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Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me
I am small
I'm needy
Warm me up
And breathe me
Sia - Breathe Me
She'd often read Peter Pan when she was younger. Not the Disney based children's book, but the J.M Barrie play version. She'd found upon it in her mother and fathers room, where most books were in their house. She would run her fingers along the book spines, reading each title and standing on her tip-toes to reach for the book she fancied. One day, it was Peter Pan. Such a short book it was, she read it within the day, having nothing else to spend her time on.
She thinks of the words in the worst of times. She is older now, and much more aware of the evil in the world, of what good and bad really mean. She can no longer run to her parents book shelf when she is feeling troubled, for her parents are no longer there for her. They are many, many miles and countries away, in safe ignorance of her existence.
She thinks of these words when she is cooped into the corner of their tent (her, Ron and Harry's) sitting on a chair with a book in her hands. Not Peter Pan. She promised herself without really meaning to, that she would only read that book when she was in great need of hope. That day would come soon, she knew. The day when they fought, she would read that book and hope would maybe, maybe be restored.
The days grew darker, and she thought that maybe hope would never be restored. Ron left, the death toll became larger, the reward money for her and Harry became more extravagant and they almost died. Again. She sat outside the tent that night, waiting for Harry to wake, his wand ticked against her side, broken. She didn't know how she would tell him. She felt bitter. How could they do anything when his wand was broken?
She didn't read the words then either, but simply thought of the book. Peter Pan reminded her, only slightly, of Harry. He lived and lived, and in a sense, so did Harry - The Boy Who Lived. He was a hope to Neverland, something the Lost Boys believed in and the other characters also. Harry was a hope for the whole wizardry world, for the good of the war, and she, Hermione and so many others, they were his Lost Boys. His followers, ready to help him defeat Voldermort, who reminded her oddly of Captain Hook.
She shook her head that night, her mind snapping back to reality when she heard a shuffle in the tent as Harry woke.
Ron came back, they destroyed another Horcrux, they got caught.
She will never forget it, for as long as she lives. The pain, the actual fear of dying. As she screamed, her yells crashing with Ron's, she wished more than anything that had just decided to read that book yesterday. Or maybe even that one sentence. The sentence that would have given her hope, that would have made her realize that dying, honestly, was but the next chapter. She would know that it was for a good cause, and Peter would have given her hope.
Harry and Ron saved her and they left for Shell Cottage, her arm scarred forever with that one word.
There was Gringotts, goblins and unforgivable curses. She was forced to use that woman's wand, take her appearance, knowing what she had done, that the stick she held had hurt and killed so many. She winced and cringed as she used simple spells. It felt wrong and tight around her.
But they did it. They rose away on the dragon, and she knew that she didn't have to read the book for this adventure. Not this one.
But then, she did.
They were in the Hogs Head, eating cheese and bread and sipping mugs of water. They did not pay attention to her as she reached into her pocket, pulling out the warn book that curled in on itself from being folded so many times. She flicked to the right page that had been marked, and read that one sentence over and over, her heart heavy and pounding.
To die would be an awfully great adventure!
She was terrified, but she would do it. For Harry. This is what she muttered in her mind when they fought Death Eaters, she yelled it at the top of her lungs as she, Ginny and Luna fought Bellatrix Lestrange. The tears had dried, but the dry sobs hit her body as she shot curses at the dreaded woman. Her hope was dead, her Harry was dead, their Harry was dead. It was then that she realised that it was not those words that gave her hope, but the boy of whom she had met on a train seven years ago. Harry Potter - The Boy Who Lived.
And then, once again he defied death, he was brave, he was courageous and he beat them. He beat Voldermort and his followers and, most of all, he beat evil with love. They were the trio. The Boy Who Lived, The King and The Smartest Witch of Her Age. They lived, he lived, Harry lived.
That, for Hermione, was hope for the future.