Disclaimer: If it were mine, surely I would be on a beach somewhere drinking Vodka and something nice, either that or being hounded by anxious Harry Potter fans for spoilers…on a beach.
Authors note: Oh dear, oh dear- Last chapter before DH! It's so weird, the last Harry Potter book we will read for the first time!
Chapter 1
Hermione hadn't slept properly for a week. Her house was no longer the safe haven she knew as a child, it was cold, and it was painful. Her parents were no longer the loving caring parents she once knew. Not since their capture and struggle at the hand of Voldemort himself, their close stint with death for which they owed Harry their lives. Yet the end of the war brought no comfort to them. Fear dawned in her parents' eyes as they looked at her. At first she thought it was the scar, sitting on her cheek, unwelcome, ugly. She slowly began to realise, it was her they feared. Their little girl, who they had raised to do only good, how could she have brought them such pain, how could she have let anything happen to them? They feared her screams in the night, they feared what she could do, what she had done and they feared what she had become. They tiptoed around her, as though expecting her to spin around and shout, bare fangs- or maybe banish them away. She could never understand it. She'd like to think it was fear for her, not of her. Only, It was too far beyond that now. She was much less naive now, than at the beginning of the war, less naive than her own parents- reduced to children in her eyes. Her own parents. It upset her; of course it upset her- But- but- she couldn't think about that now.
They all knew the final battle would have lasting effects, of course they did. History told of plenty of wars from which they drew experience. Still, she didn't expect this. She would dream of the hellish images that would haunt her all her life. She'd never expected what she'd seen. Muggle war was simple, go to a terrorist county and bomb their supplies, main imports, exports, cut them off. She understood Muggle war, muggle war even made sense sometimes. This war, their war, there was no goal other than to take over, to own, to be the ultimate power, there was no strategy, no plan, and no order- and- all the order could do was kill, if you're going down, take the bastards with you. Harry was the only one, who could ever tell the next move, but at the most vital moments he was fighting his war, he was fighting alone, because this war was the war only he could fight. The war between him, and Voldemort. Harry Potter's war, and it cost them all so much. He changed from the boy-who-lived, to the boy- who-defeated and the boy-who-fell, all in one night.
Hermione spent her days repeating, reliving the occurrences, trying to make order of the events that tore them all apart. She spent her time calculating, and destroying theories, writing, ripping up paper, anything. Anything to keep her mind off Harry. She was out of her mind with worry, so it was best to keep in her mind to ignore it.
She couldn't sleep, sometimes she would wake and wish never to sleep again. She found Harry in her dreams. The final act in his war. She'd known when he'd done it. The face of the death eater with whom she had been duelling contorted and screamed in pain. His wand reduced to dust, the left arm of his robes bursting into flame. She'd seen this, and she'd ran. Find Harry, find Harry. She knew he was hurt, she knew, she could feel it. She had ran into Ron waiting by the entrance to the forest, the look in his eyes showed his expectation to Harry to run out crying Victory. She hadn't expected anything more from Ron, not really, his child like innocence is what attracted her to him in the first place, and then the war had destroyed her naivety.- and any pleasure she had in a romantic endeavour with Ron.
She and Ginny found him. They found him face down in the dirt, near a pile of soaked robes. They found him hardly breathing, they found him bleeding. Hermione had sobbed, Ginny screamed. What remained of the order rushed in around them, Lupin spearheading them, and they all grinded to a halt at his raised hand.
"Is he…" He asked his eyes wide.
No, Hermione mouthed, shaking her head, hardly able to speak.
Moody pushed to the front of the crowd, "Let me see him" He called Lupin over to help, and together, they gently and slowly turned him over. The crowd gasped. A deep gash ripped through Harry's middle, blood pumped and bubbled up through the torn skin. Turning Hermione sick. Lupin cursed, and picked Harry up in his arms, Moody moved forward and pulled out his wand, making complicated shapes, and muttering complicated words. The wound healed over, the crowd exhaled as one, a mass sigh of relief.
For a second everyone relaxed, almost happy. Could it really be over?.
The wound ripped open with violent vigour, Harry was sucked from his blissful unconsciousness and screamed. Hermione would never forget that scream. Harry screamed and choked on sobs and she had fallen to her knees. Ron rushed to her side, covering her ears, hunching his own shoulders against the noise, clutching at her as if she was the last solid thing on earth.
Lupin's eyes widened, and he looked at Moody with fresh horror, and he disapperated with Harry still twitching in his grasp.
Leaving Hermione clutching to each other, every frustrated feeling, and all their anger bleeding away as they sobbed.
Hermione hadn't seen Harry since; she and Ron were told to wait for further news. No further news came. She had no idea how Harry was, or where he was even. Whether he was still alive. She'd try to forget, immersing herself in a job, book or film. Her parents were weary, and spoke what was expected of them in dead voices.
"You look tired… Dear, How about trying to get some sleep?"
"Please- try to eat something, Hermione!"
"All this work can't be good for you"
"You look Pale…too thin…"
"That scar, Hermione, Dear, how did you get it?"
Hermione refused to release this information to her parents, not caring much for minor details anymore. All she cared about now was Harry; she needed to know he was alright. That he was alive, at least, that would be nice. She sent one disgruntled look in her parents' direction, and climbed the stairs to her bedroom.
She was expecting, another, long and lonely night.
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
Ron put his quill down, scrunching up another failed letter to Hermione. He knew she was beside herself with worry, but her lack of correspondence was disturbing and unfamiliar to him. Her silence was disconcerting. It was usually here complaining of his silence. She'd ignored all his letters bar the select few with which she answered shortly and to the point.
Ron,
I'm fine, busy arranging holiday with my parents, No need to write-
Hermione
This was written in handwriting much unlike her own. More of an untidy scrawl than her tidy linked up letters. Too many details missing from a life Hermione usually had plenty to tell of. He sighed, and moved from his desk to his window. The persistent rain matched the mood in the burrow. The Weasley family were already mourning the loss of Harry Potter, much to Ron's despair, he was sure that Harry's silence meant he was alive. Why keep the fact that he had died from anyone?
Ron was hoping on this fact, hoping Harry needed recuperating time. Time away from people. Therapy. Whatever. He wasn't dead, he couldn't be. Not Harry. He'd survived too much to die now. He left his room to wander down to the kitchen, taking a plate of sandwiches his mother had prepared. He noticed Ginny's tear stained face watching him from the living room; he sighed once more and turned away from her. He was tired of the constant cloud hanging over his home; he just wanted to get away.
The idea of owling Lupin flittered across his mind, and then flittered away again. Did he really want to know? After all this waiting, did he really just want to find out Harry was dead? It would end the limbo, of course. But what then? What's next? What would he do?
The war had shown him the true hostility of the world, beyond the bulling of Malfoy and the Slytherins', beyond school, teachers and homework. On that night, he was in Harry's world, and it broke his heart. He'd watched people break, cry, scream, beg, and Die. His dreams were never the same since that night, and he feared he would never be alright again. He wasn't as strong as he thought he was. He was a small boy, cold, lost and afraid in a world of horror. He needed Harry to get through this, if Harry could Survive, He, and Hermione could too. He was sure of it. He felt his eyes burning from hot tears, and his chest throbbed. His constant reminder of that night.
His mother busied herself in the garden; he stopped to watch her from the window. She looked so worn and old these days, more and more grey hairs appeared amongst the dull red. His father wasn't fairing much better, he moved much slower, and required a walking stick since the war. The attitude in the house was much less care-free, much quieter, but much louder at the same time. Ginny spent her days crying in plain sight, and relished in the sympathy of family and friends. It made Ron sick to watch. She expected the same off him, and he guessed she was very disappointed when he didn't apply himself. He found her act plastic, and couldn't help thinking that if Harry saw it, he'd be sickened too. Maybe seeing Ginny doing it would be worse.
Ron dreaded how Harry would be after he emerged from this, if he emerged. Would he be traumatized, more observant, scared of life, scared of everything, would he remember them? Would he remember anything? Would he walk? Talk? Ron just didn't know, and it scared him.
A bat landed on the windowsill before him, and he smiled faintly. Ronald the Bat was Luna Lovegood's Mail-bat. It only delivered at night, but not on full moons, or past midnight in August, as Luna believed August was a bad month for her because her house faces north. Luna was the only person constantly writing to Ron, and Ron fully appreciated her quirky letter, which were usually very long and consisted of much waffling. It was exactly what he needed. He quickly untied the scroll from the bat's back, and it quickly flew off into the night.
He was about to open it, when his mother walked in, and sat at the kitchen table. She looked at him, and began to cry, dropping her head into her hands. Ron bit his lip, and stuffed the scroll into his pocket, and left the dismal kitchen.
He opened the door to his cellar, and sat on the wooden stairs in the dark, eating his sandwich. Away from everything.
And he'd do the same thing tomorrow.
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