up again.
With the deftness of a lifetime, a thread of seething anger and a needle of silence.
Nothing to numb the pain.
The blood when cleaned out reveals a shallow split down the length of his forearm. It stings from the antiseptic salve, her fingers firm as she swabs the cut. A loop of damp hair dangles forward, almost touching his cheek. They're sitting on the floor beneath the window in Buckbeak's room, his back to the wall. She's dishevelled and sweaty, her fingers trembling despite her efforts to still them. He's seen her shaking this badly only once. He wants to touch her, to quieten her hands, to smooth out the coiled tendons on the inside of her arm, but he sits still.
"Is Ron all right?"
She reaches for bandage. "Sleeping."
"Right." He clears his throat. "He's not hurt, is he?"
"No."
She begins to wrap the bandage starting near the crook of his elbow. Her hair sweeps close to a candle-flame. With his free arm, he slides the candle out of the way. She pulls it back towards her and pushes her hair back roughly over her shoulder. He sighs.
"Hermione I'm--"
"What exactly happened?"
He looks at her for moment, her face swimming in and out of shadows, lip chewed, eyes intent on her work.
"Ron wanted to have a ride. He was doing well, and then suddenly--I think he was trying to land--he kind of skidded across the roof. The bike has an extra brake mechanism, a magical one, very odd for Sirius…anyway, that made sure the damage was minimal. I'll have to fix the ty--"
"Why?"
He stares at her blankly. She pulls out a loop of bandage and wraps it back again.
"Why did Ron want to ride the bike? You know why."
"Why did you let him?"
It's as if she's hardly spoken. As if they're speaking across a great distance, too far to hear each other, too far to matter. She tears a bit off the end of the fabric and doubles it back to tie a knot. He winces at the tug.
"Hermione, please look at me. Please?"
She lifts his arm off her lap. "Does that feel tight enough? It shouldn't come off while you're sleeping."
She begins to gather the leftover supplies; the scissors, salve, the small bowl of water dark with his blood.
"Hermione, please. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about…about this. I found the bike at Hogwarts…oh. You knew, didn't you? You knew I…I went to Hogwarts."
She clicks the first-aid box shut sharply. He swallows and wills himself to continue.
"Anyway, this is why…well, the bike is what I found. So I brought it over. I was going to tell you, I swear. You see, I found this other thing, while I was there--" He reaches for a box lying on the floor among several rags, wincing as his arm moves. He pulls out the scroll case. "I don't know what this is, but I thought you might."
He's offering all the wrong words but doesn't know how to do any better. He holds out the wooden cylinder, only to find her already on her feet. Minutes later, he hears the sound of water in the bathroom. She returns, wand in hand. Dropping to her knees again, she lays the wand-tip over the dressed wound, one hand pressing on his arm above the elbow. Her fingers are cold. After a moment's hesitation and a whispered command, a pale orange shimmer diffuses over his arm.
"There." She sits back on her heels. "That should help it heal faster."
He sinks against the wall. His head drops back against the windowsill. One silence too long, one secret too much and carelessly, cowardly, he's crushed the one green shoot to defy his perennial January. On her feet again, she holds out a hand.
"Come on, let's get you to bed."
He looks up at her. Her eyes are tired, her shirt stained. There is no rage, not even anger anymore. There's only silence and an opacity that frightens him. She's secured herself against him. He looks away.
"I'm fine. You go on ahead."
She watches him for a moment.
"All right, then. Don't forget to blow out the candles."
She walks over to the trapdoor and pulls it shut. Then she picks up her wand and is out of the door. He closes his eyes.
*
She returns close to dawn, a blanket bundled in her arms. The door's ajar and inside, the candles blown out. He sleeps hunched against the wall still, cradled in grey light. His sore arm's pressed awkwardly to his chest, the bandage stained. His glasses lie on the floor. She picks them up and sets them on top of a box within his reach. Close to, his eyes are tightly shut, his face creased as if in pain. She fists her fingers tightly to stall their instinct. The trapdoor doesn't shut tight and draughts find the room easily. She pulls the blanket over him as carefully as she can, tucking it in over his shoulders, beneath his elbows.
Not daring to linger, she gets to her feet. Something stabs her side and she's surprised to find her wand still on her. She'd planned to leave the room as quietly as she arrived but suddenly changes her mind. Picking her way soundlessly across the floor strewn with various deserted histories--school, Sirius, Buckbeak, the three of them, him and her--she reaches the trapdoor.
A quick charm, quicker footwork, and she is out on the roof, the trapdoor partly lowered. The wind and cold waste no time; she's wearing an old, worn coat. She wraps her arms about her and strides to where the bike lies on its side against the short wall at the far end. The eastern sky is undecided about light. A gaggle of starlings burst out of an eave and quarrel over rooftops into the city. A tyre lies in a patch of congealed grease.
She stares at the bike for some time, worrying her lip. Then she squares her shoulders and raises her wand.
She tackles the broken tyre first, levitating it carefully across the roof and manoeuvring it through the trapdoor. Once it's safely inside, she returns for the scratched and dented bike. She feels a faint rush of pride that she hasn't lost her touch; the bike is heavy and needs a particularly sturdy hand and solid concentration. Then she reminds herself that she doesn't care.
She levitates the bike across the room, praying hard for her spell to hold. With only a faint thud she lowers it onto the ground, against the far wall.
She sits down on an upturned crate to catch her breath.
He's slept through it all, his face still contorted. Her throat hitches and for a moment she considers waking him and persuading him to bed. But that would require meeting his gaze which would be too much to endure. She feels drained, her insides echoing emptiness. Her fingers still hold a slight tremor. Her eyes fall on the black and silver wooden cylinder he'd proffered earlier. She picks it up and runs her fingers over the carved surface. Then, with a sigh and one last look at him, she leaves the room.
*
One night, gathered around a mean fire in some nameless inn in a nameless town somewhere in England, Hermione thought of something. She turned to Harry and Ron and said, we need to figure out what to do if it doesn't end.
They stared at her blankly. There had been a death that day. The sixth Horcrux was all they had left to find. They'd tracked down the silversmith who'd carved the locket, trudged up a hill in high summer, only to find him dead at his doorstep. Harry and Ron were ready to collapse in exhaustion and here was Hermione speaking in riddles.
She bit her lip and kept going. Who's to say that killing Voldemort is the end? Do you really think it'll be sunshine and roses after that?
It hurt her to say it, more than it could hurt anyone else, to look at Harry and say something so awful. He was whittled down to sheer willpower, walking about hard-eyed, tight-lipped. How badly she wanted it to end, for him.
Ron told her to put a sock in it, but Harry kept looking at her. So she kept talking.
Voldemort would know by now what they were doing, she said. Is it likely that he'd leave it at that?
She worried a tiny splinter in her wand, blinking back tears. Neville was already gone; caught while patrolling the castle, along with four seasoned members of the Order. Hagrid and Charlie had been missing for a month, feared dead. Dean, Seamus, Hannah Abbot and the Patil twins had been the very first casualties, right after Dumbledore's death.
Would the end of the war mean anything to them?
Harry shuffled over and sat next to her, slipping a hand in hers.
I don't know, he said, I don't know, but I'll make sure that at least there'll be sunshine if not roses.
She looked across at him, her tears startling into laughter.
And we'll stick together, all right? The three of us, we'll always stick together, no matter how it ends.
She didn't know from where he summoned the words; they were so precious, so clear, so alien to the bleakness in his eyes. So she believed him.
--end chapter five--