Shadow Walker
Your love is like a shadow on me all of the time.
-Bonnie Tyler, "Total Eclipse of the Heart"
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A thousand other boys could never reach you. How could I have been the one?
-Goo Goo Dolls, "Black Balloon"
The gaily striped umbrellas shielding the outdoor seating from the overhead sun did not match Hermione's mood. Maybe if they were gunmetal gray, she mused, or some kind of sick, murky green. She thumbed the strap of her handbag more securely onto her shoulder, as she threaded through the white tables, crowded with Muggles having lunch and taking advantage of the lovely weather.
Behind her sunglasses, she let her eyes roam over the scattered individuals who were sitting alone. Once, twice, three times… all the while, keeping her movements casual, in the effort to be just one of a herd, a nondescript young Englishwoman looking for somewhere to sit.
After the fourth time, she strolled over to a bench, her stride fluid and unconcerned, even as her insides coiled into knots. She unfolded a random daily paper - she had bought it at a stand two blocks back, without even looking at the masthead - and pretended to read it. Letters, words, sentences, paragraphs all swam before uncomprehending eyes. She uncrossed her legs, then recrossed them the other way.
She sat there for close to an hour before forcing herself to admit that Luna had not shown up.
They had been meeting covertly for over a year now: dates, times, and places that rotated in a system the two of them had gradually developed. They didn't always speak, and a few times, had not even seen one another… but the contact had always been made. Once, Luna had left her message in a discarded, half-finished crossword. Another time, Hermione had dropped hers in Luna's bag when they collided. Oh, excuse me. I'm terribly sorry. They had continued on in opposite directions.
They always met in Muggle London, and, if necessity required it, Hermione would sometimes sneak into the Ministry - using Luna's shields - for a little covert surveillance. Luna had never spoken of the guard stationed at Ginny's cell, but occasional comments led Hermione to believe that she was continuing such actions, at even higher, more influential levels. When Hermione had looked at her with concern, Luna had shrugged. We all make our sacrifices, Hermione. Her information had helped Hermione fill her underground newsletter, and a couple of times they had used it to sabotage a meeting or a public rally, forcing Lucius Malfoy's propaganda machines to cancel the gatherings.
Luna had never missed a meeting before. It had been a couple of weeks since Hermione had heard from her at all, though no contact was scheduled until today.
It was unusual. And unusual meant worrisome.
Hermione sighed. There was no point in continuing to sit here, when it was obvious that Luna was not coming. Perhaps she would send word later. She folded the paper and immediately forgot about it, running her eyes over the happy crowds of people, as she stood.
The sun was warm on the top of her head, and she looked at all of them - Muggles - chatting with friends, talking on phones, eating ice cream, and felt a sudden swamping longing to belong. There was a profound loneliness so cold and complete that she felt as if she surveyed the throngs from some high and icy spire, rather than standing among them. The ever-present shards of grief and pain pricked at her, as she moved, smooth and unobtrusive, to an isolated alcove and Apparated back to Godric's Hollow.
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One week later, she was still feeling the vague sense of dread, wondering what had happened to Luna. Her heart was not in her task, as she jotted her thoughts on Malfoy's latest injunctions against the Muggle Born. Her knees were cramped under the rickety desk, and she turned in her chair to straighten out her legs and point her toes.
Her gaze drifted around the tiny, secret cellar room, taking in the sagging sofa upholstered in an indiscriminate bluish-grey, which she Widened and slept on at night, the twin bookcases, filled to overflowing, the pristine little potions lab in one corner, and the sad kitchenette that was just beyond her elbow. No windows, no human contact, no sense of belonging… it was - it was just a place to stay, she thought, something that kept the rain off, the cold out, and the bad people away. It wasn't home, and she was beginning to believe that she'd lost that place forever.
Absently, she picked up her quill and doodled in the margins of her parchment, any real desire to finish her memo flattened beyond repair. What is even the point? She wondered disconsolately. I'm a criminal, a Muggle-born terrorist, and everyone who ever really knew me is gone. There are some sympathetic to the cause, but so few are afraid to stand. At this point, I'm not sure a battalion would be enough, but I know I can't do it alone.
It had been quite some time since she had ventured out to the graveyard to visit Harry. She was fairly certain that it was being watched. Lucius had send Ministry goons out to sweep Godric's Hollow once or twice, to no avail - not only had they gained no hard evidence of her presence there, but she was pretty sure one of the wizards was still in St. Mungo's trying to relearn how to tie his shoes.
No Ministry representatives had been back. Hermione sighed, not feeling comforted. Lucius Malfoy was patient; she was alone; he probably thought he could wait her out. She had the sensation of treading water, knowing that she should either strike out for shore, or let herself drown… but somehow she could not bring herself to do either one. It would mean letting Harry down, betraying him, abandoning him, and so she flailed rhythmically to no real purpose, and tried to keep her head above water.
A soft tone interrupted her melancholy musings, and her eyes flew swiftly to the parchment map Stuck to the opposite wall. It was a plan of the house, each room drawn to scale and the ward placements carefully marked.
A ward had been breached.
Her eyes flickered to her getaway bag, but she didn't move to begin filling it. She should have had some warning when a living being set foot across the perimeter of the property. An alarm should have sounded when any of the doors or windows had opened. It was as if the intruder had Apparated into the kitchen, but that should not have been possible. The person was alone, and was making no move to conceal his presence. Hermione had not credited the Ministry with much penchant for subtlety, but they were obviously trying out some new tactics.
It didn't matter, she decided. She could handle one lone Ministry stooge with her wand tied behind her back, and he had been there long enough.
Soundlessly she crept up the broken stairs, and eased into the living room, thankful that she kept the cellar door so well oiled. She crouched low to the floor near the farthest corner, and strained her eyes to see something besides utter blackness. The house was dark and completely silent; the silence seemed to be breathing, waiting… and then, she heard? - sensed? - something move from the kitchen, maybe the faintest whispery brushing of cloth against the edge of the doorframe.
Not allowing herself to hesitate, she fired off a Stunning spell in the direction of that tiny sound. Splinters of wood erupted from the kitchen door, and she heard a hiss of startled air between clenched teeth. She balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to move at the slightest provocation, and allowed a small smile to play on her lips. He would be moving now, she knew, toward her or toward the nearest exit of the front door? She took a guess, and fired again, hoping she could see something in the flash of light, but the spell was too quickly swallowed up in the fathomless black.
Her eyes were beginning to adjust, and she should have been able to see movement at least, but there was nothing save the faint gray light coming from the windows. Then, she heard a whispered word, too low for her to catch. She braced herself for an onslaught, but found herself choking on a cloud of noxious smoke instead. Her trespasser was going for the front door, and attempting to mask his escape. Hermione supposed she could just let him go, but she wanted answers. She needed to know how he'd breached her wards, how he'd managed to get inside with her being none the wiser.
As she heard the sudden crackle of electric current, and realized that he had touched the charged handle of the front door, the urge to cough became too great to quell.
"Ven-tosus…" she managed to hack, and the spelled breeze wafted through the room to blow away the smoke. Hoping that his nerve endings had been sufficiently shocked so as to slow his retreat, she aimed Expelliarmus and a Leg-Locker jinx at the place she knew he'd have to be standing. She was rewarded by the hollow wooden clatter of his wand rolling away and the heavier, more substantial thump of a body hitting the floor. Quietly, she crept to his side.
"Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?" There was quiet anger in her voice.
"Oh God." The voice was wheezy; he'd had the wind knocked out of him when he fell. Her heart leapt into her throat when she heard it, and she squeaked out a gasp without really meaning to. Even as her head argued that it couldn't possibly be him, irrepressible hope surged up inside, hot and eager. No, it's just someone who sounds a little like him, and you are finally truly losing your mind.
"Lumos!" she whispered harshly, lowering her wand so that he was nearly blinded by the bright light. He squinted away from it reflexively. She was almost trembling in her desire to see who had the voice of the Boy She Loved, to see in what other creative ways Fate could torture her. She saw the dark swatch of hair, the glint of metal frames on his face, the strong set of his jaw, and the lithe outline of his body.
The wild frisson of hope was quenched beneath a tidal wave of anger. It did look like him, but could not be him. Therefore, someone was tricking her, in order to trap her, and someone had put an unerring finger right on the cruelest way to do so.
She jammed her wand between his ribs rather harder than was strictly necessary.
"Who sent you here? Who are you?" She was so angry she could barely speak. Harry!
"It's me - it's Harry," he gasped, arching away from the insistent tip of her wand. He looked up at her then, and she had difficulty controlling the emotion that washed over her. His eyes - the expression - it even looked like Harry. He was looking at her, like Harry would have looked at her. Tears surged to her eyes, and she blinked them back with self-righteous fury.
"Who sent you here?" She wanted to kill him, to hurt him for hurting her, for daring to sully the treasured image of Harry Potter, when he was not worthy to lace Harry's trainers.
"Nobody sent me." He was speaking quickly, evidently detecting her rapidly unraveling patience. "I came here on my own. I've been - "
"Harry's dead." Oh, how it still hurt to say those words. "I'll ask one last time: who are you?"
"I am Harry Potter, just like I said." He raised his hands, as if to ward her off. His eyes were beseeching her. Those green eyes…she swallowed with difficulty. "I'm just not from this universe."
Hermione let out a bitter half-laugh. Did he think her an utter fool? She rolled her eyes, and did not lower her wand.
"That's original, at least. Did the Ministry send you here?" She gritted her teeth so that her jaw would not tremble.
"The Ministry? No! I'm telling you the truth. I'm from another universe." He certainly looked sincere. His acting skills were prodigious indeed. "I'm looking for - for you…"His voice sounded wistful, hopeful, longing. Something uncomfortable churned up in her stomach. A ruse, it's all an elaborate ruse.
"For me?" She jabbed him again with her wand, hoping she could sound properly skeptical, while drinking in the sight of him.
"I was in - we were fighting the Final Battle - against… Voldemort?" He said the name uncertainly, waiting for her to verify. Against her will, she nodded. "You were taken hostage, sent to another universe, stranded there. For five years, everyone thought you were dead. I've been looking for you - that is, my - my universe's you." His face crinkled up, as though he realized how ridiculous he sounded. "Does that - does that sound familiar at all?"
"I think I would remember being transported to another reality against my will. I did fight in the Final Battle two years ago. You - Harry - " she caught herself quickly. This is not Harry!! "defeated Voldemort, but he was killed doing so. Nearly everyone was…" Harry, Mum, Dad, Charlie, Neville, Ron, Ginny, Lavender… Luna? "I've been living in hell since then, but I suppose it's the hell I belong in." She shook off her reminiscences, and tried to focus on the task before her. "I doubt you could prove any of this to me. Why should I believe you?"
And then he said the one thing that would slay her.
"Would Harry have ever lied to you…done anything to hurt you?" She felt frozen by the intensity of his gaze, like he knew what she was thinking. Of course he wouldn't. He'd rather die than hurt me in any way. The hope rekindled its little flame in her chest, and she almost smiled.
"No," she sighed. "He wouldn't have."
She wasn't at all sure where the truth lay, but she no longer truly believed it was his intent to harm her.
"Finite…" she took the Leg-Locker curse on him, and ordered him up. "We've been up here too long already."
She retrieved his wand and poked him in the back, directing him ahead of her toward the cellar door. She walked quietly, still wary for any sudden or unexpected moves.
"Do you… live here?" He asked, his voice sounding oddly disembodied in the dark.
The lonely despair surged back into the forefront of her brain, as she thought of her solitary existence in her tiny little windowless cell of a hideaway.
"I don't live anywhere." She could practically taste the bitterness of the words on her tongue. She nearly walked into his back, as he hesitated, and she almost chuckled when she realized that he was uncertain about grasping the door handle.
"Only the front door's rigged. Little concept I borrowed from the Weasley twins. I suppose you know them."
"Sure, I know Fred and George…" The ready acceptance in his voice, the easy way he spoke the twins' names stabbed at her. Obviously, he knew them well, and had seen them not long ago. Her very existence seemed to mock at her, laughing at the way she clung to the shredded fragments of what was left of her life.
She prodded him on down the stairs, and she could hear the hesitation in his footfalls, the careful way he placed each foot as he descending into even more complete blackness. She thought, My God, the stairs! at almost the exact same time that she felt him waver, and she grabbed the back of his shirt collar to keep him from toppling to the cellar floor. She had forgotten all about the missing steps.
"The bottom four steps are gone. Sorry." She winced at how peremptory the words sounded, but she was hanging onto her emotional control by a thread. It was just too hard having him here. She brushed by him in the dark, trying to ignore the way it felt to be so close to him, to feel him breathe, to feel his warmth. "I left it that way because it makes people think nobody's been down here in ages."
She jumped off the last stair, and her shoes made a scuffling sound on the mucky cellar floor. She moved to the wall with the hidden door, and began to tap out the coded pattern on the bricks. She pretended that she didn't care whether Harry followed her or not, but she still felt her heart accelerate when he landed lightly at the bottom of the stairs.
The bricks formed themselves into a small arched doorway, and she looked back at him briefly, nodding her head in the direction of the little apartment, not trusting herself to speak. He did a double take as the secret door disappeared once again after they'd entered, and she could see the flare of concern in his eyes as he surveyed her dreary little domicile. It seemed like he looked around for a long time, and she felt her defenses rise at the thought that he might be judging her, pitying her.
"Approve?" she asked, biting sarcasm in her tone. He must have been a thousand kilometers away, for he flinched at her voice.
"Hermione, why?" She bristled at the presumption in his voice. You don't know me, and I don't know you. But her inward aching gave lie to her brave front. Her eye fell on her little potions lab, and she moved toward it with a purpose. At the very least, she could determine this. She ticked her finger down her alphabetized rack of potions, and withdrew a small vial of clear liquid.
"Drink this."
He looked almost offended, as his eyes flickered between her face and the vial she held.
"You're making me drink Veritaserum?"
"If you don't have anything to hide, then it won't matter, will it?" As she handed him the potion, she scanned him with her wand, setting his own wand down carefully on the back of the sofa. "No traces of polyjuice or recent Imperius activity."
He really almost seemed hurt at her pointed lack of trust, but he poured the contents of the vial down his throat, without further protest. She saw him relax ever so slightly as the Veritaserum took hold in his system.
She began to fire questions at him in rapid sequence: first to satisfy her curiosity, then to trip him up, and then just because she wanted to hear his voice. For it was him, she could no longer deny it. The inflections, the gestures, the body language were all Harry's. She was content to listen to him, to bask in his presence, hopefully without being terribly obvious about it.
She thought she was doing quite well, until he mentioned that he lived with Ron and Luna. Just the curve of his mouth as he spoke that one syllable of their best friend's name was enough to send a pang shooting through her like electric current.
"Do they - do they know you're - " Her voice cracked, as her throat closed up over her words. She swallowed forcefully to keep the sobs from bubbling up, and swiped at her tears with the back of her hand. "Damn it."
"What's wrong?" His voice was warm and low with concern, concern for her.
"It's just - it's just been a long time since I've heard anyone say Ron's name. And - and Luna…" She sniffed again, blinking the tears away, and tried to sound more composed. "I last saw Luna three weeks ago. She wasn't at our usual meeting place last week." She's probably dead too. Just like everyone else. Hermione could not alter the morbid direction of her thoughts. She thought maybe she could understand where Harry's paranoia had come from: everyone who loves me, dies.
"So - so Ron - they're … gone…here…?" She watched the sadness flit across Harry's face as he contemplated the idea of Ron's death.
She nodded, irritated at her weepiness, and her mind cast about frantically for another question, any innocuous thing she could ask him.
Harry could obviously read her like a book.
"Don't you believe me yet?"
"You came - you came all this way to look for - for H - Hermione?" Her mouth tripped over the syllables of her own name. It seemed so odd to speak of herself in the third person.
"Yes." The reply was terse; his gaze had dropped to his hands, fidgety in his lap.
"Why?"
She knew the answer before she asked it, knew it like she knew what her answer would have been, were the situation reversed. And it still shook her to her core, when he raised his eyes to meet hers. The brilliant green color fairly blazed with the intensity of his feelings for his Hermione. His gaze moved over her face, and she felt the heat of the look like she would feel his touch. She felt her face grow hot, and her knees wobbled. Without breaking eye contact with him, she groped for the back of the chair to hold herself up.
"Why do you think?" He asked, somewhat unnecessarily at this point. She clamped her hands around the back of the chair, feeling her fingernails bite into the lacquered wood, in the effort to keep herself from crossing the small space and flinging herself into his arms. Clinically, she took note of the oddness of being jealous of oneself.
"Well, she's very lucky." Her voice was light and artificial, and something flickered in Harry's face. She turned away from him, feeling somehow that she had hurt him, that she had belittled what he felt for this woman, when it was every bit as strong as what she felt for him. He must have seen some traces of her love in her face, for he blurted,
"Wait! Were you - were you and Harry - ?" He stumbled to an ungainly halt, and waited, appearing to hope she'd understood what he had not said.
"Promise me…" Harry had said, whispering almost into her mouth, his lips barely skimming hers, still treading that fine line - two friends whispering, just two friends whispering together.
*
…his eyes were distant, glassy, unresponsive.
There were clawed hands tearing at her chest. Her face was sticky, her nose was running, and yet she watched his face avidly. Be the Boy Who Lived, please Harry.
Another breath drawn in, shallower and slower, noisy but ineffective. His lips took on a bluish cast.
She could still feel the brush of his lips on her cheek, her ear, her mouth, could still feel the funny jump in her stomach when their hands touched.
*
She seemed to draw herself back from far away, as she shook her head at this interloper, this Other Harry.
"No," she said, realizing again how sadly true it was. They had had nothing but hope, nothing but the promise of someday, that turned out to be an empty promise indeed. She said it again. "No, we - we never…I - I sometimes hoped that - but there wasn't any time, and he - you - he - then he - "
"Then he died," Harry interjected gently, as she visibly struggled. She closed her eyes, and nodded, feeling the old pain wash over her, the familiarity of it was almost like a long-lost friend. "Voldemort killed him?"
She told him what had happened in a wooden voice, brittle and unyielding around the words that had sculpted her agony, built her a castle in which to suffer. She had never told anyone her version of the story, and she found herself falteringly spilling the whole sorry tale, speaking as if she were speaking to her Harry, and not this lookalike, who watched her as if he felt her pain.
"…you don't know what it feels like to see you again…"
Harry's eyes flashed, and she thought he might reach out and touch her.
"I do understand, more than you know." They looked at each other for a moment, and she remembered the reason he was here, that he was looking for Hermione. She read his loss clearly in his face, and knew that he did understand.
And then he was asking questions about the cellar room, about the aftermath of the war, and some part of her relished the disbelieving horror on his face; some part of her was relieved that he still saw things the same way, that she was not the only one who knew that the order of things was wrong. Somehow it made her feel closer to this Harry, made her feel so much less alone. Harry, if only you'd been here.
"Why don't you leave?"
Her neck muscles pulled taut, as she jerked her gaze up to his. Maybe she'd been wrong; maybe he didn't understand at all.
"Leave?"
"Leave!" he repeated, as if she spoke English poorly or something. He flung his arms outward in a frustrated gesture that took in her hideaway. She could see the protectiveness rising up in him, and longed to hide herself beneath that security. "Get out of this place. Go to America, go anywhere - anywhere but here."
She sighed, and sat down, her entire posture bespeaking defeat. He wasn't saying anything that she hadn't already said to herself, hadn't already argued endlessly over with herself.
"I feel closer to him here."
"He's gone, Hermione." The voice was oh-so-gentle, but Hermione flinched as if he'd slapped her. She couldn't bring herself to look at the tenderness she knew would be in his eyes. "He's gone, and he's not coming back. He wouldn't want to see you like this. He - it hurts me to see you like this. If there really is no one left, nothing else that can be done, you ought to wash your hands of this affair and have a life of your own, instead of - of mourning after ghosts."
His voice rekindled her ire, and she straightened, raking him with a regally fierce look. How dare he lecture me on moving on with one's life??
"As you've done?" She raised one skeptical eyebrow at him. "You've given yourself away by what you haven't said. You were torn apart when she disappeared, weren't you? You've been drifting for five years, pretending to have a life, even knowing she would have rather died that day than see you like this." He blanched under her assault, but she did not waver. "And now, you're grasping at the faintest threads of hope, on this wild goose chase to find her! Do you even have a plan? Do you even have a glimmer of a strategy? Or are you planning on drifting around different universes for the rest of your life, hoping you'll bump into her accidentally?"
She had spewed all this at him out of her knowledge of her Harry, and when she saw the angry flush stain his cheeks, she knew she'd guessed correctly.
"As a matter of fact, I do have a plan," he informed her, sounding defensive and annoyed. She leaned forward, propping her chin on her hands, and looked at him expectantly. Okay, let's hear it, her posture said.
"In the last universe I was in, I saw Sir Nicholas…"
Okay, I think we're getting into the part everyone was waiting for! I hope everyone enjoyed it, even though a lot of it was a rehash.
You may leave a review on your way out if you like. It would be so, so much appreciated!!
--lorien
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