A Curse in Reverse (Redux)

A/N - Hi everyone. Some of you may have read this already. I have decided to polish it up a bit, add some stuff, and generally make it better =). For those of you who haven't read it, I hope you enjoy it!

Hermione's fingers twitched as she saw the clipping in the Daily Prophet.

Another Harry Potter sighting, she thought tiredly. Hardly a week went by without one. She should know; she had every single clipping cut out and pasted neatly into a magically enlarged and cataloged album.

Not this time, thought Hermione. Not this time... they're all just wild and baseless rumor. But her hands betrayed her by scooping up her wand and cutting out the clipping.

“Ron does it too,” she said defensively to the empty room. “I'm not the only one!”

With a last defiant glare at the unoffending walls, Hermione summoned the album from the bedroom. The handsome, leather-bound book soared through the door and landed gently in front of her on the bar that divided the kitchen and living area. A moving, magical picture of her, Ron and Harry adorned the cover of the album; they were standing with arms around each other's shoulders in front of the lake at Hogwarts. Ron was laughing, Harry smirking, and she grinning. The picture had been taken during their seventh year at Hogwarts. It was one of the last times they'd all been together and smiling.

The album lay untouched for a long minute as Hermione stared off into distant memory. Faint sounds of students laughing, ripples from the lake behind, and Hagrid's voice booming across the grounds echoed in the ears of Hermione's mind. The moment passed and, with a sigh, she tucked a stray strand of bushy brown hair behind an ear, folded her legs up onto the upper rung of the bar stool and flipped open the album.

Article after article flashed past as she rifled through to the first empty page. Harry Potter seen in Albania. Harry Potter Saves Child. Pregnant Witch Claims Harry Potter as Father. Harry Potter... Harry Potter... Harry Potter... Hermione affixed the newest clipping with a Permanent Sticking Charm to a blank page and closed the album heavily. She sighed deeply again; the other inevitable half of the ritual loomed ahead: to follow the rumor and see if there was any truth to it. Likely, she would do that today. It was her turn.

The sudden ring of the phone startled Hermione out of her brooding. Jolted into action, she leaped off the chair towards her phone. Or, if she was to be truthful with herself, fell.

“Hermione?”

It was Ron. She'd finally managed to teach him how to use a “fellytone”.

“Did you see it?” Hermione asked without preamble.

“Yeah- listen, I'm sorry... I can't go with you today. It's Charlotte's-”

“Yeah, I know. It's okay,” Hermione assured him. “It's my turn anyway.”

“Right-”

There was a long pause.

“Well, say hi to him from me when you find him.” Ron concluded lamely.

“Yeah...” promised Hermione, keeping up the fiction. “I will. I'll talk to you later.”

“Bye.”

Hermione's hand, and the receiver clenched inside, fell slowly to her side as the receiver went dead. She stood still, sadly, for a minute. The Saturday sunlight sparkled through the windows of her immaculate flat, mocking her. It wasn't right that after everything Harry had done to make a sunny afternoon safe for the entire wizarding world he wasn't here to enjoy it. How dare the sun creep into her flat so peacefully, so mockingly? Unbidden tears came to her eyes, and Hermione dashed them away, flinging the receiver back onto the cradle with unnecessary force.

It wasn't much, but Hermione's flat wasn't a bad place. The kitchen was adequate (she wasn't much of a cook anyway), and the bar type separator between it and the living room ensured that she ate a great many meals standing up. The living area contained a shabby, but immensely comfortable, teal couch and armchair, half a dozen overflowing bookcases, a small desk, and a telly.

Her bedroom was quite similar, but with no couch or telly. The same profusion of crowded bookcases was there, though. An industrial gray carpet covered the floor of the living area and bedroom; bland white linoleum in the kitchen and bathroom.

And everywhere pictures of her, Ron and Harry.

It was not a bad place to live. It perfectly matched her not a bad place to work job as a healer. She had friends and pleasant co-workers, enough money, and a few causes, but... it just wasn't the same without Harry. The three of them had been inseparable for nearly seven years; she and Ron missed Harry terribly. Ron had Charlotte now and was starting to move on, but Hermione didn't even have that.

So they searched. They searched the trail of the great mystery of the Boy Who Lived turned The Chosen One turned the Boy Who Disappeared.

It had all been so frantic. Curses, hexes and bodies flying everywhere and nothing between you and certain death but, as Harry had once put it, your own brain or guts or whatever. It wasn't a war; it was a slaughter. Voldemort's forces had outnumbered them ten to one. Not only that, but his ranks included giants and werewolves and dementors and every other foul being know to Wizardkind. All they had was a handful of friendly giants Hagrid had scraped up, the house elves, and an odd centaur or two. And Harry.

They had been forced to retreat to two fortifications: Hogwarts and the Ministry of Magic. Both structures were heavily guarded with magical barriers, but the sanctuary was only temporary. Harry had been beside himself when he realized they had no choice but to leave countless innocents to fend for themselves.

Harry. Harry had been everywhere. Harry killing Bellatrix, Harry felling countless Death Eaters, Harry saving Ron and Hermione's lives a dozen times over. Harry saving all of them at one point or another. And finally, Harry and Voldemort. He had even somehow, unbelievably, blocked the unblockable killing curse that Voldemort had sent at her.

The scene played out in slow motion in Hermione's mind for the millionth time: Voldemort's cruel, twisted sneer as he looked Harry straight in the eyes. Voldemort as he laughed mockingly, deflecting Harry's spells easily. Voldemort whirling and firing the killing curse at her, an obscene pleasure in his eyes as he tasted Harry's dismay. And Harry's eyes widening in fear and loss and then blind rage.

There had been a tremendous flash of golden light, a deafening explosion as it eclipsed the green jet, and then silence. When the survivors regained sense, Voldemort lay dead. Not only Voldemort, but every Death Eater in sight. A weak cry of triumph rose from the exhausted, hysterical, and shocked survivors. It lasted for approximately seven seconds until someone realized Harry was nowhere to be found. After all the bodies had been identified, still he was missing. It had been five long years since and no one had seen hide nor hair of him, the tabloids notwithstanding.

Most of the time, perhaps every other single instance in history, everyone would have assumed the hero dead. But this time people just couldn't bring themselves to do it. This was Harry Potter. He had done what even Dumbledore had been unable to do. And the vision of Harry Potter returning to save them when he was needed once again was just too strong. So he was immortalized and made into myth.

Hermione snapped back to reality, shaking her head to clear the memories.

Might as well get this over with now, she thought resignedly. Swiftly, she gathered her bag and wand. One last check re-assured her that the sighting had been in Hogsmeade. Two taps of the wand locked the door behind her and set the magical wards.

I'm on my way, Harry. Don't go anywhere.

* * *

Harry Potter froze, his shuffling step quieted as he stared at the back of a black-haired young man striding briskly down the street.

He looks just like I used to...

He was not the only one to notice the uncanny resemblance. A crowd had started flocking around the man, who waved them off feebly.

“No, no, I'm sorry. I'm not Harry Potter. Just a passing resemblance. No scar, see? Name's Ernie. Same guy as yesterday.”

The crowd collectively examined Ernie's forehead and realized he was telling the truth. Disappointed, they drifted away. Harry's mouth twisted bitterly. If Ernie only knew... Absently, he rubbed the smooth patch of unblemished skin on his forehead where the lightning shaped scar used to be. He started forward again wearily, vague thoughts of setting up shop outside the Three Broomsticks tumbling through his mind. Madame Rosmerta was always glad to see him. Though, of course, she had no idea who he really was.

“Harry!” called a breathless and desperately hopeful voice from behind. “Harry, is that really you?”

Harry's heart lurched painfully; he would know that voice anywhere. He turned automatically, as did Ernie.

“No, miss, I'm not...” Ernie began patiently, by rote. But Harry's insides squirmed. For, unmistakably, there was Hermione dashing towards Ernie. He immediately turned away and hung his head, hiding his features. Not that he had need to anymore; between the scar being gone, the bright white hair, several extra inches of height, and a wretched gauntness, he doubted anyone would recognize the famous Harry Potter now. No one had yet.

“Hey! Hey, Mister Nobody!”

Harry's head jerked up and he spied a tousled-headed young boy running towards him.

“Hi there, Colin,” Harry greeted the grimy child, trying to dredge up a smile. The boy's clothes were old and ragged and did little to conceal his thinness.

“Are you gonna play? Huh, huh?” demanded Colin. “Can I have a song?”

“Um, yeah-” answered Harry slowly. “I am. I'll be ready in twenty minutes or so right over there.” Harry pointed towards an area in front of the Three Broomsticks.

“Aw, cool!”

“Yes... yes, very cool,” Harry echoed self-mockingly, and then knelt by the boy. “Listen. Run along now and give this to your lovely mother. When you get back, I'll be ready.”

“Thanks, Mister Nobody!” exclaimed Colin, eyes wide as Harry pressed a Galleon into his hand. “I'll be right back!”

The boy sprinted off, the Galleon clenched tightly in one small fist. Harry sighed and climbed heavily to his feet. Hopefully, that Galleon would buy him and his mother some new clothes and a few square meals.

“That was very kindly done,” a voice said quietly, directly behind him. Harry whirled to find Hermione behind him with an unreadable expression on her face. He drew a deep breath and cast away the hex that had been hovering on the tip of his tongue. Even five years later, Harry was still jumpy.

Up close, Harry could see the changes those five years had made in Hermione. She was fuller in figure and held herself with more confidence. The constant slump from a book bag slung across her shoulders was gone, but it seemed a heavier weight had replaced it. Her face was thinner and eyes sadder. Even her hair was a little limper, though that could have been purposeful.

She looked simultaneously strong and competent and tired and worn down. Exactly like someone who had forged on ahead and achieved many things despite struggling against a great weight pulling her down. Harry's automatic response was definitely not fitting to a stranger; he clenched his fists tightly and held his arms rigidly at his sides.

“Oh... it was nothing...” he mumbled finally, casting his eyes down after realizing he had been starting for a full minute. “Nothing at all...”

“Well, then it was the kindest nothing I have ever seen.” Hermione smiled, and it lit her face up. There was a short pause, then:

“I'm Hermione.”

“I know,” Harry said automatically, taking her outstretched hand, and then swore silently at himself.

“You do?” Hermione asked slowly, frowning at the back of Harry's hand. Quickly, he withdrew it and stuck it in a pocket. “Have we met before?”

“Ah, no…” Harry denied, mind racing. “It's just- well, you're famous, you know? And, well, I saw you just a minute ago with that bloke who looks like Harry Potter.”

“Oh…” Hermione sighed, looking sadder than ever. Harry stood there awkwardly for a minute, looking everywhere but at Hermione. His hand still tingled from his first contact with Hermione in five years.

“Er- I don't think I caught your name?” Hermione broke the strained silence.

“I'm Nobody.”

“Nobody?” Hermione's brow furrowed.

“Yes, that's right,” Harry confirmed.

“You do look familiar,” Hermione said pensively, then shrugged it away. “Is your name really Nobody?”

“Yeah...” Harry had thought it appropriate at the time. He had been the Chosen One. Now he was no one. No one at all.

“Well, um, Nobody.” Hermione coughed. “Did I hear that boy say you were, er, playing? Um, music?”

“Yeah, that's right. Madame Rosmerta allows me to play outside the Three Broomsticks. She even gives me free drinks. She's very kind.”

Hermione regarded him thoughtfully, chewing her lower lip in a very familiar manner. Harry was gripped by a strange mix of emotions. On the one hand he was glad that she hadn't realized it was him and nervous that she might. But on the other hand, he was unexpectedly hurt that she hadn't. And surprised anything had the ability to wound him anymore.

What did I expect? I'm trying not to be recognized.

Harry came back to the present with a start, and realized Hermione was talking again.

“Would you mind if I stayed and listened?”

“Um, n-no. Not at a-all,” Harry stammered, taken aback. “I'll, um, just get my stuff ready.”

Confused, and a bit thrown by the turn of events, Harry hurried across the street. With a wave of his wand he conjured his instruments out of thin air; a guitar, a bass, a set of drums and a synthesizer.

* * *

Hermione wasn't sure what had made her confront the man. He was non-descript, tall and skinny with oddly white hair, and she would have never noticed him if not for the young boy running towards him. Something about the way he interacted with the boy had touched her, and she found herself approaching him.

Now she watched, wide-eyed, as the man (Nobody, he called himself) picked up the guitar and started playing a simple tune softly. He then looked at each of the other instruments in turn; the bass floated up in the air, unsupported, and plucked out a warm-up; the drumsticks twirled for all the world like an invisible drummer was there, and the keys on the synthesizer depressed themselves.

Disappointed as she was at yet another false Harry trail, Hermione couldn't but help being fascinated. The man had to know how to play all of those instruments to do what he was doing. And- no, surely not! He couldn't be meaning to play every part at once? He'd have to be a genius!

But it seemed that he did. Already a crowd had materialized out of thin air and started cheering. Obviously he had played here before. He must really be good, thought Hermione wistfully. She noticed with a small smile that the little boy had returned and snaked his way to the front. All subsequent thoughts were driven from her head moments later as he started to play.

Later, Hermione would be hard pressed to describe it. But in the here and now it was an epic story relayed through music. It started slowly, languidly, and built up faster and faster into a breathless, heart-pounding peak. And then it faded away, slowly, into nothing, a heartbreaking strain of hopeless melancholy. The man made the crowd feel every emotion that went into his music.

When the first song was done coins showered at Nobody's feet. Hermione found herself throwing a handful as well; she pulled it out, heedless of the amount. Nobody had an odd expression on his face; it looked like self-loathing, and perhaps a bit of nausea. No one seemed to notice except Hermione as he bowed and gestured; the coins flew up and tumbled end over end to the poorest of the poor standing in the street. It was something Harry would have done, Hermione thought. He had never cared about money. In fact, the more things he had gained, the more he had shared. But without another pause, Nobody launched into another song and carried Hermione's thoughts away.

Hermione did not know how long she listened, standing with tears in her eyes at the raw emotion in the music. Somehow, incredibly, the man had captured her own feelings and transformed them into song. Her memories of Hogwarts, and of Harry and Ron and their adventures and frantic struggle at the end.

Finally, as it grew dark, Nobody finished. A moment of hushed silence followed, but was quickly broken by tumultuous applause. He bowed again, and vanished his instruments with a flick of his wand. Madame Rosmerta respectfully pressed a glass into his hand as the crowd dispersed, many into the Three Broomsticks.

Hermione stood rooted to the spot for a full minute and saw him eye her sideways with a frown. She blushed, but stumbled towards him as the crowd dispersed.

“That-” she croaked. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “That was amazing! Beautiful...”

“Thank you,” Nobody said quietly as he bent over to scoop up a few stray coins near his feet. “Thank you very much.”

“How- how did you know?” whispered Hermione.

“Know what?” he asked from the folded up stance, puzzled.

“Know what- I-“ Hermione stuttered. Nobody continued to frown at her, but something flashed in his eyes.

“Um- nothing,” Hermione said quietly, feeling foolish. “Hey…

She bent slightly to look into Nobody's eyes. He looked away instinctively, and when Hermione finally caught his gaze, bright blue eyes were looking back at her evenly. They rather reminded her of Dumbledore.

“That's strange…” she said, half to herself. “For a moment, I thought- your eyes were green.”

“Nope,” Nobody said flatly. “Been blue my whole life.”

“Right… well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Nobody. So- um, well, bye…”

Nobody nodded, not looking at her as he plucked the last coins up and then took a long drink from the glass Madame Rosmerta had given him. Hermione slowly walked away.

“Hey? Hermione?”

Hermione stopped, and turned around, a slight fluttering in her chest.

“Yeah?”

“Here… you take these,” Nobody hurried towards her and pressed a handful of coins into her hands. Hermione wasn't sure what gave her the idea, but she was absolutely sure she was right. It was the exact amount she had thrown.

“I don't need it,” Nobody said quickly.

“No.” Hermione smiled sadly and pushed it away as thoughts of Harry filled her head. “You earned it. A thousand times over.”

He limply accepted the coins back, staring intently into her face. Hermione flushed at the scrutiny, and looked away. There was something disconcerting about it, like he could see right through her. Like he knew exactly who she was and what she was thinking.

“I'll be playing again Tuesday afternoon.”

Hermione looked back quickly, but he was already striding away.

“Nobody?” she said quietly to herself. “What happened to you? Why are you so sad?”

As Hermione watched, the man's shoulders jerked and he stumbled for a step before regaining his balance.

-->

“Ron?”

Hermione knocked on Ron's front door. He lived in a small flat in London with his girlfriend, Charlotte. A worn Chudley Cannons doormat adorned the hallway under Hermione's feet and a wreath hung on the door. Hermione smiled slightly as she remembered how passionately Ron had pleaded his case to Charlotte about the doormat. It was charmed to look like a football team to Muggles, of course. West Ham, in honor of Ron's old classmate, Dean.

The door opened suddenly, causing Hermione to jump, and Ron stood there grinning broadly.

“Hermione! Come in, come in!” He pulled her into the cozy interior. Charlotte must be a saint, Hermione thought for the hundredth time. Picking up after Ron was a full time job in and of itself, but the flat was spotless.

“So, how did it go?” Ron was asking her as he steered Hermione towards a comfortably worn old armchair. “Hold on, I'll get you some juice.”

Hermione smiled gratefully as she sank into the chair. There was also a couch and telly, an oriental carpet underfoot and several wizarding paintings on the wall. Ron had disappeared through a doorway in the back into a small kitchen.

“Charlotte!” Hermione heard Ron call. “Hermione's here!”

“Oh, drat!” A woman's voice floated from the bedroom down the hall. “You always catch me naked, Hermione! I swear you do it on purpose!”

A blush suffused Hermione's face as Ron bounded back into the room with a glass of orange juice and a butterbeer.

“Don't say it,” Hermione said menacingly, spying the expression on Ron's face. “Don't even THINK it!”

“Think what?” Ron asked innocently. “So, tell me about it. Was he there?”

Hermione shook her head and sighed. Ron didn't look surprised; still, there was always that little bit of hope.

“No… but there was a guy there who looked just like him. His name was Ernie.”

“Closer than usual, I suppose. Buck up, Hermione, he can't hide from us forever!” Ron said bracingly. Hermione nodded and buried her face in the orange juice.

“Hi there, Hermione,” a red-haired woman said cheerfully, walking into the room while still toweling her hair. She was short and slightly plump with a pleasant, smiling face and short, wavy hair.

“Hi, Charlotte,. Hermione smiled. “How are you? Did you have a good time today?”

“Oh, it was wonderful! Sometimes I wonder why I keep Ron around, and then he goes and does something like today and I decide to keep him for a little longer.” Charlotte grinned and winked at Hermione as Ron roared in mock outrage. Hermione giggled.

“Oh, hush, darling.” Charlotte shed the towel and dropped into Ron's lap. “You know you like it.”

“Maybe...”

“You can't fool me, mister,” Charlotte declared, poking Ron in the chest for emphasis. “So, Hermione, how was your day?”

“Oh… it was ok…”

“Ah… one of those days, huh?”

Hermione nodded glumly and they sat in silence for a minute, Hermione and Ron finishing their drinks while Charlotte hummed and ran her fingers through Ron's hair.

“Well, it wasn't quite normal,” Hermione said finally.

“Oh?”

“Yeah… I met this guy-“

“What's that?” Ron snapped to attention, ears tinged red. “Do tell. Do I have to thrash him?”

“Ron!” Charlotte smacked him. “Hermione's a grown woman! She can take care of herself. Now, dear,” Charlotte turned to Hermione, “tell me all about him. Don't you worry, I'll make sure he's right for you.”

“No, it's not like that,” Hermione protested bemusedly. “Really! Can't I even talk to a man without you two assuming I want to jump him?”

Ron and Charlotte exchanged a glance.

“Honey,” Charlotte said slowly and clearly. “It's been nearly five years since you've had a date. If you don't want to jump every man you see you should be in a nunnery.”

“Yeah, what she said,” Ron added helpfully.

“Shut up, Ron,” Hermione and Charlotte said together. He clamped his lips together and slouched back, sulking.

“So, tell me all about him,” Charlotte commanded.

“Okay… but it really wasn't like that,” Hermione reiterated. “It was right after I caught up with Harry's look-alike and found out he- well, wasn't Harry. I turned around, and saw this little boy running towards a tall, thin guy with white hair…”

Hermione explained what had happened as Charlotte and Ron listened intently, interrupting every so often to ask for clarification.

“And then he started to play. It was amazing! I've never heard anything like it. It's like he was there, Ron, with us and Harry and turned everything that happened into a song!”

“What?” Ron asked, confused.

“Oh, you just had to be there to understand!” Hermione cried impatiently. “It was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard! People were literally throwing money at him! But he gave almost all of it away to the poor.”

“Oh… how sweet- that little boy, and then-” Charlotte said, a catch in her voice. “And why was it again that you didn't jump him?”

“Charlotte!”

Ron and Hermione had shouted it at the same time, though for different reasons.

“He was just so- sad. I don't know how else to say it,” Hermione mused. “Like something terrible happened to him.”

“You said he knew who you were?” Ron asked thoughtfully.

“Yeah. He saw me running after that other guy, and must have put two and two together,” Hermione explained.

“I don't like it,” Ron muttered. “Who knows what kind of lunatic he might be?”

“Oh, Ron!” Charlotte cried in exasperation. “Hermione's famous! You're famous! People recognize both of you all the time!”

“Yeah,” Hermione murmured, deep in thought. “He said that too.”

“You didn't tell us his name,” Charlotte said suddenly.

“Oh!” Hermione blinked. “I guess I didn't. His name- his name is Nobody.”

“What?” Ron laughed. “You're having us on!”

“No, I swear!” Hermione defended herself. “That's his name! Honestly! That's how he introduced himself, anyway.”

“What kind of a name is that?”

“Oh, come on, Ron,” Charlotte butted in. “Your uncle's name, which also happens to be your middle name, is Bilius! Nobody is positively normal in comparison.”

“You just had to bring that up, didn't you?” Ron muttered, flushing. “Ok, fine. You win. His parents must have had a poor sense of humor. But not as bad as my parents.”

“Be quiet, darling. The big kids are talking now. So, did you get his owl stop?” Charlotte focused back on Hermione.

“What?” Hermione jerked back from her thoughts. “Oh… no. No, I didn't. But he told me he's playing again on Tuesday,” she hastened to add, seeing the disappointed look on Charlotte's face.

“Oh, good!” Charlotte clapped her hands together delightedly. Then her face fell.

“Oh, but we can't go, honey. You'll have to go, of course. Obviously, he was interested in you if he told you that…”

“Oh, I don't know…” Hermione prevaricated.

“But you just have to! Do you have to work that night?”

“Well, no, but-“

“No buts!” Charlotte sang out triumphantly. “You're going, and that's final!”

“Can I talk now?” Ron asked sourly.

“No,” both women said simultaneously. Ron scowled and got up, dumping his indignant girlfriend onto the floor.

“I'll just go clean up then,” he said to no one, picked up Hermione's empty glass, and stomped into the kitchen.

“Wait!” Hermione called, jumping up. Ron turned and raised an eyebrow.

“Thank you,” Hermione said, rushing forward to hug him tightly. “I know you're just a grumpy old bear because you care. Don't worry, I'll be okay.”

“I know,” Ron said, his expression softening as he hugged Hermione back carefully, glass and butterbeer bottle held out awkwardly. “I just- well, it's not always a nice world out there. Old habits, you know? From when there really were people out there looking to do us in.”

“It's okay now,” Hermione said quietly. “Harry saw to that…”

Nobody wanted to say anything to that, so they stood awkwardly silent for a minute.

“Well, I think I should go now,” Hermione said finally.

“Yeah, I've got this appointment with Ron,” Charlotte said.

“In the bedroom,” she added meaningfully. Ron grinned and Hermione coughed self-consciously.

“Right,” Hermione said as she backed quickly towards the door. “I'll just let myself out…”

“You won't be needing those,” Charlotte was saying, plucking the glass and bottle out of Ron's hand and tossing them on the couch. “Now, march!”

Hermione opened the door quietly and stepped outside. But as she closed it a hand snaked around to hold it open.

“I want to hear all about it!” Charlotte whispered fiercely. “Don't let me down! How are we supposed to compare stories if you're not-“

“I'll let you know,” Hermione broke in desperately. “I gotta go now, bye!”

* * *

The old healer plucked the knotgrass out of Hermione's hand and extinguished the fire under the cauldron.

“Wha-?” Hermione started.

“What's on your mind, dear?” the healer asked kindly. “You've been distracted all day.”

Hermione's cheeks burned at the gentle reprimand. It was not an event that happened often, and never since she had started training as a healer. It was a very responsible task; lives could depend on her being on the top of her game.

“I'm sorry, Healer Wythe! It won't happen again, I promise!”

The old healer smiled and ushered Hermione over to a bench.

“It's a man, isn't it?”

“What?” Hermione blurted, half-rising. “No! I mean- not really.”

Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth, mortified. Healer Wythe merely nodded sagely and smoothed back her long gray hair.

“I'm not that old, dear. I still remember how it was. And my husband still has his moments,” she whispered with a wink.

“Why does everyone always assume everything I say or do is about a man?” Hermione complained. “It's not like that's all there is to life!”

“Come on.” Healer Wythe pulled Hermione up, checking the clock. “It's just about time for our break. Let's round up the girls and get something to eat.”

“That would be nice,” Hermione murmured, rubbing her stomach. “And it gets us off this subject,” she added under her breath.

“And you haven't been on a date since you started here,” Wythe added, causing Hermione to groan. “So it is always about men.”

“Brenda, we're going over to the Starlit Café for lunch!” Wythe called as they passed a middle-aged blonde nurse.

“Right you are,” Brenda said complacently, falling in step with them.

“Hermione's going to tell us about her new man.”

“Smashing.”

Hermione felt an almost uncontrollable urge to scream, but settled instead on a dignified silence.

* * *

Hermione, Wythe, and Brenda were joined by Megan, Titania, and Anne by the time they made it to the café. The three newcomers were all Hermione's age, and rather giggly.

“So, tell us about him, Hermione!” Megan demanded.

“I think the French onion soup looks lovely,” Hermione said determinedly. “And perhaps a salad.”

“Is he handsome?” Titania asked.

“Rich?” Anne jumped in.

Hermione slammed down her menu and glared around.

“Listen, there is no man! I never said anything about a man! I was just spacing out a little while I was making a Blood Replenishing Potion, and Healer Wythe made a completely unwarranted-“

“Ooooh, but you never space out, Hermione,” Titania interrupted as Wythe smiled in a motherly fashion.

“Yes,” Brenda weighed in with her professional opinion. “I've never seen you perform at less than one hundred percent. I was beginning to think you weren't human.”

“Yes, well, I'm human, okay?” Hermione snapped. “Even I get distracted sometimes, and it doesn't mean-“

“He must really be something,” Anne whispered to Megan. “If he can make Hermione all flustered…”

Hermione looked around wildly, from Wythe's smirk to the expectant faces of the three younger Healers to Brenda's motherly visage.

“You do like guys, right?” Titania pressed.

“Yes, of course I do!” Hermione threw her hands in the air. “Ok, fine. So I ran into a guy on Saturday-“

Megan, Anne and Titania let out squeals of glee, but Hermione was distracted as Wythe held out her hand and Brenda glumly handed over several sickles.

“Hey, what was that for?” Hermione asked suspiciously.

“Nothing, dear,” Wythe assured her. “I picked up Brenda's tab last time, is all. Do go on.”

Hermione peered distrustfully at their too innocent expressions, and decided to ignore the whole thing.

“Yeah, um. I was looking into a rumor about Harry- You know, Harry Potter? Yes, that Harry.”

“You're going out with Harry Potter?” Megan gasped.

“Of course not!” Hermione got her voice under control with difficulty and resisted the impulse to call Megan an airhead. “Nobody knows where he is! That's the whole point of trying to find him, see?”

“Oh… yeah…” Megan said sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“Anyway.” Hermione cleared her throat. “It was just someone who looked like Harry. As I was about to leave, I saw this little boy running towards a-“

Hermione related the tale for what felt like the twentieth time, even though it was only the second.

“Oooooh, a musician!” squealed Megan.

“So when are you going to see him again?” Wythe asked shrewdly.

“Listen, he's not interested in me, nor I in him!” Hermione cried. “We just met briefly! And he would barely even look me in the eyes!”

Brenda nodded wisely and whispered something to Wythe behind her hand.

“Oh, but that's a good sign!” Titania said immediately. “Did you get his owl stop?”

Hermione shook her head.

“When are you going to see him again?” Wythe repeated. Hermione bit her lip.

“He- he told me he was playing again. Tonight.”

There was an immediate uproar as all five of Hermione's companions tried to talk at once, offering advice and encouragement.

“Oh, I've got the perfect perfume for you, Hermione!” Anne cried.

“And we'll help you with makeup too,” Titania added. “Do you have any? I've never seen you wear it. Well, no matter, we have plenty…”

Hermione groaned and covered her face with her hands.

“No,” Brenda's even voice cut through cleanly. “Hermione doesn't need makeup. She's already got perfect skin. She looks beautiful naturally. She just needs to smile.”

“I agree,” Wythe said as the others gushed. “I'll cast a Cheering Charm before you leave tonight.”

Hermione just stared at them all, eyes wide.

“But, I don't want-“

“Nonsense,” Wythe interrupted briskly. “You just listen to us, dear. We know what's best for you.”

What is wrong with these people? Hermione thought, then more plaintively: Why do these things always happen to me? She looked around quickly for an exit. But seeing that she was not going to get out of it, Hermione gave up and began to laugh weakly.

* * *

Five hours later Hermione found herself standing nervously outside the Three Broomsticks. She had been unable to fend off her co-workers attempts to dress her and do her hair, but the line had been drawn at the Cheering Charm. It always worked like a Babbling Beverage on her, and that was the last thing she needed.

She compulsively checked her watch (it was nearly six-thirty) and smoothed the front of her dress. Her tormentors had finally settled on a light, casual summer dress of periwinkle blue. The white, heeled sandals were unfamiliar and slightly uncomfortable, which added to her fidgeting. She reached up once and patted her hair gingerly, part of which had been apparently carelessly coiled around the top of her head to join together in the back, strands escaping her and there to fall appealing down the side of her neck. Altogether, she felt completely ridiculous and failed to notice the admiring looks she was drawing from passing young wizards.

Nobody had not shown up yet, and, come to think of it, he had never said exactly what time he would be there. He had said Tuesday, right? This Tuesday? Hermione checked her watch again and absently began chewing on a lock of hair. He wasn't going to show up. He was just having her on. Why should he have cared whether her saw her again? She hadn't exactly been either interesting or composed last time. She had been like a silly little fan girl, she thought, flushing.

“I should just go,” she muttered to herself. “He's not going to show up. Five minutes. I'll wait five more min- ahh!”

“Er- hi?” a voice said softly right behind Hermione, causing her to jump two feet into the air.

* * *

Harry stood watching Hermione, hidden under his Invisibility Cloak. He was arguing silently with himself.

What was I thinking? Why did I tell her I'd be here again? It's too risky. She'll recognize me this time. She looks ready to chew nails. Did she already figure it out? Why is she dressed like that, anyway?

He knew he should leave. Just turn around and go back. What did it matter if he had told Hermione he'd be here? Why should a lie mean anything to him now, after all that had happened? She would be disgusted by him anyway, after she found out everything he'd done. It was for the best that she never saw him again. That no one did.

Harry nodded decisively, whipped the cloak off and stepped out towards Hermione. Wait, that isn't the plan! But he couldn't help himself: Hermione was like a glimmer of light after being locked in the darkness for years.

He stopped not three feet behind her; she hadn't noticed his approach and stood fidgeting impatiently.

“Er- hi?” he said tentatively. Hermione jumped straight up with a little shriek, spun in midair, and landed facing him.

“Nobody!” she gasped. “I- uh- I'm sorry! You startled me!”

“Sorry about that,” Harry apologized. “I didn't mean to sneak up behind you.”

“It's okay,” Hermione said hastily. “Er-“

A long moment passed awkwardly, each looking at the other, then down, then back again.

“I'm, um, glad you could make it,” Harry said softly. “So, what's the occasion?”

“What?” Hermione asked blankly. Harry motioned vaguely at her; it took a moment for Hermione to realize he meant her outfit, and Harry was puzzled when she suddenly blushed.

“It's, um… my co-workers, they- oh, Merlin, I feel so stupid…” Hermione babbled. “You see, what I mean is-“

“Are you okay?” Harry asked in concern.

Oh my god, Hermione panicked. What am I saying? Words were coming out of her mouth, and she didn't seem to have any control over them. Had Wythe managed to cast a Cheering Charm on her when she wasn't looking? Why on earth was she so nervous? It wasn't like she was interested in this man. Well, not really. She had much more important things to do. Like looking for Harry.

“Are you okay?” Nobody was regarding her with concern.

“Yes, I'm fine!” she replied hurriedly, though she couldn't help but noticing the profound sadness and bleakness in his eyes again. “Just, um, had a long day at work. I'm a little scattered, that's all.”

“Okay…” Nobody said dubiously. Hermione's stomach lurched slightly.

Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit! I AM interested in him! Evidently, this is what happens when you don't date anybody for five years. I have no idea what I'm doing!

“Are you going to play?” she asked in a rather higher voice than usual.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Harry repeated. “I'll just go set up. Okay?”

Hermione nodded wordlessly.

It was almost the exact same as the last time. Nobody pulled his instruments out of thin air and warmed up briefly as a crowd gathered. Again, Hermione lost all track of time or thought as he played. And again, coins were showered upon him, most of which he gave away.

“That- that was even better than last time,” Hermione croaked when it was done. “How do you do it?”

Nobody shrugged.

“I just play.”

“You- just play?” Hermione repeated weakly. “Merlin, what I'd give to be able to do what you can…”

“It's nothing,” Nobody protested. “You're far cleverer than me. You're Hermione Granger!”

Hermione felt a warm glow suffuse her at his words.

“That's not true! I can't- well. Um, do you want to get a drink?” She motioned helplessly at the Three Broomsticks. Nobody looked at her expressionlessly for a long minute and Hermione thought she would die from nerves.

“It would be my pleasure,” he said finally with a small bow that hid his features, leaving Hermione to puzzle over his choice of words as he held the door open for her.

* * *

“So, what do you do?” Harry asked after they were seated at a small table in the back.

“Excuse me?”

“For a living?” he explained.

“Oh, that.” Hermione colored. “I'm a Healer. I mean, a Healer-in-Training. I should earn full honors within the next year.”

“Fastest ever,” she couldn't help adding proudly.

“Of course,” Harry almost smiled.

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked quickly.

“Well, you're supposed to be the cleverest witch to go to Hogwarts in ages,” Harry extemporized quickly.

“Oh. Thanks!”

“No problem,” Harry said, feeling uncomfortable. It was getting harder to keep from slipping. “I should go.”

He rose abruptly.

“Am I boring you?” Hermione asked immediately, a stricken expression on her face.

“No, not at all,” Harry replied softly. “Not at all. I shouldn't be wasting your time.”

“You're not!” Hermione said earnestly, taking his hand impulsively and pulling him back down to his seat.

“Well, if you're sure,” Harry said uncertainly. He settled down into the chair and attempted to reclaim his hand, but found that Hermione had it held tight and was looking at him with the most startled expression.

“Hermione-?”

She didn't respond. Instead, she pulled his hand closer and bent close over it, almost so close that her nose was touching it. A sudden chill ran down Harry's spine as he realized which hand she was looking at.

“Oh, shit,” slipped guiltily out of his mouth before he could help himself. Hermione was mouthing something incredulously.

I must not tell lies.

Time seemed to stretch out as Hermione let go of his hand and looked up, infinitely slowly. Shock and comprehension was filling her eyes. Harry tried to look away, but couldn't.

“Oh my God,” Hermione was repeating over and over. “Oh my God, oh my God.”

Harry said nothing.

“Finite Incantantem,” Hermione muttered, pulling out her wand and looking straight into Harry's blue eyes. He felt the magic brush him, but it wasn't strong enough to dislodge his glamour. An all too familiar look passed across Hermione's face and her brow furrowed. Without warning, lunged forward and kissed him full on the lips.

“Hermione, wha- mmmphh!”

Just as suddenly she pulled back and yelled, “Finite Incantantem!”

This time, Harry's attention was distracted and his glamour snapped. Hermione half stood, mouth hanging open as her brown eyes were fixed on Harry's now green eyes.

-->

A long moment passed in which the only two people in the tavern, in the entire world, that mattered were Harry and Hermione. Disbelief was writ large across Hermione's face; resignation, and not a little fear, on Harry's.

Hermione was the first to break the silence, a dozen different emotions flashing through her eyes before settling on joy. A few of the other patrons in the Three Broomsticks watched curiously as she threw herself around the table and flung her arms around him tightly. Harry grunted at the force of it.

“Harry, what-? Your hair! And where's your scar? You're so thin! Where have you been? Where did you learn to play like that? Oh, Ron's not going to believe it!”

Harry didn't respond but Hermione was too overjoyed to notice. She ran her hands up and down her back as if to reassure herself that he was real.

“Harry, why did you leave us?” Hermione finally asked in a muffled voice against his chest. Harry sat there stiffly, not responding to her at all. Hermione sensed at last that something wasn't right and let go quickly. Harry's expression was disturbingly blank; he flicked his wand subtly and a soft, white smoke floated out of the tip to surround the other patrons who had been watching the exchange with mounting interest. Immediately all their faces grew vague and unconcerned and they turned back to their drinks.

“Harry?” Hermione asked tentatively as he stood. “What-?”

Her mouth snapped shut as he wordlessly spun on the heel of his foot and walked out of the Three Broomsticks. Hermione thought she caught a flash of terrible pain and loathing in his eyes, but it was so quick she might have imagined it. Hurt and confused, she sat frozen on the spot momentarily. She had found him (at last!), but this was not at all how she had imagined it. It was like a bad dream.

Hermione's paralysis lasted only a few seconds; she quickly recovered and ran after Harry. When she caught up she grabbed his arm and forced him to stop and face her. She had not imagined it; the pain and loathing were there in his haunted eyes, but quickly hidden. Was it her he loathed? A few people were watching them curiously.

“Harry, please say something,” begged Hermione, tears sparkling in her eyes. “It's you, I know it's you!”

Harry simply stood slumped, staring at the ground between his feet. The silence was excruciating. Hermione didn't think she could bear it any longer when he finally spoke.

“I knew it was a mistake meeting you again. You're too clever by half, Hermione.”

* * *

Shock ran through Harry's body, but it was quickly drowned out by pain and wave upon wave of self-loathing. It was all he could do to stand up straight.

It's all my own stupid fault, he thought angrily. I should have known better! Putting myself on display like that in front of Hermione. She's always been more than clever enough to put it together.

Hermione! After all these years of dreaming constantly about her and Ron, knowing he could never see them again, there she was, looking up at him uncertainly. She was so lovely, the sight of her a balm to his weary eyes. She looked hale and healthy, tiredness notwithstanding, not broken like him. Full of life and character, just as he remembered her. Yet there were also lines of exhaustion and worry upon her face and bags under her eyes that he knew were because of him. He could read the hurt he had inflicted on her and squirmed guiltily. It only intensified his feelings of shame and loathing until he knew he didn't deserve to be alive.

“You should go,” he said quietly.

“But-! I just found you. I finally found you! Harry, what's going on!?” Hermione's mouth hung open as he brushed past her.

“Harry! Come back!” She tried to grab him again, but he shrugged her off easily.

Distraught and hurt as she was, Hermione still wasn't going to be denied so easily. This time she ran ahead and planted herself firmly in Harry's path, legs braced. He tried to step around, but she stepped in time with him and stared challengingly into his eyes. She had never looked so beautiful to Harry. So full of life and vitality and everything he remembered about her; a pristine symbol of the life he used to possess.

He had also never hated her more, for the very same reason. For reminding him of what he no longer had, and refusing to let him forget.

“Hermione, let me be.”

“No.”

“Hermione...”

“No!” she yelled, stomping her foot in a most Hermione-ish way. It was so familiar that Harry nearly started laughing hysterically.

“I'm not going to get rid of you, am I?”

Hermione shook her head mutely. More people were watching and pointing, though none really understood the gravity of the situation.

“I could hex you,” threatened Harry.

“No, you couldn't,” Hermione replied matter-of-factly.

“You're no match for me, Hermione.”

“Maybe not... but you wouldn't hex me. You would never. I know you wouldn't.”

“What makes you so sure about that?” Harry said softy, dangerously. “You don't know me any more, Hermione. I'm a bad person.”

“No, you're not!” Hermione said, shocked. Harry sighed. With another wave of his wand more of the white smoke flowed from the end to envelop the crowd in forgetfulness.

“Okay.”

He started off in a different direction and Hermione furiously flung herself in front of him again.

“Oh no you don't! I want to know what's going on! I want to know why you're-”

“Okay!” Harry repeated forcefully. “I'm not trying to ditch you. Honest.”

Hermione did not seem mollified. If anything, she looked more suspicious than ever. A familiar, mulely expression was pasted stubbornly onto her face.

“Really! Let's just- go back to my place, okay? It's safe from, well, everything. I'll make us some tea. Okay?”

She considered for a minute and then nodded. Falling into step beside him she wiped her tear-stained face.

“Oh, Harry-!” she began.

“We'll talk when we get there,” he said shortly, cutting her off.

* * *

“There” conspired to be the shabbiest, most ridden down part of Hogsmeade that Hermione had never known existed. What can Harry be doing here? she wondered. Is he in some sort of trouble? What's… wrong with him?

Harry stopped in front of what looked like a brutal slum lord's domain and conjured a quill and piece of parchment out of thin air. He scribbled something on it, and then handed it silently to Hermione.

“Um, what's this?”

“Read it,” Harry commanded impassively.

Hermione glanced down at the scrap in her hand. Harry Potter lives at 46 Mud Scrapper Lane. No sooner had she finished than an apartment, as run down as the rest, swelled into being between two tenements, pushing them roughly aside. Harry hustled her inside quickly. She noticed that the parchment crumbled to dust the moment she finished reading it.

“Of course... it's unplottable. And guarded by a Fidelis Charm. Harry, who did you get to cast those?”

Harry looked at her oddly, but only said, “Welcome to my... lovely place.”

Hermione turned slowly. It was, unsurprisingly, quite small and dark. There were no windows and only three rooms (four if you counted the tiny bathroom). The door to one of the rooms was ajar, but the other was shut tightly and an air of menace hung like a shroud around it. Hermione shivered involuntarily.

“Have a seat,” Harry offered flatly. He blasted a pile of finely grained wood pieces out of one of the room's two pieces of furniture, a decrepit old love seat. Hermione gingerly lowered herself onto it and surveyed the rest of the room.

It wasn't really dirty, like one might have expected after everything else. Actually, it was quite clean in a depressing sort of way. There was almost nothing in the place at all to show that anyone lived there, just a love seat and a battered old table. That was it.

“So what is it that you want to know so badly you have to force yourself into my home for?” Harry said roughly, collapsing into a sitting position on the floor. Hermione winced inwardly, but stayed calm. This wasn't right; something had happened, something awful, to Harry. There was no other reason he'd be treating her like this.

“Harry, why are you living in a place like this? How you could you pay to live somewhere like this?”

The questions popped out of her mouth before she could stop it. It wasn't the way she wanted to start things off in this surreal situation. Of all the scenarios she had pictured, this was the least likely and hardly seemed more than a bad dream. Spell-shocked and amnesiac, perhaps. Or held and tortured by a remaining pocket of Death Eaters, perhaps. But this? It was an awful parody of normality.

“Pay?” Harry repeated, looking at her oddly. “Pay? Hermione, no one in the world knows this place exists, except for me. And now, you.” There was something in his voice as he said that, something menacing, that caused Hermione shiver, but she pressed on.

“But, what are you hiding from? Are you in trouble? Are you afraid of something?”

Harry started laughing; a horrible, mirthless laughter that dissolved suddenly in a coughing fit.

* * *

Harry waved Hermione away as she jumped forward, hand automatically raised towards his forehead.

“Just a cold,” he choked.

“In the summer?” she asked doubtfully.

“Yeah... those are the worst.”

Why, Harry thought. Why does she have to make me do this? Why can't she just let me waste away in peace? Or perhaps waste away in misery would be more accurate.

Because that's not what Hermione does, answered another part of his mind. She solves problem. Fixes things. And you're the ultimate riddle to her right now.

“If you say so...” Hermione sat back on the couch.

“Why did you kiss me? At the Three Broomsticks?” Harry asked suddenly. Hermione colored slightly.

“Well, it distracted you, didn't it?” Harry nodded. “So I was able to break your glamour.”

“Ah. So that's why.”

“Well, you know I don't always keep my head in an emergency,” Hermione said defensively. “It was the best I could come up with. It worked, didn't it? And you haven't answered my question.”

Harry picked up a piece of the wood and turned it about in his hands. His mouth twisted like he had bitten into something sour and he laughed that hollow laugh again.

“Who would I be afraid of?”

It's everyone else who should be afraid of me.

* * *

There was something wrong, something very wrong with the way Harry said that. It sounded like it was unfinished and he left something disturbing unsaid. It scared Hermione. She didn't know why, but quickly changed the subject.

“Um, Harry? Where did you learn to play music like that?”

“That?” he waved his hand dismissively. “I just picked it up. Playing, it- it helps.”

“Helps what?”

“It helps when-” Harry stopped and searched for different words, but didn't really find them. He tugged his sleeves down self-consciously. Hermione suddenly realized he had been wearing long sleeves the whole time she had seen him, both today and their previous meeting, despite the warm weather. She filed the curious fact away for further consideration.

“It takes my mind- just a little,” Harry was saying helplessly, and then gave it up as a bad job.

“Um... right.” Hermione replied uncertainly.

“Oh, where are my manners?” Harry burst out suddenly. He whipped out his wand in front of a bemused Hermione and conjured a teapot and two cups out of thin air. The teapot, she noticed absently, was tortoise shell patterned.

“The tea I promised,” he said, pouring a cup and presenting it to Hermione with a mocking little seated bow. She accepted it and took a big gulp nervously. To her surprise, it was quite excellent. It was just the right temperature, with a touch of honey. She noticed that, while Harry clutched a cup in his hands, he didn't drink any of it.

“Aren't you going to have some?” she asked awkwardly, hating it. She had never felt this uncomfortable around Harry.

“I- I don't feel like drinking any.”

“Harry, what happened to you!” Hermione cried out in frustration. “I can't stand this! Did he hurt you before... the end?”

“Who, Voldemort? No. No. Didn't even scratch me.” Harry seemed to be growing more and more agitated.

“Surely- surely you can't feel bad about killing him?” she asked incredulously as another thought occurred to her. Harry had always been very sensitive.

“Feel bad?” Harry threw back his head and barked out more of that horrible, mocking laughter. “Oh, no. I don't feel bad about it at all. He had to die.”

“Oh... that's good... Harry, what is it? Let me in, please!”

“You have to go! Now!” Harry lunged to his feet suddenly, eyes bulging. Hermione felt an unbidden urge to cower, but didn't. This was Harry; he had blocked the unblockable Avada Kedavra curse, for her. He would never hurt her. She believed that with all her heart. She had to believe it.

Still, he dragged her off the sofa and towards the door. Carefully, if such a thing could be said of that sort of action.

“Harry, you're hurting me!”

He let go at once. A flicker of something flashed across his face. Shame, Hermione would have said. And something else as well, dark and unrecognizable.

“It's not safe here! I'm a bad man now, Hermione. I'm not who you remember. I`m not safe. Go. Go!” He pushed her gently, but insistently, towards the door.

“But-”

“GO! Please...”

“Oh, okay! But I'm coming back tomorrow!”

“Yes, come back tomorrow,” Harry said hurriedly. “Tomorrow.”

Harry watched as she opened the door, then a sudden thought occurred to him.

“Don't tell anyone about me! Don't tell Ron!”

Hermione cringed, halfway out the door.

“But, Harry... he'd be so happy to know you're alive.”

“Don't tell anyone! Promise me you won't tell!”

“I-”

“SWEAR IT!”

“Okay, I promise!” Hermione cried. Harry pushed her the rest of the way out and slammed the door behind. 46 Mud Scrapper lane quickly shrunk and disappeared.

* * *

Oh, Merlin, he thought, slumping against the wall once she was finally gone. Oh, my God... I was going to hurt her. I was going to hurt Hermione! She was going to make me re-live it and I... He covered his face in despair, but he had no tears left to cry. The void raged within him and he was broken. So broken.

* * *

Hermione slumped against the wall outside Harry's now hidden apartment. She hadn't handled that well. She hadn't handled it well at all.

I had all sorts of questions planned out for when I finally found him. Where had he been, what had happened, why didn't he contact us, was he okay? I dreamed about it for FIVE years. I planned it for FIVE years! But everything just flew out of her head with him sitting there, watching her with those haunted, mocking eyes, and she had blurted out the stupidest things. Why had she pressed so hard? He was obviously very fragile; she should have led up to it slowly.

A furtive noise alerted Hermione to the outside world again and she realized that this street probably wasn't the best of places to hang around late at night. Glancing around warily, she prepared her mind and apparated back to her flat.

What she felt like doing when she arrived was collapsing onto her bed and curling up into a ball. But she couldn't. She had to be ready for tomorrow. And she had to get up early... he was going to do a runner. It didn't take a genius to figure it out.

Yes. She would grab a couple hours sleep, let him calm down a little, and then camp out by the entrance to that wretched place he lived tomorrow. She would take him away from there and make everything better.

Just as she collapsed bonelessly onto her bed the phone rang.

* * *

I've gotta go, Harry was thinking. It had taken half a dozen hours to pull himself together after Hermione left. A racking fit of coughing left him weak and shaking, but he shook it off impatiently. I've gotta leave before Hermione comes back.

But another voice whispered to him, the part of himself that he thought of as the Boy Who Hated. The part of him that he thought was winning.

You could just eliminate her. With that nosy little witch gone, no one would know your secret.

No! Harry shook his head violently. Not Hermione!

What's the matter? The voice taunted him. You didn't have a problem destroying Voldemort and scores of his Death Eaters. Nor the others that followed.

“That was different!”

How?

“I- I only did that because I had to!”

Liar, laughed the voice breathily. Liar. Tell me you didn't hate them.

“I... I...”

Tell me you didn't want to kill them.

“I had- I-” Harry's face contorted.

Tell me you didn't enjoy it! Tell me it wasn't satisfying to grind your enemies' bodies into dust!

“I did!” screamed Harry. “I did enjoy it! I wanted to hurt them. I wanted them to hurt as much as they hurt me!”

The voice's laughter echoed in the expanse of Harry's mind. So kill the little witch and be done with it.

“No.”

Kill her!

“No! I hate you!” Harry yelled.

“I hate you,” he repeated in a whisper. “Because you're me.”

With a tremendous force of will Harry forced the voice to be quiet. He couldn't force it out of his head because it belonged there- it was him. He wasn't possessed or hearing voices. It wasn't some other person or entity. It was him. He was the one who had done all those terrible things. He was the sort of evil and twisted person he had been prophesied to hunt down. He didn't deserve to live. But he was too cowardly to kill himself.

Dully he walked to the room with the locked door. A thought was all it took to unlock it and another to send a jagged globe of crackling light to the ceiling. The room itself wasn't very large, perhaps six feet by eight feet. Unlike the other rooms, it was a complete mess. There were clippings cut outs from various newspapers everywhere: stuck to the walls, lying on the floor, even a few floating in mid-air. Some were crisp and new, some yellowed with age. Some had been torn or crumpled and then smoothed out again. A few were lying in haphazard balls on the floor.

Augustus Rook, known Death Eater, found dead outside the Ministry of Magic.

Three suspected Death Eaters found dead outside Muggle hospital; Ministry of Magic forced to modify memories to cover up.

Death Eaters found dead...

Rudolphus Lestrange, torn apart...

On and on the headlines read like a causality report from a war. Harry knew them all by heart. He held up his hand and another scrap appeared which he let fall to the floor. Without looking back, he walked out of the room and it sealed itself behind him.

He considered going into the other room. Sometimes, the music and the creating of things was enough. But Harry knew it wouldn't help now. Not today. No, there was nothing else for it. He sat cross-legged on the floor, facing the door, with a blank expression on his face. A long, curved and lethally sharp knife appeared in the air in front of him and he reached out slowly with his right hand to grasp it. He wouldn't run this time. Let Hermione find him.

* * *

“No, Ron, nothing happened,” Hermione lied over the phone. “Really. I told you, we're not interested in each other.”

“Don't give up so easily, Hermione. Don't worry; there'll be someone out there for you if this guy doesn't work out.”

Hermione sighed, not trusting herself to speak. She had an overwhelming urge to confess what had happened to Ron, but she had promised. Ron heard her sigh through the phone and, mistaking it, rushed to comfort her with more of the same platitudes.

“Yeah, some day,” Hermione interrupted. “So, how did it go?”

“It was great!” Ron crowed, switching gears in mid-sentence. “You know Mum and Dad love Charlotte. Even Ginny likes her. She's really special, Hermione. I reckon... I reckon she might be the one!”

“Whoa now, mister. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Remember: teaspoon, emotional range. Won-Won. Self-help book on how to talk to witches.” Laughter rang through the phone line as Hermione teased him.

“But, seriously,” Hermione continued. “I'm really glad everything is going so well. You deserve it.”

And she was, though a small part of her reared its ugly green head. She wanted what Ron had; she was so tired of being alone. Instead of giving in to it she quashed it ruthlessly. She had more important things to think about.

“Yeah,” Ron was saying happily. “It's like a dream.”

“I'm so happy for you, Ron. Listen, I've got to go. It's going to be a long day tomorrow.”

“They got you working overtime at St. Mungo's again?”

“Yeah,” Hermione lied, cringing at what was becoming an all too common habit. “Give Charlotte a hug from me.”

“I will,” Ron promised. “And I'll pinch her bottom and tell her it was from you too.”

“Ron!”

“Just kidding,” laughed Ron. Then, after a pause: “About the saying it was from you part, anyway.”

“You're awful!”

“I know. Love you, Hermione.”

“You too, Ron... g'night.”

“G'night. And, Hermione?”

“Hmmm?”

“We will find him. I know it.”

“Yeah, Ron, you're right,” Hermione replied, her voice cracking. “We will.”

As Hermione hung up the phone, she reflected that she was pretty certain it wouldn't be a good night. The toll of lying to Ron was bad enough, but that was the least of her problems at the moment. Tears flooded her eyes unbidden and she dashed them off her face angrily, stamping her foot. It just wasn't fair!

Knowing time was of the essence Hermione reined in her emotions and tried her best to catch a few hours of sleep. However, she just couldn't manage more than about fifteen minutes. Finally, at about two in the morning she abandoned all pretense of sleep and pulled on a fresh set of clothes.

Harry, you are NOT getting away from me.

* * *

Mud Scrapper Lane was eerily quiet when Hermione apparated, the sudden rush of displaced air echoing off the rickety housing. It seemed that even the crickets and night insects were wary of the darkness there. Hermione held her breath for a moment, absurdly convinced the crack of her apparation was enough to cause the pathetic buildings to topple. However, they remained fast as if held together by magic which, on a moment's reflection, Hermione realized they very likely were. No one came out to investigate.

Chuckling wryly she cast around for a minute before settling into a spot slightly less filthy than the rest. Old habits and memories flooded in as she cast protective charms and wards, none too confident of the safety of her surroundings. Satisfied at last, she conjured a cushion to sit on and waited for dawn.

As difficult as it had been to find sleep when in her flat, it was easily that hard to stay awake now. She found herself nodding off several times, but caught herself before slipping away completely. She tried humming to herself, putting a large, uncomfortable rock in her shoe and even juggling. Still, she was sure she slipped off for five minutes here and there. Nevertheless, she was sure that Harry hadn't been able to slip past her.

Hermione's mind wandered as she sat watch, tenaciously attacking the problem at hand. What had happened to Harry?

“What do I know?” she murmured to herself and began to tick things off on her fingers.

“He defeated Voldemort at the same instant Voldemort cast the Killing Curse at me. He blocked the Killing Curse. He's been missing for five years since. I found him and he looks completely different. He's in pain. He thinks he's a bad person. He didn't want to be found, but he still put himself in a position for me to find him. Put it together, Hermione! What does it mean?”

A tentative thought began to form in her mind, but it remained elusive. Something about the Prophecy, but that didn't seem quite right either. But no matter how hard she thought, the pieces just wouldn't fit together and frustrated tears began to leak from her eyes.

“Damnit!” she swore and dug her watch out of her purse.

4:27am.

She had waited long enough. Pushing herself to her feet, Hermione dismantled her wards, marched up to the wall dividing 45 and 47 Mud Scrapper Lane and thought Harry Potter lives at 46 Mud Scrapper Lane. Instantly, the building shouldered its way into existence. Hermione tried the handle and breathed a sigh of relief as she found it unlocked; she had suspected the lock had been tied directly to the Charm and it seemed she was correct.

Carefully, she inched the door open, cautious not to startle Harry. She was sure it would not be a good idea to burst in.

“Harry?” she called softly. “Harry, it's me, Hermione. I'm coming in.”

There was no answer, so Hermione pushed the door all the way open and stepped in. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room, but when they did she had to stifle a scream.

“Harry, no!” she cried, slamming the door behind and racing to his side. She fell to her knees and wrestled the knife from his grip.

“I can still feel,” Harry whispered quietly, staring at the deep, bloody, gashes in his arm. “Barely, but I can still feel.”

“Oh, Harry!” choked Hermione, heartbroken. Tears ran heedlessly down her cheeks. There were dozens of older scars crisscrossing his bared left arm. Swiftly, she drew her wand and ran it over each of the new cuts. They healed instantly in the wand's wake, leaving yet more scars.

“Harry, we're going,” Hermione said firmly. “I'm taking you out of here. To my place.”

“No.” Harry replied weakly. “No, I don't want that. Go away.”

“Yes! No one will see you, don't worry. And even if they did, nobody would recognize you. I'd just tell them I found you in this shape and took you in. I'm a healer now, nobody would think it odd. Now, up you get.”

“No.” Harry tried to push her away feebly as she pulled him to his feet, but he wasn't up to the task. No sooner was he up than he had to lean heavily on Hermione, or else fall straight back down. Hermione was shocked at how quickly he had deteriorated.

“Hermione, I can't go with you,” Harry insisted, his face crumpling. “Please, just leave me.”

“Stop talking nonsense and save your strength,” Hermione ordered. “We're going to make you better.”

“Hermione, you can't make me better,” Harry said lifelessly. “I'm a monster. I'm worse than Voldemort ever was.”

Hermione hissed and grabbed his chin in one hand, still holding him up with her other arm.

“Don't you say that! Don't ever say that!”

“It's true. I'll show you. Take me in that room over there.” Harry pointed towards the sealed door.

“Why?” Hermione said warily, letting his chin go.

“Just do it. I won't argue any more if you just take me in there first.”

“Okay, fine. But we're leaving right after that.”

Grimly, Hermione hauled Harry over to the room. The door sprang open as they arrived and Hermione's feeling of foreboding increased a hundredfold. However, her first thought on entering was: that's not so bad; it's just a bunch of newspaper clippings. That was, until she saw the headlines. Until she saw what every single one was about.

“See?” Harry said with a miserable sort of satisfaction.

“See what?” snapped Hermione, thinking furiously. “Good riddance to them all, I say.”

“You don't understand,” Harry said in disbelief.

“I understand fine,” growled Hermione. “Good riddance, I say. All of them put together isn't worth you little toenail. Now, we're going.”

“Okay,” Harry said dully. “Whatever... We can't disapparate in here. We have to go outside.”

Hermione said nothing in reply, just started dragging Harry towards the door. His sudden capitulation and lack of emotion worried her more than everything else combined.

Hermione was exhausted by the time she made it outside despite his slight weight. Worryingly thin Harry might be, but he still had nearly a foot on her. She eyed him in concern; he had shut his eyes and was breathing heavily.

We're going home, Harry.

-->