The Best Laid Plans
A/N: I do not now, nor have I ever owned any of these characters. I'm not making any money off of this, sadly, so, you can't sue me. Neener. I do, however, own the plot. There will be a lot of angst, humor, romance, and a range of other emotions abounding in this story. What did you expect? They're 17 and about to fight something akin to a demi-god. Of course they'll find time to snog/shag. And, as always, please review. I don't care if you don't like it. Tell me why and what I need to do better. And by ALL MEANS, tell me if I've let someone slip out of character.
Chapter 1: Angst and More Angst
The heat made sweat inch across the back of Hermione's neck, making her skin crawl. The sensation was reminiscent of ants marching their way down her spine and she did the very best she could to keep the composed expression on her face, and not shudder at the sickening feeling. This summer was going to be the most difficult she had ever gone through. The separation from Harry and Ron, however brief, made her heart ache so much that it was a physical pain. The funeral was still fresh in her mind after weeks, but, thankfully she only had a week left before she would join her very best friends in their joint mission to destroy Voldemorte for once and for all. It gave her some comfort to think of living without that pressing danger, the proverbial Damocles' sword swinging so close to her head. When she was honest with herself, she really didn't know what she'd do if and when Voldemorte no longer posed a threat. Assuming, of course, she lived through the upcoming war.
As Hermione gathered the damp, and still somehow unmanageably frizzy curls into a ponytail, she knew that however hard this summer was for her, it was doubly hard for Harry. He was so alone in this world. It didn't seem fair, and sometimes, she got angry about it for no reason at all. She'd caught herself sniping at her parents more than usual. Her father had taken to just staying out of her way when he caught his daughter with a particular look on her face. Her mother, however, was just as stubborn as her daughter and had told her off on a number of occasions. They always made up in the end. Jane knew how difficult a time her daughter was having, even if she didn't fully understand the complexities of her daughter's life.
Ron, however, was feeling more and more worried with every day. Harry and Hermione weren't owling as often as he would have liked. These were his very best friends, and one of them he had more than friendly feelings for. He knew he was completely transparent, by now. He had cornered Hermione before leaving the train. He could remember the conversation as clearly as if it were being spoken in front of him.
"Hermione. Listen." He remembered the cold knot that twisted his stomach as she steeled himself for possibly the most difficult thing he'd ever done. "I want to tell you that... that we need to date." He could have kicked himself. It wasn't the suave line he'd been working on, but that's what had come out. He felt his forehead, trying to rub the frown out.
"Excuse me?" Hermione had a baffled look on her face, lips pursed. "First of all, Ron, you can't tell me what I need or do not need to do. And second of all, now is not the time to be thinking of romantic flings."
"It wouldn't be a fling, 'Mione. You know it wouldn't." He could barely swallow, even now, just thinking about it. His mouth felt dry and he wondered if he were just imagining it, or had his tongue really swollen to three times it's normal size? "We're supposed to be together."
"So, it's duty, is it? No, Ron. Not now. I don't want to discuss this." She sighed heavily, shook her hair out of her face, and with one last, somewhat softened, glance back at him, walked off the train. She left him standing there, staring at her retreating back and long, brown, very familiar hair. He wondered if all heartbreak was actual, physical pain.
It gave him hope, somehow. He was going to prove that he was the one for her. And if he'd managed to escape that ridiculously callous, in his opinion, rejection, he could survive anything. Not that he actually wanted to go through it again, of course, but he would do it as many times as she needed until he changed her mind.
Harry, on the other hand, spent most of his days sleeping. His nights were riddled with worrisome dreams and night sweats. For some reason, he found that by sleeping during the day, he dreamed very little. And he saw equally little of, and I use the term loosely, family.
He thought often of his friends, and even more often of Ginny. He could still smell her perfume on his school robes. He looked at the framed picture sitting on his table. Ginny happily kissed his cheek and waved cheerily up at him while he watched himself gaze completely unabashedly at Ginny. He never realized the way he watched her until he really looked a that photograph. He remembered the day very clearly. It had been a good day. Completely uneventful, save Ron and Hermione were being nicer than usual together. They'd all gone to Hogsmeade and had been all too happy to forget, for one afternoon, all the things around them that meant they most likely would not all be able to do this when they were in their thirties. The odds were that one, if not more, would die fighting a battle that Harry considered his and his alone.
Friends were good like that, though, he had discovered. If they sensed you weren't letting them in on something, they found a way to find out and help. Whether or not you actually wanted help. He had a feeling Ginny wouldn't sit back for long. She had too much of a spark in her to do that. Oh, she had understood when he told her that they couldn't be together. She had seen the heartbreak in his eyes. Damn it. Harry felt the tell-tale sting in his nose and the unpleasant tingly feeling behind his eyes and bit back tears. He had never been very good at hiding emotions. They were always just under the surface, surging forward and back like the tide. It was all he could do to control them. The moon shone dimly through his window and he turned his eyes to that instead of the picture that mocked him from a few feet away. He missed seeing a smaller reflection of himself pick Ginny's diminutive reflection up by the waist and swing her around, her red hair a blaze of color against the dark wood of the Three Broomsticks.
He just had to keep reminding himself that there were now only a few days to go until they met at Number 12, Grimmauld place before they left for Godric's Hollow.
Meanwhile, exceptionally far away from Harry, Hermione, and Ron's thoughts, Draco felt himself begin to lose what little shred of sanity he tenuously clung to. The walls of the Slytherin common room were closing in on him. The sleek, black furniture seemed to pulsate and writhe as he watched it, the shadows from the firelight giving them an almost anthropomorphic way of mocking his thoughts. The look in Dumbledore's eyes, the way he spoke to him. The sound of his voice echoed in his ears. He felt like vomiting. His head pounded from lack of sleep and food, and he was sure he'd die of shame if anyone saw him. His hair was unkempt, he had dark circles lending his eyes a hollow look, and his robes were wrinkled. To shield himself from the attitude of the furniture, he let his head fall into his hands, shutting his eyes in hopes it would block out everything. It didn't work.
He'd known for a long time that the so called Dark Lord was preposterous. I mean, honestly, there were so many flaws with it. For one, they were supposed to hate anyone who was not 'pure', but their leader, the figurehead of the revolution, wasn't 'pure'. Then there was the fact that if you were to keep blood pure, it would resolve into incest, and Draco really, really, really didn't want to touch that. He knew his cousin. He also knew that she had a large mole with three hairs that grew from the side of her neck. He felt like vomiting again.
He had done it, seeking approval from his father. He'd never had love, barely knew what it meant, but approval? He could understand that. He understood what his surname stood for. He understood what was expected of him. And he'd failed in even doing that. But for the sake of Merlin, he was only seventeen! How could he have been expected to ignore every piece of logic and follow blindly? Malfoys didn't do that! They had people follow them blindly. And if they eradicated all of the lowly, who would they eventually rule? No one. That's who. None of it made any sense.
So, he had been about to switch sides, had been about to lower his wand and move Dumbledore, the old dottering fool, somewhere more safe, when that damnable streak of green snuffed him out like so much flame on a candle wick. He was disgusted with himself. Disgusted that he couldn't be what he was supposed to be. He was disgusted that he hadn't been able to save Dumbledore. He was disgusted that he was here, at Hogwarts, being sheltered by Minerva McGonagall when he should have been anywhere else.
He was alone. Terribly, undeniably, irreparably alone. He felt as cold as ice, even as the heat from the fireplace washed over him. He had fled, as fast and as discreetly as he could, telling people he had another mission from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. They believed him because he was trailed at Occlumency, thanks to Snape, his once trusted mentor turned possible (and more likely probable) future murderer.
The new Headmistress had been suspicious, of course, but he'd proven trustworthy in the end. He'd sealed his fate with the Unbreakable Vow. He had been given shelter from the storm raging outside, but the storm that crashed inside him was still thirsty for his blood and his sanity.
He lifted his head, eyes glassy with unshed tears and from somewhere deep inside him, an almost animalistic howl of rage and frustration ripped out of him. He did not sob. He still had too much dignity for that, but no matter how he tried, he couldn't stem the flow of hot, treacherous tears that coursed over his cheeks. He lay on the black couch, back to the fire and covered his face in shame as he let the fear, the disgust, the shame, the loneliness pour out of him.