Title: Winds of Change
Author: Kary Starr
Ship: Harry/Hermione
Rating: PG-13/R
Summary: After the Great War, things have changed. Hermione learns to deal with what life is really about, and how to deal it—realizing that not everything can be handled on her own.
Genre: Angst, Romance, Humour
Story Canon: 1-5
AN: Look, I'm back! "The bitch is back and she's gonna be rich…do dah, do dah, the bitch is back!" I finally have a story here, about Harry and Hermione, my new favourite ship. I just…don't…like the Ron/Hermione ship much, never did, like the Harry/Ginny ship, nope, not for me. Though most of my other stories will allude to it, of course. Black Prospects puts Hermione with Ron; Without Words puts Hermione with Draco; and one of my other…things…to read is Hermione and Snape. So Hermione is, virtually, the Harry Potter "string-a-long," because she is the only girl to be old enough to pair with everyone, Ginny coming in at a close second. Now there's Luna Lovegood, whom I think, is a lot like me. So now she can "hang wit" Ron. I like Ron/Luna. I like Hermione/Harry. And that is my editorial.
This is a different story, and then, it isn't. Just read it. And review. Please. Please. Please.
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Chapter One: White
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The cold December wind blew through Hermione Granger's curly brown hair and sent chills down her spine. Shivering slightly, she crossed her arms and hunched over, trying to deflect the bitter wintry gusts.
As tired as she was, the chilly air was keeping her numbly awake. Hermione had spent a great deal of time upstairs last night studying and reading all her notes, before the test she was going to take this afternoon. Perhaps, in afterthought, Hermione should have organized her time better that week. But time had passed so quickly and without her even realizing it, the week had come and gone; now she was extremely fatigued. Lucky for her, she was going to see something that was sure to wake her up.
Or should Hermione say two somethings—her best friends Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, whose abundant energy was enough to liven anything, even the dead, the point she was above, but just. Both were at Hagrid's hut, at the edge of Hogwarts' ground and the Forbidden Forest, helping Hagrid with a new specimen Hagrid had bred specially for the Ministry—surprising, of course, since the Ministry had been broken up and disintegrated for the last year and a half. The havoc after the Great War—
Hermione paused in her tracks. Shaking her head of the horror memories the Great War brought up, those that made her scream in her sleep, that had left Harry imprisoned in his own mind for months, not to mention St. Mungo's for weeks afterward...that had brought Ron to his knees before the Great Lord, locked within the Imperious Curse...and Dumbledore's violent murder, before her eyes, because of she and Harry would not reveal the essential information of Snape's whereabouts, and she, only to stand on the sidelines—
Her mittened hands came to her face, as tears flowed down her cheeks. No, no, you mustn't think of this—you're a Gryffindor—you're stronger than this. We're all okay. Voldemort is gone. Harry was the one prophesied to live in return for Voldemort's life...he's alive...and so is Ron...Ginny, Neville and Luna...they're all alive...
But at a great price. So many people died, wizards and Muggles alike. And she was there in the middle of it all...Get a hold of yourself. What would Ron and Harry think to see you walk in there, crying?
Though the War had left scars on the three teens, the fact that the three of them, and the rest of the Loyal Army—consisting much of the DA of their fifth year, the young wizards who chose to fight on Dumbledore's side, the Good Side—the fact that they all stood together, those that did not die or disappear, helped to keep those who saw much more than they could handle from going insane with grief. Especially those like Neville Longbottom, a round-faced Gryffindor with a kind heart and extraordinary abilities in battle, but who had too pure a mind for the horror of war.
Hermione stood still and took deep breaths. That was all behind her. What good could it—would it—to dwell on this subject? She was just emotional because she was tired. Though she never would tell anyone what had gone through her mind—the thoughts were unspeakable, to say the least—if she walked in crying, they would make a fuss. Then they would ask what was wrong. Hermione had been very careful—almost too careful, she thought, sounding just convincing enough in their continued discussions—to not say anything to upset anyone, though Harry came close to finding out many times. She wished she could just tell what was boiling inside of her, but to make them worry—after defending her position many times—sure was quite all right, no need to make a commotion—would be a weak definition of character. She needed to be strong, for all of them.
After breathing out loudly and patting under her eyes with snow to reduce the swelling of tears (Hermione had become rather familiar with the many ways to cover tears, right down to going out and getting Muggle colour contacts that matched her normal eye colour perfectly ("My eyes are just too dry and are watering over, Harry, don't worry—it's not like I'm crying, you know..."). It covered very well.). Barking mad, was she? Absolutely.
She started to walk again, breathing deep with each step. That was her way to calm down, to make sure she looked okay, to make sure that everything was covered up. Hermione approached the door apprehensively. Knocking twice, the door opened to Harry, red-cheeked and out of breath.
"We just got in ourselves," he explained needlessly, and Hermione nodded. Stepping aside, Harry allowed Hermione to come in and take a seat in one of the most ostentatious chairs Hagrid had managed to purchase last month to make his hut, in his words, "more 'omey." Hermione suspected that, considering the chair is French made (with pastel-like coloured fabric in plaid fashion), Hagrid's girlfriend Madame Maxime might have had a hand in the choosing. The chair was large and took up almost half of the hut itself.
"So, how's the...erm, what do you call those things again?" Hermione asked, taking off her heavy black cloak and setting it to her side. Her black-shoed feet swung absentmindedly off the side of the chair, though she was nearly five feet, seven inches tall.
"Top secret," Harry replied, waving a disapproving finger at her. "Can't tell you about those monsters—no offense to Hagrid," he added, disdainfully, "—and what those 'monsters' do, though I'm pretty sure I can come to the safe conclusion that like the Blasted End Skrewts, they should all be stamped out. I haven't any idea what use for them the three of us can come up with." Harry and Ron, both in N.E.W.T. Care of Magical Creatures, took on this project as one of the thesis requirements to pass with N.E.W.T. recognition. Hermione, on the other hand, did not care for killing herself in her own free time and chose to do a double thesis project, combining both N.E.W.T. Advanced Charms and Transfiguration.
Hermione shrugged. "You chose this, Harry." She smiled mischievously. "Not so much fun to brag about anymore?"
"Shut it, you," Harry said, watching Hermione eye a new wound he had stumbled himself on, a cut across his collarbone. She only shook her head and nodded her head at him.
"Want me to take a look at that?" Hermione asked, pointing at the gash. "Doesn't look too good."
"Better than what Ron has," Harry replied quickly, turning away. "Hagrid's out there mopping him up."
Hermione nodded knowingly. "How is he doing, anyway?" She stood and walked over to the overly large sink, taking a towel out of the drawer and running the hot water tap, putting soap onto the cloth and rubbing it in. Harry replied as she worked her way to the gauze/First Aid medical kit, hanging on the wall next to an old dragon cage.
"He's doing all right—I don't think he has any of Charlie's talents, though. Hagrid's a good friend, but he's making it harder and harder everyday to stick with this. Sometimes..."
Hermione walked over to him, set the cleaning materials on the table, and sighed. "I told you that a thesis with the Care of Magical Creatures would be difficult. No one has done it since Charlie, and now you know why."
Harry shook his head as Hermione signaled for him to remove his thick turtleneck and shirt. "I should have done Transfiguration. At least I'm decent in that. Or Defense Against the Dark Arts," he added wistfully. "Damn Snape."
She clicked her tongue, understanding his upset. Since many of the qualified teachers over the years had started to dwindle with time, and the fact that the Defense Against the Dark Arts position really was haunted, no one would take up the job. And since, on the request of the new Minister Arthur Weasley when the Ministry was rebuilt, the Ministry can no longer interfere it's behalf in Hogwarts' business. Left with no other choice, the dreaded, deranged and yes, quite frankly evil Professor Snape, now taught two classes—Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts. Hermione thankfully thought that it was lucky the Potions Master did not secure the Headmaster position as well, but instead it fell to Gryffindor's Head of House and previous Deputy Headmistress, Professor McGonagall, also the Transfiguration teacher.
"Transfiguration is harder than you think, Harry," she said, offering a little bit of advice in the midst of his hellish thoughts. She lifted the towel to the cut, which was bleeding freely. Hermione pressed the warm cloth onto his shoulder, holding him still with the other hand. As she was rubbing the wound, her heart was pounding in her ears. She resisted staring at Harry's build—being a Seeker, he had mastered a swimmer's body, sleek and well defined without being macho-ly buff.
Stop, stop, stop, she thought. Hermione moved the cloth away, cleaning away the soap, as Harry sat there, watching her appreciatively. She felt red creeping into her cheeks. Oh cut it out, she thought stubbornly. We've already determined this man to be unattainable, think of the Final Battle.
Anyway, think of conversation—quick—
"Doesn't this hurt you?" she asked, her voice masking causality like a wet rag.
"Nah, I've had worse," he replied, grinning. Hermione shook her head, smiling, and pulling out her wand, she muttered some words to help heal the wound. It was too deep to heal completely, and she covered the rest of it with gauze.
"That should be better," she said nonchalantly, leaning back from his very, very sexy body. Cut it out, this is Harry, your best friend...and he's practically engaged to Cho Chang anyway...
"Thanks, Hermione," he said, as she helped him to gingerly put his shirt back on, brushing over his soft skin. The gash may have been partially healed, but it still smarted, and Hermione noticed Harry trying not to wince.
She took a deep breath, and exhaled. "Anytime. What's a future Healer to do?"
He ran his hand through his thick, messy black hair, which had tamed some growing up. He was looking out the window, seeing Ron, who was quite green, lumped on Hagrid's shoulder, coming in from the cold. Hermione, however, did not notice this, as she was stuck midway putting things away and watching Harry, finding herself doing nothing more than stare at him.
She was crazy to have these feelings—Hermione knew that she was attracted to Harry, sure, but there was nothing she could do about it. The years agreed with him—his gorgeous build, those dazzling emerald eyes, peering back through your soul, and masked behind small-rimmed glasses. He was a tall, dark-haired, and very handsome boy, she had realized before, and his smile made her knees melt. But there was just one little, itty-bitty thing standing in her way.
Reality.
So Hermione, like any normal girl with an out-of-bounds crush, suppressed her feelings. And it worked, mostly, especially over the summer. With the LA, she hardly saw any of Harry—he was always with Dumbledore or Moody or Tonks or Lupin, who have all been killed in the Great War, protecting Harry—and was reverted to other "projects" and research, something she was familiar with and very talented doing.
The last couple of months have been hard, being back at school, feeling an emptiness inside that no one could fill, feeling as if there were holes in her heart where all whom she had come to care for and love had disappeared. Though without Harry or Ron, she would have never recovered from the shock of it all—finding out Dumbledore had indeed, died, right before her and Harry, and he, filled of rage and hatred, blasted Voldemort to smithereens—and they too, without her, would have been empty. It was so hard, so very hard, to go about normally. They had their lives ahead of them, and they had to concentrate...this was the year that, normally, would either make or break them all.
But most of the emptiness, taken in part from all the deaths she had witnessed, including her own parents and that of many of her classmates...not to mention the adults she held in high esteem...was nothing compared to what she felt around Harry. Hermione knew it was selfish, but she was there...she was there when Dumbledore died, she watched Harry transform into something much more, something full of power that was all channeled into ending Death's reign...and she realized then and there, watching him dodge the curse that had killed so many people—her parents, his parents...she realized that she loved him. And it pained her beyond recognition to see him in the line of death. To see the green shots of light graze his hair, to see him leap to unknown boundaries...to protect them all....
And when Harry won, slumped down on the ground, she was not the first to reach him. Cho Chang was. The only girl Harry had any feelings for, certainly expressed their fifth year...she also, being apart of LA, had been on the sidelines, helping Harry win the Final Battle. But, as they embraced in the destruction of life, the death of Evil, Hermione knew in her heart the she was not the one for him.
It hurt more than anything. Her heart had welled up fifty times her normal size until she felt like she would burst from grief. And it took her great pains to never utter this to a soul.
The door burst open and Ron slumped inside, still green as ever. "We have to kill those...those...moth—" Ron murmured, before dry heaving. Harry laughed at him.
"You thought they were cool two months ago," he said, helping Ron inside. "And watch your mouth, Hagrid's here."
Hermione cocked her head sideways. Since when did Ron pick up such street slang and use it so casually? Inwardly, she laughed. Ron had always used dirty language.
"Perhaps I can help," Hermione offered. "What happened?"
"Those things poisoned me, that's what happened!" Ron said suddenly, turning very green, then ducked outside Hagrid's hut to vomit.
"Again?" Hermione said disdainfully. "Ron, they're gonna kill you before you figure out what to do with them..."
"It'll go away in an 'our, don'cha worry, Ron," Hagrid said, clapping him on the back rather roughly. "I 'ad that 'appen to me once, befor', when you two weren' 'ere an' all, and I'm all fixed up, ain't I?"
Harry turned to Hermione and muttered, "Not quite so sure." She laughed.
"Well, I'm sure there's something I can give you to stop the vomiting," she said, and finished putting away Harry's medical supplies. "Where's that Elixir that I had made for the last time someone was poisoned by those...what are they again?"
"No, Hermione, we won't tell you, so give it up," Ron said irritably, turning a violent shade of sick. "Just...just give me that Elixir before I vomit my insides out."
"All right, all right," she muttered at him, opening up the last cabinet and seeing the flask of red liquid. "I'm pouring you a cup, hold on a second..." She pulled out a glass and dumped the remaining drink into the cup. "I have to make more of this," she said, mostly to herself, as a mental note. "Don't let me forget."
"I won't, believe you me," Ron said eagerly, taking the medicine and downing it, the green fading from his face. "Ahh, much better. I feel like I can...almost...well, no, I don't want to eat, but I feel a lot better."
"Good, I'm glad," Harry said. He moved toward the door and helped Ron to sit. "You need to be cleaned up, but...ugh, Ron, turn your head the other way, I don't want to be puked on."
"Aw, why would I do that, mate?" Ron grinned. "Nothing like sharing the love."
Hermione poked her head out of the kitchen, after setting the now clean flask in the drying bin. "That's disgusting, Ron."
Ron stood defiantly. "I think I'll get cleaned up then, I'm obviously not appreciated," he said sadly, mockingly moping into the bathroom where the sound of rushing water was heard. Hermione came out of the kitchen, and sat down near Harry.
"How in the world did I put up with that...I don't think they have a name yet...that thing for the last seven years?" Harry said incredulously.
"Hey, I heard that!" Ron replied, aghast, coming out of the bathroom rubbing his face with a towel. He ran it through his thick red hair and set it up on his shoulder. "Feeling much better, thank you for asking," he said pointedly.
"Oh, Ron!" Hermione replied in a higher voice, "Darling, dear, are you going to live? I can't possibly survive without you!" She held her hand over her heart, and pretended to faint.
"That's more like it!" Ron answered triumphantly, watching as Hermione opened one eye bleakly and sat up straight.
"So long as you feel better," Harry said, shaking his head at his not-so-gangly best friend.
Hagrid came in after bustling about the kitchen with four tankards of butterbeer, grinning madly under his untamed mass of black hair that was his beard. "I got some o' this at 'ogsmeade," he said, setting them down on the table between the obnoxious couch and the green oversized chair Ron had sat down in, "an' I figured, since you all seemed a lil' down lately and all, that you might need a pick-me-up—an' since none o' you can drink," he continued, eyeing Ron wearily—he'd tried to pass himself off one time last year, before the Great War, as a legal drinker at the bar and nearly succeeded. "Since none o' you can drink," he repeated, "this is the next bes' thing."
Hermione's attention snapped away from Harry. "Thank you so much, Hagrid," Hermione said, feinting happiness, and took a glass, to which Harry and Ron followed suit. Oh God, Harry, she thought, why do you have to be so close yet so unattainable? This is the last year I will see you like this, before we begin our real lives. And here I sit, so far away, not being able to do anything about it.
She pinched her leg through her blue tights, below her long navy skirt. Stop this or you'll cry. Be strong. You can't—CAN'T—let anyone know.
"—and he's being so awful, Hagrid. I can't stand Defense Against the Dark Arts class anymore. It's driving me nuts," Ron was saying when Hermione returned her attention which had, once again drifted away.
"Too late," she muttered, taking a swig of butterbeer and smiling sweetly. She didn't even need to be included in the situation to know what Ron was whining about. Hermione didn't like Snape anymore than he did, but she realized that holding a grudge would not get them to pass. Didn't he get that? Or was Potions an ignorant reminder?
She glanced about the small hut, littered in old cages, the familiar pink umbrella, the crackling fireplace—and realized that she had her Transfiguration essay left to do before class tomorrow. Hermione suspected that neither of the two boys here finished the essay either.
"Um, Hagrid," she started, setting down the half-empty tankard, "I'll see you tomorrow for tea. I just remembered—I have to finish my Transfiguration essay..."
"Come on Hermione, lighten up," Harry said, resting his hand on her knee friendly-like. Hermione could feel the heat rise up in her cheeks. You bastard, get your hand off my knee before I burn the house with my cheeks! "You have all afternoon—it's only ten o'clock."
Hermione set her own hand on his and, reluctantly, removed it. "I have an Advanced Arithmancy exam this afternoon, and as much as you love to procrastinate, I do not. I'm going to walk back and do what I need to do—and that would be my essay." She stood, entered the kitchen, and set the glass down. Glancing up, she noticed that the snow had started to pick up—quite a bit.
Harry walked in behind her. "Why do you always rush out when we're all finally sitting together, Hermione?" he said, setting his own empty glass in the sink. Their conversation was out of the way, as she could hear Ron adamantly bitch out Professor Snape's latest unfairness.
"I don't always walk out," she replied. "I'm always with you two."
He looked at her intently. Hermione wished he wouldn't.
"You seem more reserved lately, Hermione," he said. "Ever since...ever since the War. I know that you have all the rights in the world—" Harry said quickly, when she opened her mouth, "but for all we tell you and ask advice, the only person who is giving advice won't ask for it. You know what I mean?"
Sure I do. It has something to do with the fact that you and I, for all I hope, cannot be, so stop pestering me about it. I just want to be left alone, I want you to stop tinkering with my feelings, I want to go back to how it was before—no love, just pure, simple friendship, where you and I could sit quietly in a room and talk without me wanting to reach out and kiss every bit of your face...
Hermione realized that she was quiet too long, and Harry's face fell. "Well, whenever you want to talk, I'm always ready to listen, Hermione," he said, taking her hand and kissing her softly on the cheek. She was stunned for a second, as Harry released her, and then she smiled assuredly.
"I'm fine, Harry," Hermione said. "I just have a lot going on—it's N.E.W.T. year, and you understand I'm under a lot of pressure don't you?"
He grinned. "I know you're taking every Advanced seventh year course offered."
"See? That's why I must away to my homework," she said pointedly, and moved out of the kitchen, grabbing her cloak. "Talk to you boys when you get back."
"Bye, Hermione," Ron said, waving at her from the engulfed chair. "Take care, it's snowing like a bitch."
Harry, leaning on the doorway of the small cookery, scoffed at Ron's remark. "Ron!" he said, tsking at Ron, and grinning madly at Hermione putting on her cloak. "Talk to you in a bit."
"Bye, you two. Thank you, Hagrid," she said, opening the door and walking out into the bitter cold snow-filled wind. Everything was white....
Outside looked so new; it seemed complete, presumably wonderful.
As Hermione made tracks in the snow back to the castle, she realized that not everything could be the way it used to be. The wind, beating at her expose face, made her feel alone and forlorn. And she supposed that's how she's set herself up. Hermione felt devastated—she hated keeping something so big from everyone so important to her. Her feelings for Harry kept her at a distance, their friendship like a string that was used to teasingly pull her in and release her back out.
And deep in her heart, she knew that this is how it was meant to be.
It wasn't fair.