A/N: Whew. Well, it has been a good long while since I've updated this story. For that, I offer my heartfelt apologies. I hope you have a little interest and a little time left for the Potters and their friends. There is still a story left.
Chapter 8
Hermione was buried in a veritable paper fortress. There were tottering stacks of books on one end of the desk with stacks of scrolls on the other; one long piece of parchment floated in front of her, and a levitated quill quivered expectantly against it, waiting to add to Hermione's already-expansive notes.
"Come in," Hermione said absently when she heard the knock. "I'm sorry about the mess, I- oh, hello, George! "
"They said I'd find you in here."
She shut her book and stood, waving her wand and letting the parchment settle onto the desk.
"I'm having a research day," she said, making George smile.
"I can tell."
"You look ill," she said, "Please- won't you sit down?"
"No thanks," he said, locking his hands behind his back and tensing his jaw noticeably. "Er… look, Hermione, I'd crack a joke about this if I didn't feel so damned awkward already-d'you mind if I…"
He motioned aimlessly.
"Whatever you need."
"Thanks," he said, and he shut the door behind him. "You've got an office here already?"
"Healer Pruitt is letting me use his office." Hermione waved her wand, and the books on the desk began shelving themselves with quiet thunks. He cleared his throat.
"Hermione, you don't need to stand."
He extended a hand, motioning for her to sit down. After a moment, she did, looking puzzled and concerned.
He took a deep breath.
"I reckon I don't need to tell you I've been…having trouble, then?"
"What sort of trouble?"
"That's the thing. I don't know." He pulled up a chair at last and sank into it, looking worn. "Mum sent me to talk to you. She thought it'd do some good."
"Do you think it will do you any good, George?" said Hermione softly, "That's the important thing."
"I don't know what will do me good anymore, not since…" he shrugged. "I dunno. I guess everyone expected me to- come back, you know. Faster than I have."
She waited.
"I don't feel like doing anything anymore," he said. "And…this is going to sound stupid-but I… well, I don't know if I can be myself. Without-"
He stopped.
"Bloody boring, aren't I?"
"No," she said simply. "You aren't."
"D'you know, you're the first one who hasn't told me that feeling this way is normal?" George stood and began pacing. "Normal, that's what everyone says. `You're grieving'. I've grieved before, Hermione, and that's not what this is. This is…well, look at me."
He laughed bitterly.
"You know I've never been anything other than `Fred and George'? I hated that. People mixing us up, like we weren't two completely different people-and now he's gone. Godric, Hermione, you know… you know what I think sometimes? Sometimes- I wish it would have been… someone else. Anybody else. Bloody hell. I'm a right bastard."
"No, you're not. I-" she paused and took a deep breath. "I've had similar thoughts before."
He stopped pacing and looked over at her.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I've felt the same way. I would have never admitted it, but- but my first thought, whenever we heard of a death- my first thought was `Anyone but Harry- let it be anyone but Harry-I'll be all right if only he's still alive'."
He sat down again. A solemn, fragile understanding had settled over both of them.
"And…" George looked up so that their eyes met. "And when we thought he was gone?"
She shook her head.
"Ron could tell you that," she said, slowly, "I… I lost control. I didn't breathe-I couldn't breathe. All I could see was Harry. There weren't any thoughts or tears left in me. Everything inside me was collapsing and I… I didn't care, not really. I knew I'd have to get used to it-the collapse and pain and cold- if he was gone…"
She shuddered.
He looked away.
"What…" he began, his voice coarsened with pain. "What would you have done…if he hadn't made it? If he really had been…?"
Hermione paused.
"I don't know. I had thought about it once or twice. What would life be like without Harry? If he left me, too? I'm not sure. I wish I could tell you something inspiring, George, but- but I think I would have pretended to be all right. I was good at pretending, then. I mean, honestly. Sometimes I wonder how I did it all those years, fooling myself into `just-friendship' with Harry."
He half-smiled, painfully. "We wondered, too."
She tilted her gaze up, frowning in thought.
"I think…I would have fooled myself into `living without' Harry. I don't like that. I don't think- it should be that way. It wouldn't have had to be, really. I would never find anyone to be Hermione `with' again- not like I am with Harry-but I think… I think I could have learned to be myself somehow. If only to hold onto Harry a little longer. But… I'm sorry, George. I don't think this is really the answer your Mum wanted you to hear from me today."
He forced a laugh.
"Never mind what Mum wanted," he said, "This was what I needed."
She reached out and took his hands.
"I know we haven't any idea what you feel, but you don't have to be the same person you were before. Just… just try to look for yourself, now-whatever that looks like."
He pulled his hands away.
"Thanks, Hermione," he said, trying to force his voice into calm again. "Harry's lucky to have landed himself such a smart woman. He needs it."
She laughed a little.
"He does occasionally," she said. "But I need him, too."
She studied him for a moment.
"Is there anything else… you wanted to say?"
His stomach twisted, but he forced himself to smile.
"No," he said, "no. That's all."
He stood up and pushed his chair in.
"Thanks for everything, Hermione. I hope your research goes well."
"Thank you," she said, coming around to his side of the desk. "Do you know where you're going?"
"Yeah," said George hastily. "You don't need to walk me out or anything; I don't want to- you know. Anyway."
She looked at him carefully.
"If you're sure."
"I'm sure. See you."
Unexpectedly, before he could leave, she hugged him.
"Goodbye, George. Harry and I… we'll always be here, you know."
He smiled then.
"Thanks, Hermione. I know."
With that, he turned and left, shutting the door on a very troubled Hermione.
****
A whisper of magic ran through the large chamber. Luna made her way through the soft blue light, running her hands along the black stone walls. Her fingertips tingled as the memory stones-vigiles memoria-warmed under the magic's influence.
"How is it?"
She glanced up, seeing Amanda Levenburn entering the room.
"Beautiful," Luna murmured. Both women smiled.
"Astonishing, isn't it?" Amanda said, brushing the wall herself. The stones warmed again beneath their hands. "You would do well to pursue this work. You have a gift."
Luna gazed at the glimmering stones.
"Believe me, Luna," said Amanda, placing a hand on Luna's shoulder. "It sounds cold and arbitrary to those outside, but this is not a work you learn. It is a work to which you are born."
"You make us sound like Seers." Luna laughed, and the blue light around them rippled with sudden gold.
Amanda smiled.
"We do not seek the future here," she said, laughing too. "The present is mysterious enough."
Luna considered the stones as Amanda lifted her wand, murmuring a soft-sounding spell.
Bird-song filled the room, and the shadows of forest trees seemed to sprout from the walls, climbing through the air and falling over the two women.
"Your friend," said Amanda after a moment, "Hermione Potter. You say you've been working with her?"
"That's true," Luna said, as a flower-fragrant breeze danced through the chamber. Amanda paused.
"I suppose you know her significance to us."
Luna smiled at Amanda fondly.
"There's no need to look embarrassed. I know."
"I'm not fond of case studies," Amanda said. "People should be loved, not charted. But…"
The forest shadows receded, and a soft, uncertain mist swirled softly about them.
"But Hermione Potter is…much like her husband…an exceptionally fascinating person," Amanda finished after a long pause. "What do you see in her, Luna?"
Luna considered.
"Compassion. Deep compassion."
"Certainly. I would have guessed as much."
Luna glanced at Amanda.
"You were hoping for a different answer."
Amanda hesitated, then took Luna's arm. "Would you mind if we walked for a while? I'd like to talk to you about something."
With that, the two women walked on, disappearing into the mist.
****
"Dusty, it's time for bed." Hermione put an arm about him gently. "I've already let you stay up."
He leaned his cheek against her side, paintbrush still in hand, and he sighed deeply in protest.
"I know, but you do need your rest."
She studied the canvas in front of her.
"That isn't…"
Dusty looked up at her with soft eyes.
"It's all right?" he asked, his voice sounding small and fearful in the candle-lit workroom.
Hermione nodded.
"It's beautiful, Dusty. But how did you…?"
Dusty ducked his head. She considered him for a moment, realizing then that Dusty could have very easily heard her telling Harry about George's visit.
"I see," she said at last.
He looked so ashamed that she decided that rebuke was unnecessary. Eavesdropping was a small offense, and his actions were kindly meant.
"How did you know what he looked like?"
Dusty looked relieved and pointed to the small photograph on the table beside his easel. She recognized it as one from her album.
"You like painting for people, don't you?" she said, and he nodded vigorously. "I think that's wonderful. You have a very good heart."
He flushed.
"You know," she said quietly, "George has been having a very difficult time recently."
He nodded.
"He's very sad and very confused. Do you remember how we all felt when Andromeda died?"
She knelt and took his hands, and he nodded again, his dark eyes sorrowful.
"And do you remember how hard it was for you to look at the portrait you made for her?"
One last time, he nodded.
"This is a beautiful painting," she said gently, looking at the picture of the Weasley twins, laughing by the oak tree. Both faces were haloed in golden sunlight, and her heart gave a deep twinge of pain-as it always did when she thought of how the war had changed them all. "It looks so like them."
Dusty smiled with pleasure.
"Dusty," she said, taking a deep breath. "I know you love George and want to see him happy. So do I. But… I think it might be best to wait for a little. Until you give it to him."
Dusty looked down and she reached up, framing his face with her hands.
"Your painting is wonderful, Dusty. But maybe it isn't the time for it yet. Do you think you can wait?"
He looked away, his lip trembling unexpectedly.
Then he threw his arms about her neck and buried his face in her shoulder. She pulled him into her arms and rocked him gently.
"I know you were excited-that shows what kind of a person you are, you know. And I promise we'll give it to George someday-perhaps someday soon-"
Suddenly, through the tears, she heard him speak-an agonized, childish moan of compassion: "Why must people hurt so much? Oh, Mama, make it stop-can't you make it stop?"
"Oh, Dusty!" was all she could whisper, as he curled up against her and cried. "Oh, Dusty, tell me what's wrong-what…"
"It's not fair that people hurt," he sobbed, "It isn't. And I can't do anything but paint!"
She wrapped her arms around him tightly, shaking her head and stroking his hair.
"You make people better," he cried into her shoulder, "You help them get better, and…and all I can do is-is-is paint-and paint-and it doesn't help-it doesn't change anything-"
"That's not true," she broke in firmly, "You know that isn't true-oh, sweet, sweet Dusty-look at me."
Once again, she cradled his face in her hands, using her thumbs to dry his flushed, tear-glazed cheeks. She knew she was close to tears herself, but she forced herself to keep her voice steady and gentle.
"You're right, dear," she said softly, "there is a lot of pain and sadness in the world. And it isn't right or fair. There are a lot of very good people who suffer terrible, terrible pain."
"Like you?"
She started, and he placed a fingertip on her neck. His tear-stained eyes locked upon the pale raised scar there, and she closed her eyes briefly.
She should have expected Dusty to notice.
"Did they hurt you, Mama?"
"Yes, they did," she said, "there were a lot of people that they hurt."
"And it wasn't right or fair," he repeated her words, fearfully. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
"No, it wasn't. But you know why we kept on, all that time?"
He shook his head.
"It's because we held on to what was right and true and beautiful. You see, Dusty, it may be hospitals and Healers that make us well, but it is beauty and conviction that makes us brave. Art reminds us of who we are and what we have-all the wonderful, beautiful things we have seen and all the beautiful hopes we want to see come true. It makes us strong when we are sick-stronger inside, stronger in the soul. You know that's the part of us that lasts. Right here."
She touch his chest with a finger, right where that sorrowing heart lay beating underneath.
"But I couldn't help Teddy's grandmother. She…she died."
She brushed a hand against his forehead.
"You know," she said, "a very wise person your father and I knew once told us, `To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure'. Andromeda went on an adventure-and you made her brave enough to go on it. Do you understand what I mean? She went on an adventure, knowing that Teddy was going to be loved and cared for, and that gave her courage. I would say that's quite a bit of help, wouldn't you?"
He scrubbed at his eyes, and burrowed into her embrace again, sniffling.
She held him until he grew still and limp, wondering at the depth of his compassion and heart-broken at the pain he had shared that night, not in pictures or gestures but in words- words which seemed so hard for him to say, words that he rarely used. She supposed this was why the sound of his broken voice- "Can't you make it stop?"- sent a deep, aching chill through her. And how she wished she could make it stop! She wished she could give him a world of light and warmth and love, an eternity of golden days and starry nights, a world where cruelty was a figment of the imagination and evil was nothing but a shadow that disappeared with the sunrise.
But for now…for now, all she could do was let him sleep secure in her arms.