"And where there is no Echo there is no description of space or love.
There is only silence."
- House of Leaves, Zampano
Senza Eco
I : Dissonance
Hermione had honestly forgotten just how amusing it could be when Ron encountered a spider.
Admittedly, the spiders at number twelve, Grimmauld Place were usually nothing short of terrifying: with their foot-long, hairy bodies and those sounds they made when they scuttled across the floor, Hermione herself usually uttered a not-so-small scream of surprise and disgust when they popped up from a hole in the corner of the floor or around the corner of her mirror in the bathroom attached to the bedroom Harry had graciously offered her as she prepared to retrieve her parents from Australia. But the particular arachnid her red-haired friend was shrieking over was only a common daddy longlegs, perfectly harmless, and so Hermione felt no reservations about laughing as Ron went into hysterics.
Harry, perhaps feeling sorry for Ron, flicked the spider away. "Relax, Ron, it's titchy. You'd think that after facing Aragog you'd work up the nerve to face a daddy longlegs without screaming."
"Yeah, well you'd think that after facing dragons a bloke'd have no problem asking a girl to a dance," Ron countered in an unusual display of wit, smoothing his shirt with shaky hands, "but you had a hell of a time with Cho, didn't you?"
Ginny shot Ron a rather irritated look at the use of Harry's ex-girlfriend's name, but she needn't have worried; Harry moved to sit next to her and placed a hand on her thigh, a light touch. Hermione had noticed recently that Harry'd been giving a lot of light touches, as if only ten days after his death-and-survival he needed to make sure the people he spoke to were not figments of his imagination, not scraps of a dream. "Most of those great hairy things are gone now, anyway," Ginny said. "I haven't seen one since you've been back."
"Thanks to Kreacher's cleaning campaign," Hermione agreed, nodding as she turned the page of her book. It had been so long since she'd read Hogwarts, A History… around a year, if she remembered correctly. A long year. "He was so cheered to see that you were back and that the Death Eaters would leave, Harry, I think that he had a felt the urge, finally, to clean." Frowning: "It's terrible that that's his response to actual happiness." She imagined Ron rolling his eyes and didn't bother to look if he really was.
"I don't mind, honestly," Harry said with a lazy grin. "I still can't believe this is my place. My own house, until I decide to hand it down to someone."
"Some redecorating might be nice," Ginny remarked dryly.
"Yeah, like taking off the dead house-elf heads," Ron agreed. "They always gave me the creeps."
Hermione tuned out of the conversation and continued to read. It was nice—so nice— to finally be able to sit down with a book again. After Voldemort had dropped dead at last she had expected the relief and relaxation to be immediate, but that had been wishful thinking. There had been so much to do: funerals, memorials, accolades to award to Snape, whose name's ring of heroism and respect was still strange to hear; countless other things. Over a week after Voldemort had been killed, Hermione felt as if she was still under constant attack. Small noises had her jumping; nightmares, which were frequent, had her pulling out her wand and hexing the opposite wall in the middle of the night; bruises, cuts, and curse remnants left her feeling like half a person. She thought, sometimes, when she turned her head quickly, that she could still smell Bellatrix Lestrange in her hair; when Kreacher served them a meal much richer than soup or bread, she could only pick at it, her stomach used to the limited nutrition of wild mushrooms in a billycan.
She'd have trouble with that last one tonight; what was left of the Order of the Phoenix had gathered by invitation from Harry, who felt like he had a duty to give something to the people who had fought for him, at number twelve, Grimmauld Place to celebrate. At the moment, almost everyone was downstairs and helping Mrs. Weasley and Fleur with a big commemoration feast; but Ron, Harry, Ginny, and Hermione had snuck upstairs for some privacy, which hadn't been easily found for too long.
Hermione had a sinking feeling that she should be happy (and she supposed that she was, in a way) but could never be truly happy again. So many dead, so many gone forever; her chest caved in when she thought of it. Fred Weasley was dead and George would therefore never be the same; Crabbe and Goyle were dead, not that she would miss them; Tonks and Lupin- oh, Merlin, Remus Lupin was dead and his son alone, and so were Sirius and Peter Pettigrew and James Potter. Regulus Black, dead. Marlene McKinnon, dead. So many soldiers cut down in battle or in resistance, and Hermione, bookish Hermione, had escaped through luck and aid countless times. She thought often of how incredible it was that she, Harry, and Ron had all escaped the war alive. The Marauders, she realized with a start, that other group of friends-turned-family, were all dead. What a horrible, horrible time it had been, all of it, both wars. And how surreal that it was finally over.
"Hermione?"
She looked up from Hogwarts, A History at the sound of Ginny's voice calling her name, a bit surprised. She had been reading the same sentence for a fourth time and had been so caught up in her thoughts that she hadn't seen the others move towards the doorway. "What?"
"Mum called us downstairs," Ron told her, a hand on her hair. "You coming?"
"In a minute," she said, turning away slightly. "I… want to finish this chapter, is all."
Ron grinned at her, shaking his head, and kissed her on the forehead, a gesture that warmed her cheeks but not her fingers, which were blue and clutching hard at the book. "Blimey, Hermione, only you…" Ginny laughed and pulled him away from the door frame, but Harry stayed, leaning against the wall, handsome and scarred and baggy-eyed.
"Penny for your thoughts?" he said lightly, and Hermione felt such a rush of affection at his use of the Muggle phrase that she felt her eyes grow watery. Sometimes Harry's acceptance of Wizarding ways and his fame in that world made her forget that he had been raised as a Muggle just as long as she had.
She closed her book and fiddled with the cover, tracing embellished words with an index finger that was missing a nail, a remnant of battle—it looked raw, frightful, a part of her body that was never supposed to be exposed to the dangers of the air. She closed her fist. "I was just thinking about the wars. About how many people died. Do you know… all the Marauders have died, and we're still here."
Harry frowned. "Yeah. I realized. Hermione, it is over, you know? It's all going to be okay now. We've finished."
To Hermione's frustration, her eyes started burning further, a sure sign that tears were on the way. "I know that it's over," she said, "but I don't feel like I've finished much. Fred… Lupin… Tonks… Mad-Eye… Snape, I even miss Snape." She gave a hollow sort of laugh, sniffing. "And I feel bad for Malfoy because he lost his cronies, even though he probably doesn't even give a damn. I don't know what's wrong with me." She paused. "You've done so much, Harry. You're the hero of the wizarding world, a strength in everyone's heart, and I don't want to make it sound like I…" Hermione frowned, not exactly sure what she was making it sound like.
"You care, that's all," Harry said, and there was a softness in his voice that made her want to break down and cry harder than she ever had in her life. "Hermione, you may act like a complete and utter nag sometimes, but it's all because you care. You're a very loving person and sometimes it costs you more than you realize. Everyone sees it but you." She looked up at him skeptically and he laughed. "Well, maybe not Ron. But he's thicker than a troll most times, so he doesn't count."
Hermione gave a watery giggle and realized how much her ribs still hurt. "That's certainly true."
Harry bestowed one of those please-truly-exist light touches on her forearm. "It wasn't just me, you know," he said quietly, his voice dark. "I did what I needed to do. You and Ron and everyone else…" Another touch, this time on her neck, where a scar from Bellatrix's knife cut lightly across her pulse: "…you never needed to do any of this."
"Don't be a fool," she murmured wearily.
"When are you going to go find your parents?"
A small sigh. "Two weeks from now. I have the Portkey to Brisbane booked for that Wednesday—I couldn't get one earlier—and I've been reading up on how to ease them back into their memories without brain damage or an onset of neuroses or psychological disorders; turns out," she muttered dryly, "that it's quite difficult to de-Obliviate when memory has been wiped to such an extent. And they'll be furious with me even if their minds are fully intact, I'm sure."
He put his hands on her face and ran his thumbs over her cheekbones; her bottom lip, which she'd been chewing, quivered for half a second. Harry whispered, "I told you, it wasn't just me who did so much. You never needed—"
"Don't," Hermione repeated, her brown eyes frowning at him, "be a fool."
Her sharp tone made Harry grin, and he took his hands from her. "Might be too much to ask. D'you think you'll be okay tonight? People will miss you downstairs."
Hermione closed her eyes, thought of his touch on her neck, swallowed. "Yes," she said after a moment. "Just give me a minute to catch my breath. Tell everyone not to wait up for me, that I'm in the bathroom."
"Will do." Harry moved towards the door. "Oh, and 'Mione, I don't feel like I've finished anything, either. I'd guess that'll take much more time than it has to just feel done."
She watched him- Harry Potter, the golden boy, the Boy Who Lived, a hero forever- she watched her best friend go down the stairs, unable to smile because her heart was beating in her throat, beating against that damn scar like a bird in a cage, wings in her throat, feathers in her voice as she coughed to get rid of the feeling. He understood, Harry, he really did. He always had. It was a trait that had always made her feel at home around him. Fighting back the wings that still flapped in her throat, Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself to be calm once more, to face this commemoration, this celebration, like a woman who knew her own ability for happiness.
After a moment's rest, after she had collected herself, Hermione stood and made her way slowly down the stairs. It was astonishing, she thought again, how much she still ached. Malfoy Manor seemed a distant memory now, but months of undernourishment, running, and being cursed had her joints aching like Ron's Great-Aunt Muriel's must.
Hobbling in this way down the stairs, she paused in front of Regulus Black's old room and the sign that hung there: Do not enter without the express permission of Regulus Arcturus Black. R.A.B. How things had changed for them since they'd first heard those initials; now the sign, rather than poignant, seemed truly adolescent—like something she'd have hung on her own door if she'd had an older brother and a snooping mother.
Hardly thinking, Hermione pushed the door. Locked. "Alohomora." The door swung open, creaking, welcoming her in. She hadn't been in Regulus' room since she, Harry, and Ron had searched for the locket there months back, and the Slytherin propaganda on the walls made her wrinkle her nose in unconscious distaste, but she reexamined the room anyway: paging through books, poking the dusty bed, opening the drawers that Kreacher must have put back together with care after Snape had made a mess so long ago. It was odd to be there, standing in a dead person's room, looking through his things. It was like living in a textbook. "Regulus Black, a hero in his own way…"
Hermione shook her head. "Ron's right," she whispered to herself. "I spend too much time with textbooks." The thought made her smile unbidden and she had a sudden urge to go actually join this party—if nothing else, she could slip her hand in Ron's and be happy for his grip—and she was half turned around to leave the room when she spotted it.
It was a strange device of metalwork, about a foot tall. Crisscrossing straps of iron held two triangles tip-to-tip, the one on the top upside down, rather like an hourglass whose bottom and top were not connected. It was intricately worked and rather pretty, in a Victorian sort of way, but she had no idea what it was, and that in and of itself bothered her. Maybe it was a way to tell time? Perhaps there was a specific spell or incantation one had to mutter for it to work. She picked it up and found with some surprise that it was very light for its size. She turned it twice and tilted it to the side, trying to find some sort of slot or button, and when she put it down she felt foolish, a real Muggle-born. What Wizarding device would have a button?
Hermione put the thing down and made to leave the room. Out of all of the members of the Order of the Phoenix downstairs, someone would surely know what the device was for.
She was halfway to the door when she heard a small 'click' from behind her; turning, Hermione frowned at what she saw. The device was turning, the two triangles rotating by ninety degrees. Every time they turned, they clicked. Warily, she stepped towards the thing. Was it her imagination, or were the clicks getting faster? What had she done to set the thing off? Maybe it was some sort of wizard clock, because the turns and clicks were getting even faster, about one per second.
Hermione stood for another moment, puzzling it all out in her head, before she realized with a start that the two triangles were turning too fast now to be measures of a second, revolving so quickly that the clicks had congealed into one long whirring sound. A bit concerned, Hermione stepped towards the door- maybe she could get Mr. Weasley to check it out, he would know what it was for-
-and then the triangles stopped turning and went back to their regular position. A pinpoint of white light appeared between the tips and grew larger as she watched in frightened fascination, grew in waves, white waves like those of a Patronus' shield form—
Hermione cursed none too quietly, panicking slightly, and she ran towards the door. The light was growing now, she could feel the heat of it on her back, singing her clothes, seeping into her skin-
-there was a tremendous sound, a sonic boom…
-she was screaming as she felt herself being pulled back, she heard herself shout for Ron and Harry in her fright…
-she heard a sucking sound and heard rather than felt herself leave the room…
-and then she heard nothing at all.
The first thing Hermione was aware of was the throbbing in her head. It felt rather like someone was performing the Cruciatus Curse only on her skull, for with every beat of her heart her temples screamed in pain and protest. The second thing she was aware of was a foul taste in her mouth. Her tongue felt thick from a lack of water, and her mouth was as dry as sand. The third and final thing that she realized was that she was in an enormous armchair, slung across it like she'd been dropped there.
Another wave of pain hit her and she groaned rather weakly, feeling for her wand with tightly-closed eyes so that she might be able to try and magically ease the pain in her head; as if in answer, a slightly familiar voice called to her from what seemed to be across the room. "Ah, so you've awoken."
Hermione's eyes shot open and her hand clenched over her wand. It couldn't be, it just couldn't be who it sounded like- but it was, for there was Albus Dumbledore in front of her, standing behind his desk and watching her wake up with that perpetual gleam in his eye. She was in Dumbledore's office, the Headmaster's Study. In Hogwarts. And Albus Dumbledore, who was supposed to be dead, was smiling at her. She blinked in absolute shock for a moment or two before propping herself up in the chair so she sat straight. She licked her lips, swallowed, hesitated, and then spoke. "Professor… Professor Dumbledore?"
He gave her a mild look. "Indeed."
It can't possibly be… Jumping out of the armchair and riding the wave of pain that came with the sudden movement, Hermione pointed her wand at him. Polyjuice potion? "Who are you?" she spat, fear high in her head, "And where am I?"
The man who was masquerading as Dumbledore raised his eyebrows and eyed her wand. "I hardly see the need to hex me," he said reasonably. "I am Albus Dumbledore, and you are in my office at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—a fact that surprises me as much as it surprises you, I'm sure."
"What?" She kept her wand trained the imposter and mentally calculated the time it would take her to run to the door after Stunning him: five seconds. Enough, hopefully.
Dumbledore shook his head as if in regret. "You appeared here not two minutes ago, quite rudely replacing the Minister of Magic, who vanished from that armchair the moment you fell across it. Not," he added serenely, "that I bemoan his sudden departure. I confess I have little interest in his efforts to catalogue the creatures of the Forbidden Forest under Ministry jurisdiction."
"I—what?"
"My dear," Dumbledore said, standing from behind his desk, "it would not be a good idea to try hexing me. As talented a witch as you indubitably are, although I've never seen you before in Hogwarts, I have nearly a hundred years of magical experience that you do not." He paused; Hermione kept her wand pointed between those ever-twinkling eyes. "I must apologize for this."
"For—"
She stopped and nearly dropped her wand when she felt it: Legilimency. Her headache doubled; it felt as if cold fingers were taking hold of her brain and slipping between its folds. She saw in her mind's eye the strange hourglass device, the sign on Regulus' door, Harry's face in front of hers, Harry's body in Hagrid's arms, Dumbledore's grave, waking up to Ron's hand in hers, Sirius Black on a hippogriff, Viktor Krum leading her to dance, the sword of Griffindor shining in Neville's hand, and she knew that Dumbledore—because it must be Dumbledore, only he was such an accomplished Legilimens—was seeing what she had seen.
When he finished, he was quiet; he stared at Hermione unblinkingly, watched her breathe deep and shuddering breaths and renew her grip on her wand, although she no longer had it directed at his face. "Miss Hermione Granger, I feel as if I have a duty to let you know that you do not belong here."
Her mind felt impotent after Dumbledore's venture through her memories. "I don't belong here? Professor, you're supposed to be—"
"Dead, yes, I've seen," he interrupted with a wry smile. "No, I mean to say…" The old wizard moved from behind his desk for the first time and traced the fingers of his right hand, which was whole and fine, unblackened, uncursed, on a globe whose countries kept revising and reforming their boundaries and positions. "Well, Miss Granger, the best way to explain it might be to simply tell you that it is now January of 1978, and that everything I just saw in your head has yet to occur."
Hermione felt herself sink back into the armchair. Her head throbbed, a nasty lurching feeling; she felt she might vomit and thought madly for one moment about snapping her wand and throwing it out, renouncing this ridiculous world forever and returning to the Muggle world where, for all its faults, at least you were never unexpectedly thrown twenty years back in time. "That," she said, her voice weak, and she swallowed hard, realizing that she had no idea what she wanted to say—"that does nothing for my headache, Professor."
Dumbledore tapped a finger on the globe and the land depicted quickly placed itself, countries piecing themselves together, nations knitting their borders. "No," he said, frowning at it, "I should think not."
