Well, I haven't written anything of this kind in a long time. I'd been stuck writing script format (both as a hobby, and as a job-for a friend of mine who makes independent movies) and realized I really missed prose. This idea hit me like a ton of bricks, and it wouldn't leave me alone until I finally sat down to write it out, so here's the first chapter. I apologize ahead of time if the writing is choppy or not very smooth, but like I said, it's been a long time, and I didn't even send this to be proofread, because I just wanted to post it as is, and know how this was. Not even my heinous little sister would read it for me, so be kind and drop me a line.
For anyone who still cares about BoNM, I haven't given up on that, but in one of the fifteen changes of residence I went through since the last update I lost my notes on it, and now I'm lost. I don't remember anything but the main plot line, and all the satellite happenings are lost (mostly because JKR tried to kill my ship, and in my anger, I forgot what I'd planned originally), so until I manage to reconstruct at least most of what I had planned, that's on the back burner, but I will finish it, I promise! It means too much to me to be left at that.
Oh, one more thing before we start. The ending part, where Harry dreams of the funeral…I was holding back tears as I wrote it, so I hope it affects you as it did me. In any case, you're in for a bumpy emotional ride.
And now…on with the fic
Dreamscape reality
Chapter 1: "Voices from the mist"
"Absolutely not." Harry spoke with vehemence. "The three of us or nothing at all."
The Minister of Magic looked rather put off, sitting in the Weasley living room on a ratty old armchair, across from the overstuffed couch currently occupied by the Golden Trio who saved the Wizarding World...and by Ginny Weasley-who was sitting on the armrest closest to Harry, entirely draped over him, making him quite uncomfortable considering the situation. He felt rather annoyed that she'd insisted on staying to hear this conversation as he wasn't really sure he could trust her and her temper around someone like Minister Scrimgeour.
Ron looked rather pleased with Harry's declaration, his chest puffed out and a hand in his hair ruffling it. Hermione, he noted, seemed a little bashful at the thought, though a smile played at her lips.
"Honestly, Harry, you don't need to do that. You're the one that did it. It's only right that it be your monument," she told him quietly. "You should learn to take credit for what you did on your own."
"You know she's right Harry," Ginny spoke up, running a hand through his hair, in a way that was not only distracting, but somewhat disturbing, considering the tone of the conversation and their present company. "If there's going to be a statue, it should be of you. You're the hero," Harry sent her a significantly ticked glance, yet she continued on, not noticing, or not caring. "Besides, it'll be a much nicer statue without them in it."
There was an indignated "Hey!" from Ron, but Harry saw Hermione's slightly embarrassed-yet flattered and entirely lovely-smile from just a few minutes prior disappear, her eyes falling to her hands, linked over a book on her lap, her plump lower lip caught between her teeth. He knew very well how conscious Hermione was of her looks, feeling as though her appearance was almost inadequate. She'd always considered herself plain and Ginny's ever increasing little jibes at her were only strengthening that belief in her. Added to the fact that Ron didn't seem to care enough to tell her otherwise, at least not in recent times, Hermione's confidence in her physical traits was next to nil.
It was honestly beginning to get on his nerves.
Not bothering to hide the indignant point in his tone, he turned to her, his eyes slits lit from within by a green fire. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Her eyes widened, a touch of fear evident, along with a note he couldn't decipher. "N-nothing," she stuttered. "Just that as the Minister said, they want a monument to make the community feel safe and sheltered. To make any possible future Dark Lords think better about who's going to take them down."
It was so obvious Ginny hadn't understood any of the things that had been said thus far. Hermione looked like she was about to go into one of her patented rants, ready to talk her down a peg or two, before remembering their present company. She cast an inconspicuous glance at the Minister, and bit that fleshy lower lip again, her fingers curling tighter around her book, willing herself to remain quiet.
Harry had no such qualms. "No, Ginny," he told her, his voice a vicious hiss, almost as though he was speaking Parseltongue. "The Minister only wants to do something that will make them look good in front of all the people that realized the only thing their Ministry was able to do in a time of crisis was lock up innocent wizards."
"Now, that's not true," Scrimgeour sputtered indignantly.
"Isn't it?" asked Hermione, her initial hesitation gone. "You're trying to tell us that building a giant statue of him-not only in your Ministry, but in Diagon Ally and Hogsmeade as well-isn't just to waist galleons in the useless attempt at making people think that he was working on your council the whole time. Forgive me, Minister, but you will find me quite sceptical on this point."
The Minister said nothing, though he was obviously seething, his face turning very interesting shades of puce, his mane shaking.
Harry sighed finally. "Whatever your reason, my answer remains the same. It's the three of us or nothing at all."
And Ginny's temper appeared. "But that makes no sense!" She shouted, standing and flipping her hair about. "You can't always be the nice guy, Harry! They didn't kill Voldemort, you did! You're the hero; it should be your statue!"
Harry's temper responded. "I'm no hero, Ginny," he didn't shout, or thrash about as she had. His voice was low, menacing, the effect strengthened by the fact that he was whispering the words so close to her, towering over her despite the fact that they were almost even in height. "I didn't kill anyone. Voldemort did it all by himself. His spell backfired. Again. The only thing I can take credit for is managing to live until that moment, and that only happened because I had them with me. Because they helped me in making him weaker. The three of us were forced to become fugitives for almost two years. Ron disobeyed his parents, left his safe sheltered life to help me. Left his comfortable home, and the protection of his family to run for his life in places no human being should be forced to travel through. And Hermione? I don't even know what your problem with her is, since you used to be friends, but you have no idea of the lengths to which she went to keep me alive. She left Hogwarts, the only place on Earth where she felt in her element, and she left it to go hiding in the country while Deatheaters were always on our heels. She gave up her parents! Sent them to Australia without any memory of her!"
The room had stilled. The air in it had become stale. Ginny, for some reason, looked scared of him again, which made him deflect. He dropped himself back on the couch, feeling heavy and tired. "I'm no hero," he repeated. "If you want a hero you should go to Neville Longbottom. Everything he did, he did on his own." This seemed to give him an idea. "I will allow the Ministry to make a statue representing myself, alongside Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley, but I also request a recognition of some kind for Neville Longbottom," her faced Scrimgeour again. "Those are my terms, and I won't negotiate on them," he spoke, standing up, "I have nothing else to say on the matter. Good day Minister," and with that he left the room, Ron and Hermione following after a hastened word of parting to the older man. Ginny, stalked after them without as much as a backward glance.
"What was that?!" She screeched at them, her temper returning. They turned in unison to see her with her arms crossed, her feet tapping, and her features arranged in a rather unbecoming scowl.
"What was what, Ginny?" Harry asked her, his face and voice tired.
"Bringing Neville into the picture? Why? Why should he get recognition when I did just as much as he did for Hogwarts? Don't get me wrong, Neville's a good friend, but if he gets some appreciation, so should I!" She spoke heatedly, indignantly.
The Trio exchanged a confused glance, of eloquently raised eyebrows and shoulders, wondering how to reply to that. Ron seemed to be the only one who knew what to say, giving her a question of his own. "Why?"
"Oh, shut up, Ron!" she shouted at her brother. "Don't you understand how embarrassed and humiliated I was in there?"
"You just don't get it, Ginny," Harry told her, angry again. "You're the one who embarrassed us. When the Minister came in and you threw a tantrum about wanting to know what he had to say to me, you embarrassed us. When you almost sat on me, acting like we were about to snog in the Common Room, you embarrassed us. When you questioned my word, you embarrassed us. When you shouted like a spoiled little contradicted child, you embarrassed us, Ginny. I know I've told you I don't respect the person that the Minister is, but that doesn't mean I'm going to be disrespectful to him," he turned on his heels ready to leave, when he remembered something else she'd said. "As for Neville," he started again. "I know you did a lot at Hogwarts, but last time I checked you weren't half of a prophesy, and you didn't slay Voldemort's familiar entirely on your own, so I think he deserves recognition just a little more than you."
He turned his back on her, exhausted, and this time truly ready to leave. He looked to Ron and Hermione with an apologetic lopsided grin, "I'm going to go home and have a rest. I'm feeling a bit tired."
"You do that, mate," Ron said, giving him a strong pat on the back.
"Yes, Harry, try to rest up a bit," she told him, placing a hand on his shoulder and rubbing it in a comforting manner. "You've been out of sorts for a while now; you look like you need it."
He didn't know why, but Harry was surprised she'd noticed. No one else had.
Then again, Hermione always noticed everything...especially about him.
-----
He couldn't fall asleep. His single bedroom flat had always felt empty, but he'd had to turn down Ron's idea of a flat to share among the three of them-being caught between their on-and-off rocky relationships would have been hell. Still, on nights like this, when he couldn't find the rest his body and mind needed, he craved a comforting presence. Not to talk, because talking would only bring his anger and indignation to the forefront of his mind, but to just feel like he wasn't alone. To feel like there was someone who could understand without the need for words. To feel a comforting touch.
Once, he'd thought Ginny could be the one to provide that for him. In those weeks before The Hunt, when he'd just been a normal teenager exploring his budding relationship with a very fanciable girl, she been lovely. Cool and all around perfect.
During those long months of running, he'd likened her to the light at the end of a long tunnel. A beacon of light in the midst of an oppressing, enveloping darkness.
Now, outside of the safe walls of Hogwarts-where his title of "Boy-Who- Lived-and-Conquered" was so much more real, where he received daily visits from the Ministry of Magic and outrageous job offers from every corner of the Wizarding World, where he was hounded by reporters day and night-Ginny's perfection was fading rather fast. He was discovering that Molly Weasley had been a little too permissive with her only daughter; not instructing her in what life was like outside the safe walls of Hogwarts castle.
If Ginny wanted to stay with him, she would have to learn to understand beyond what was `said' and what was `implied' in conversations. And she definitely needed to learn composure.
He was still so angry at her for her earlier display, and his anger was very hindering to any sleep he should be reaching. He needed some comfort. He'd never sought out such a thing before, not to this extent, not even during The Hunt, but he really felt that he needed some kindness and understanding.
Like when Hermione had understood how tired he was beyond the encounter earlier in the day. When she'd placed her hand on his shoulder, rubbing it softly to infuse some of her caring warmth into his aching muscles. The way she'd always understood and cared, more then anyone else, more then she was expected to, simply more...more...more Hermione...
It was with those thoughts that he fell into sleep, to dream his oddest dream to date.
--
Harry seemed to be floating in a sea of white mist, present-wherever he was-but unable to do anything. Unable to move, unable to speak, unable to interfere with anything. He was a spectator, but to what, he had yet to know.
"Lily, I really don't think this is a good idea," a strong male voice spoke from somewhere within the enveloping fog surrounding him, sounding as though the very mist made up the voice. He knew that voice. He'd heard it often in his childhood `visions', and in the graveyard in Little Hangleton-when his wand had connected with Voldemort's-and in pensieve memories.
As though to confirm his suspicions, a female voice answered, a voice too familiar to mistake. His mother's voice. "I can't believe you, `Monsieur Prongs'! The prankster extraordinaire is chickening out on me."
"Hey, I'm not chickening out!" He replied indignantly. "It's just that I remember what it was like at that age. When they told me I was doing something that I shouldn't be, I put even more effort into doing it."
"Yes, I remember," she intoned dryly. "You were quite insistent in your pursuit."
"It's part of my charm. And I suppose you're trying to tell me you don't have a single stubborn bone in your body," his tone was sarcastic and playful.
"Point taken," she giggled. Was this the kind of relationship his parents had? A sort of camaraderie with light teasing and affectionate tones? He'd never been able to imagine what their interaction might have been like, the pensieve memories he'd gotten from Snape had seemed to paint them as two people completely incompatible, and Remus and Sirius had never told him much of what they might have been like together. "Besides," she continued, "I'm not trying to tell him he's doing something he shouldn't."
"Oh?" his curious tone was, again, very obviously sarcastic. "And here I thought you were just upset that people have been comparing you to Miss Ginny Weasley to point out the `perfection' of the match she makes to our son."
"Hey!" she was definitely offended. "You know she started that comparison herself, and of course it upsets me! I would have never been draped over you like a common tart in front of the Minister of Magic!"
James chuckled. "Yes, that was rather...odd. I remember when I introduced you to our Minister at the time; you started lecturing him on the injustice of our judicial system. And I'm sure old Rufus found the Weasley girl quite `inappropriate'."
"Quite," she agreed. "But aside my reasons against her, I'm not trying to make Harry's decisions for him," she reasoned. "He's been quite capable of surrounding himself with the right people up until this point, and I'm quite proud of him for that. I just realize that he's going through a tough time, that he feels lost and doesn't really know which direction to go in, so I'm going to put him in an objective situation."
"By showing him what it would have been like if he didn't live to tell the tale?" He asked, this time sounding genuinely curious as to how that might work.
"I find that death makes most people entirely objective," she explained.
He chuckled lightly. "Right as usual, love."
And Harry found the mist fading, the warmth of the voices leaving him while he tried to chase them again as he was falling into something that much felt like a pensieve memory.
He ended up on the Hogwarts ground. For a second, he thought he'd ended up in a recollection of Dumbledore's funeral, but that idea was discarded immediately. The old Headmaster's tomb was right next to him, and it had obviously not been recent.
The serving had ended, and people began to scatter, giving him a better visual of the situation.
Considering the conversation he'd overheard while in `Limbo' (he didn't know what else to call it), he wasn't surprised to see it was his own funeral. His name inscribed on the brand new tombstone, the date showing the night in which everything had ended. Few people were still around, and he recognized them all. The remaining Weasleys-Molly and Arthur, Bill, Charlie and Fleur with Victoire, Percy, George, Ron, and Ginny-Neville, Luna, Hermione, and a few of the Hogwarts professors he'd respected during his studies, including Professor McGonagall and Hagrid.
Nobody was speaking.
Ginny was sniffling lightly, Ron looked white as a sheet, Arthur was rubbing his sobbing wife's back, and everyone looked solemn. Hagrid made it sound like a blow horn was being played each time he wiped his nose with his handkerchief
Except Hermione. She looked as though she wasn't there at all, like her mind was elsewhere, and an empty shell had taken part to the ceremony for form's sake.
Bill was the first to speak, noticing that Victoire was getting restless with the tension around her. "Maybe we should start going," he didn't specify where, but it was pretty obvious to everyone that he was only thinking of taking his wife and child away from that grave.
Nobody moved to follow him, not even Fleur.
"Did you see how they all were?" Ron asked, still pale as before, his voice haunted. "It was like it was a party. Like they thought `Hey, too bad Harry Potter died, but at least he took the Snake Bastard with him so he's off our backs'," he sounded disgusted and nauseated at the idea.
"Yes," Professor McGonagall agreed. "It had been much the same when his parents died. If Dumbledore hadn't insisted, they would have probably been left without a proper burial. As though they had not been friends, or even people. Just pawns," her voice trembled, her lip was twisted in disgust, making a stark contrast to her usual strict tight-lipped expression.
"If it hadn't been for him, Fleur and I would have never met," Bill spoke quietly.
McGonagall nodded. "He wasn't the most dedicated student, but he gave me more reason for pride than anyone else I've ever taught." Around her, other teachers agreed.
Madame Pomfrey gave a sniffling chuckle, "I think he spent more time in my hospital wing than anyone else. Probably more time than he spent in his own dorms."
A watery uncertain laugh from a few of them. Most remained quiet.
"We had so little time together," Ginny had said sadly. The air became thick again, and Harry wondered if that was what it was like to die, with everyone speaking of him in the past tense, as though he'd never really existed, as though it would be fine to write his name in a couple of books, talk about him every once in a while, without truly remembering much of him at all. His name called in a toast every now and then by total strangers and that's it.
"What is wrong with you people!?" George shouted out. "It's only been three days! Can't you wait a little longer before just casting him off as nothing but a memory?! Honour him for a little bit longer at least, we all owe him at least that much!" he spoke heatedly, almost echoing the thoughts that had been running through Harry's mind. Most had the decently to blush, while Ginny looked guilty and uncomfortable.
She cleared her throat lightly. "I think I'll go talk to Dean for a little. He looked like he needed a friend."
If his peripheral vision hadn't been so good to begin with, and aided by long years of training as a seeker, he might not have understood what happened next. Hermione seemed to snap out of her catatonic state with an angry snarl, her body spinning toward Ginny, adding speed and force to the reel of her arm, as her closed fist made an almost frightening sound of collision with the redhead's jaw. Hermione's face was a mask of anger-hatred-and disgust.
People flew to help Ginny up, as the strength of the blow had sent her crashing to the ground in a bad fall all around. "You don't deserve to stand here and honour him," Hermione spat, her lowering lip trembling, her whole frame shaking in repressed emotion.
"Hermione!" Molly Weasley shouted in her best `scolding mother' tone. "That was entirely uncalled for."
"No it wasn't," Hermione, surprised to have found that Mr Weasley and George had almost echoed her words. "It's been three days, and she's running to her ex-boyfriend while standing on her deceased boyfriend's grave," she did something uncharacteristic for the clever bookworm that she was. She spit in Ginny's face the second that she'd been helped to her feet. "I went easy on her."
"You don't have the right to do this to me!!" Ginny shouted at her, offended tears shining in her eye, a large, swollen bruise making itself known and covering almost the entire length of her jaw on its left side. "You don't know what he was to me! He meant more to me than he did to you!"
No one was fast enough to stop Hermione's hand for making contact a second time, though this time her palm had remained open, and through the nearly deafening slap she'd managed to curl her fingers right before her hand lost contact with Ginny's cheek, allowing her practical nails to dig short but deep scratches into the otherwise perfect skin. Two of the scratches were lightly bleeding.
Miss Weasley gave a terrified shriek, while McGonagall, looking rather reluctant, asked for Hermione to be restrained. Ron and George each grabbed one of Hermione's arms, but she didn't look to be struggling. She'd never been one for catfights anyway. The few times she'd come to hands, she'd gotten her point across without having to roll around in the ground like a rabid dog fighting for his stolen bone. She was hardly one to change her philosophy so easily.
"I know what he was to you, Ginny," her voice was threatening, an angry snarl making her voice quiver. "Guess he's not much of a Hero worth worshipping now that he's dead, eh?" Her tone was entirely derogatory. "Go ahead. Go crying to Dean of how he was everything you'd ever dreamed of since your mother first told you bedside stories about the `Boy-Who-Lived'. How he was the Knight-in-Shining-Armour that was supposed to sweep you off your feet into your personal Happily-Ever-After. How lost you are now that you don't have your Hero to dote upon anymore. How you'll never stop longing for his beautiful face, and his athletic body, and his bewitching eyes, and his fetching scar, and his amazing Quidditch skills, and whatnot. But don't ever step foot on this grave again. And don't ever imply that your fleeting fancy of him was anywhere near to the feelings I have for him."
Ginny remained staring at her for a few moments, obviously humiliated by Hermione's anger, yet finding no sympathetic faces-even among her family-with the exception of her mother, the very woman who had spoiled her to that point. With a huff, she turned on her heel and stalked away, the rest of them following her, rather reluctantly, along with the Hogwarts staff. George looked at her apologetically, "I gotta go. If I don't get back the store might blow up," that got a chuckle out of Hermione; she nodded at him, and raised her hand to pat his arms.
"I know," she told him, "and I know you were as close to him as Ron and I are. How much it hurts to lose them both. That he was a shadow member of most of your pranks."
Harry raised an eyebrow. Hermione really did notice everything about him.
George looked like he had his heart lodged in his throat, but he still managed to give a strong nod. He turned to the grave, giving the tombstone a strong pat, and his voice quivered, but it was full of affection as he said: "Catch you later, Harry."
Harry had to swallow a lump from his throat as he watched the only remaining twin walk to the Hogwarts gate with his shoulders straight.
Hermione turned to Ron, the only other person that had stayed behind. "You don't need to stay with me, Ron. I know this makes you uncomfortable."
He looked sheepish, his hand going to the back of his head. "You sure? I can stay," though he didn't seem convinced.
Hermione gave him her patented `all-knowing-bookworm' grin. "Yes, I'm sure. I think I'd rather be alone for a little while."
Ron watched her, a concerned frown on his face. "You gonna be alright?"
Her expression turned to annoyed. "I'll be fine."
That convinced him. He started walking, but stopped a few steps later. "Do you want me to say anything to them back at home? Send some food later?"
"I don't need food, but I'd like you to give your mother a message for me," she requested. When he nodded she continued. "Tell her I'm not sorry. Not in the least. Not even time will change that."
He looked down at his old shoes. "Do you want to say something to Ginny?"
"No," her reply was dry and immediate. "I know she's your sister, but I've lost all respect for her. She no longer exists to me."
Again he nodded, and, giving one last long look to the name embossed on the grave, turned to walk away. Hermione watched him go all the way to the front gates, hardly blinking until she saw him disapparating. She turned to the marble stone behind her, her fingers running over the top of it in an affectionate caress. Harry could almost feel as though her fingers had run a fleeting line across his shoulders, and it made him shiver. He watched her kneel, and her hand shifted to tracing the letters of his name.
And then her whole demeanour changed. Her composed front crumbled, the expressionless lines of her face contracted and stretched into a mask of pure pain, her breath caught as she tried to inhale a shaking breath, and she sniffled, her lips pursing in an attempt to keep the sounds in. She only succeeded in making herself hiccup, and that single act seemed to be her downfall.
He watched helplessly as she crumbled against the tombstone, falling on it with her whole weight, hanging on it as if it was the only thing keeping her linked to the world while bitter tears slipped down her cheeks, burning indelible traces of her sorrow upon her face. Sounds of terrible anguish escaped her. Loud and impossible to contain, her sobs shook her slight frame terribly, screams of agony left her as though they were being pulled by her, the sound of her despair filling the Hogwarts grounds. She tilted her head back to look above her, and the clear blue of the sky around her seemed to mock her, making her stark pain that much more intense.
"It shouldn't be like this," she managed to whisper before other dreadful sobs escaped her. "Why doesn't-" her words stolen by an anguished hiccup, yet she continued on, as though she knew he was standing there, and needed to ask him those questions that seemed to burn through her heart, forcing the words through her laboured breathing. "Why doesn't anybody mourn you?"
Her sobs were getting quieter, but no less intense, no less painful. "If you really had to die for them, why couldn't they mourn for you?" Her face was painted with an angry colour, though her lips were pale and chapped, like that of the dead. "If the sky had to take you then why doesn't it mourn you as well?"
Harry couldn't take this anymore. This watching without interference while her pain for him tore him apart. If he couldn't be her friend and help her, he needed to leave. Somebody needed to pull him away from this-whatever it was. Someone needed to wake him up.
And as though the gods had decided to answer his prayer, he felt his conscience being lifted from that reality, Hermione's anguished, terrorised face was fading slowly, and he could feel his body-his real body-being shaken awake, his senses returning to it.
And suddenly he was there, back in his bed in his lonely one bedroom apartment, staring at the ceiling…and…Ginny's face? What was she doing there? Did it really matter?
No. It didn't.
All that mattered was that he couldn't seem to stop his whole body from shaking, the sweat covering him feeling like molten ice, his face burned by heated angry tears.
His mouth felt as though it had forgotten how to function, his stomach turning…churning…
He bolted out of his bed, nearly collapsing on weak legs, and managed to get to the bathroom just in time to embrace his toilet, losing what little food he'd managed to actually eat the day before. And while he was there, he thought to himself that he really didn't fancy speaking to Ginny quite so soon after what he'd…experienced.
To be continued…
See? I told you so. Be kind and leave a review, or write me at Robbygal@hotmail.com
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