Winter
A Harry
Potter Fan-Fic
By
Winterbloom
Disclaimer: I own nothing that is recognisable as part
of J.K. Rowling's brilliant Harry Potter series.
*************
"Years go by and I'm here
still waiting
Withering where some snowman was
Mirror mirror where's the crystal palace
But I only can see myself
skating around the truth
who I am
But I know, dad, the ice is getting thin
When you gonna make up your mind
When you gonna love you as much as I do
When you gonna make up your mind
Cause things are gonna change so fast
All the white horses are still in bed
I tell you that I'll always want you near
You say that things change my dear"
~Tori
Amos, "Winter"
It
was the winter of my third year at Hogwarts when they finally told me, when the
letter finally came. My Mum…my Mum
never did understand the art of sending an owl. She trusted the post more than a bird. Can't say I blame her. So
much is different here than Wales. How
could she understand that watches don't work at this school, that letters come
by owl and I'm the most miserable I've ever been in my life? I suppose that's an exaggeration. When I left, it became worse.
I
was born and baptised Dylan Ioan Rhydderch, the first son of what would become
a large family in the north of beautiful Wales. Dylan's the name of the god of the sea in the old myths. My Mum chose it because my eyes are like the
sea, constantly shifting from grey to blue and back as my emotions shift and
change. Old eyes, my eyes. Filled with the thousand or so years my
country has suffered. I've always been
touchy about that, simply because the off-colour comments people make about the
Welsh are true in my family. My father,
and his father, and his father's father, back longer than a man can remember,
were miners. My mother stayed at home,
raising the family, cleaning the little terraced house, occasionally going to
the shops or to chapel to sing in the choirs. She'd tell stories, old stories, stories of the Wales that was before
the Christians came, before the Romans came. My brothers and sisters, all six of us, would cluster around her,
clamouring for a story before bed, and she'd oblige. We were demanding on her; I see that now. Whenever I'm home, I look at her face and
see the hardness around what used to be beautiful blue eyes; I see the streaks
of silver in her once raven hair. I
have the look of my mother, but my father's heart, my father's temper. He was a great man, my father. I rarely saw him, and the memories I have of
him are tinged with the scent of coal, the smudge of it across my cheek. They are voiced in his rich tenor, coloured
with his hearty laugh. I inherited both
of those, his fine voice and his laugh. I used to sing. When I discovered
how badly it hurt my mother to even hear the hymns, I fell silent. I never sang after that.
My
family always knew I was talented, ready for something, and though my marks
were low, they had hopes for me. They
had to. I was the eldest, the one
everyone looked up to in the family. They were proud of me, prouder still when I was accepted into an "elite
boarding school in England," as my Mum told the entire village. They scraped and pinched to get the books,
the robes, even my own owl. The wand
was hardest of all. I remember going
into Ollivanders. I'd never been to a
city bigger than Llangollen, and London was a wonder, but Diagon Alley was
enough to rock me back on my heels. I
was eleven, halfway to being twelve, and going through the wall into that
wondrous world for the first time was mind-boggling. Still is at times. We sat
in Ollivanders for hours, my mother looking on in wonder, my father filled with
pride. Wand after wand, none of them
right, until he put one of red oak into my hand. I still get the same tingle, the same rush when I pick it up.
"Ah,
yes, red oak with dragon's heartstring, twelve inches. A unique wand, that one, capable of many
things. You will be a credit to
Hogwarts, I believe, Mr. Rhydderch." I
can still hear his whispery little voice, see the pleasure in his eyes at
finding a wand to suit such a difficult customer. He'd told me that Harry Potter had been in before me, and that
I'd gone through almost as many wands as he had. I didn't know of Harry at that point, but it sounded
impressive. The bill was even more so,
and I remember how pinched my mother looked as she and my father talked in
Welsh, and I was left to explain that there was no other wand in the wizarding
world I could use. That this one was
mine, had been mine since it was made, and there was nothing I could do about
it. That was a hard day. They got harder after that.
My
Sorting was worse than picking the wand. I sat under that musty-smelling hat for nearly fifteen minutes as it
poked and prodded my brain in its own, peculiar way. "A keen mind, yes, I can see that, but not too well used…anger,
ambition, drive, indeed…but a sense of loyalty, devotion…and not lacking in
courage and daring, either…where to put you…where to put you, indeed…" I sat there, petrified that it would send me
home. I had watched Harry go through
his, and even the amazing Harry Potter had an easier time than I did. So did Neville. And Hermione and Ron and Draco and all the other names and faces
that would become familiar to me. "That
ambition will suit you well in days to come, won't it? But I think the courage means more to
you. If it means more, it had better be
GRYFFINDOR!"
I
was never more relieved in my life.
I
thought things would get easier at Hogwarts. I thought I'd get the hang of this odd world into which I had been
tossed, thought I'd maybe make some friends, despite the fact I'd never spoken
with someone from outside my village in my eleven years of life. I thought I'd grow to love it all. I thought I'd show talent. I was I could say I wasn't so naive. Potions, Charms, Herbology, Astronomy, all
of it proved out of my range. Though
none more so than Transfiguration. Poor
Professor McGonagall didn't know what to do with me after a while. Whatever I tried to transform, I made
explode. Hermione was a boon at times,
trying to push me in the right direction, and I will always be grateful to her
for her efforts, for her help and shy smiles of encouragement. She was wonderful to me, and I will never
forget her simple act of human kindness shown to a poor Welsh boy lost in a
world of magic he didn't understand. It
gave me more hope than I think she knew.
Defence
Against the Dark Arts was a little easier; my anger that the Sorting Hat had so
easily discovered was actually useful, giving my reactions more of an
edge. But I was still the idiot of the
class, curling up in the back, humiliated at my defeat. I was an easy target for Malfoy, and I wish
to God I'd gotten a chance to beat his face in instead of getting my own nose
broken by Crabbe and Goyle. That was
one thing that never changed. He'd
tease me, and I'd lunge for his neck, only to get bashed by his goons. He was the epitome of a coward, and he gave
every Englishman a bad name for his craven behaviour.
Life
went like that for two and a half years. We all were tossed around by the adventures of Harry, Ron and Hermione;
they were tales that were told in the Gryffindor Common Room in a spectacle
that made the competitions of the bards in Wales seem simple and dull by
comparison. I remember sitting next to
Hermione once and watching her blush in the firelight as the story of
retrieving the Philosopher's Stone was told. Maybe she actually liked me; I don't know. I'd like to think she did. I know I liked her, very, very much. My heart beat a little faster whenever she sat next to me, or whispered
instructions or smiled encouragingly. She was a bright spot in my existence, as were those nights in the
Gryffindor Common Room, though during my third year, they became less frequent
as she worked harder and became tenser. I never understood her special relationship with Harry and Ron, never
understood how they could fight with her or discount her. Didn't they see her for how special she
actually was? For how charming and
smart and vivacious? I don't think they
did, not then. I did, though. I watched them from my corner of the Common
Room, envied Harry for his talent, envied both of them for the time they spent
with her, for the friendship they had with her. I envied them all very badly. I was too afraid to get close to any of them. People had to approach me to get to know me, and they were
usually too busy, too wrapped up in their own adventures of which I'd never
know.
The
letter came in the winter of my third year, right after Christmas. Everyone was terrified of Sirius Black, of
the dreadful predictions that had been made in Divination; even I wasn't immune
to the mind-numbing fear that stole over the Gryffindor Tower at times. That was a hard year. Receiving the summons from the Headmaster,
Dumbledore, made it no easier. His
solemn look and unusually grave eyes led me to know that he had read my letter.
"It's
a blow, Dylan, I know. I am so very
sorry. Please, finish the term here,
and then consider what you're going to do. You haven't much longer until finals, and I know Gryffindor would be
heart-broken to loose you." I didn't
look at him as he spoke: I only stared at the February snow falling past the
window. "You can go home if you wish,
though, Dylan. However, I received word
this morning that the services have all ready been held. Your mother wishes you to stay here until
the end of term as well. She thinks
you'll be able to deal with this better here."
I
don't remember if I cried or not. I
don't think I did. I remember telling
him in a voice that wasn't mine that I'd stay out the term. I remember leaving his office, clutching the
letter in my hand as if I was stone. I
remember going back to the Gryffindor Common Room and staring into the fire for
the longest time. The flames danced,
flickered and died away as I watched them. It seemed as if everything would die, as if as soon as we were born, we
began to die. I didn't want this,
didn't want the letter that I clutched. I didn't want to think of my father crushed beneath tonnes and tonnes of
coal and rock, lost beneath the sweet soil of the Wales he loved so much. I can't remember how long I sat there, how
many people I ignored as they came by, asked what was wrong. I think I even ignored Professor McGonagall,
my Head of House. I don't know. Those minutes, those hours are just a blur
to me now. That is, until she came
in. I don't know what possessed
Hermione to sit with me, to be so close to me when she hadn't spoken to me
since the term began. I had thought
she'd forgotten about me, despite the fact I often watched her from behind my
dark lashes, my eyes always appearing to be elsewhere when she finally
looked. But she came, and I didn't have
to look at her to see her chestnut curls glowing in the firelight, see her
struggling with the weight of her books. I heard her bag hit the floor near the
couch, and felt Hermione sit next to me, close enough that her leg was almost
pressed to mine.
"Bad
day?" she asked quietly.
All
I could do was hand her the letter, unable to pull my eyes away from the
fire. I heard her unfold it, heard her
intake of breath as the contents registered. Thank God it was written in English, or else I don't know what I would
have done. I think I was crying then,
the tears tracing down my cheeks, snaking their way to my collar.
"Oh,
Dylan…" Hermione breathed, and at that moment, I became aware of her arms being
wrapped around me. I remember crying
harder then, remember leaning into her shoulder and being able to smell the
herbs from Potions in her robes, remember the feel of her curly hair against my
face, her small hands against my back, holding me to her. And I clutched to her as well, lost save for
the feel of her arms.
"God,"
I sobbed, "why now? Why him? The services are done wi' now…can't e'en go
home t' mourn him properly…" I don't
think I've ever cried like that in my entire life. I don't think I've ever been held as gently or as fiercely as I
was that day by Hermione.
"Hush,
now…it'll be all right…I don't know how, but it will be. Just hush now." Her voice was sweet and as I leaned against her, crying like a
baby, I wished to God that I'd taken the time to know her better, that I hadn't
been so afraid to talk to her.
"Hermione,"
I tried to say, but she stopped me.
"It's
all right, I'm here."
I wonder if she knew she took my breath
away? If she knew how much that comfort
meant to me, how dearly I had prayed for it without knowing my prayers
myself? I looked up at her, into her
beautiful eyes and wished I knew what to say, wished I understood
everything. "Please, don't go."
"I'm
not going anywhere. I'm going to stay
right here. Right here," she murmured,
smoothing my raven hair in a gesture not unlike a caress. I closed my eyes, for I knew that if I
looked into hers any longer, I'd be lost. I'd drown in their depths, but how sweet of a death it would have
been. I rested my head against her
shoulder, letting her be my strength and support in more ways than one. I don't remember how long I rested against
her like that, how long she sat there, smoothing my hair or my cheek, bathed in
the soft glow of the fire that combated the February chill. I think it was eternity. I wish it were.
"You…why
are you sittin' wi' me like this?" I finally asked her after the tears had
passed. I didn't know what to say,
didn't know if there was anything to say that could make whatever I was feeling
more concrete.
"Because
you needed someone. I think you needed
me," came her gentle reply.
"Hermione…" My voice was shaking, and I didn't know the
English for what I was feeling, what I was thinking. But I knew the Welsh. "'Rwy'n
dy garu di."
She
smiled, and her eyes shimmered like falling stars. I like to think she knew what I said. She must have, for she lowered her face and kissed my cheek
gently, her lips brushing against my skin like silk.
We
stayed like that for hours, watching the fire die, and though many Gryffindors
came through that room, no-one bothered us; not Ron, not Harry, not the Weasly
twins, none of them. It was as if we
existed in a place all our own. We
spoke softly, of things that were nothing and everything at once. I told her of my father, of my home and
family. And she listened as if I was
the only person who mattered to her in the world, as if I was so dear to her
heart she couldn't do anything but listen and hold me. We shared back and forth, and sometimes said
nothing at all, listening to the wind whip around the tower, listening to the
crackle of the fire as it died in the grate. Then night time fell, darkness stretching her hand across the land,
stealing into our golden sanctuary, and it was with that she took her leave,
stealing away with a backwards glance that lead me to believe that she was
loathe to let this end, as much so as I was.
Things
had changed, yet had stayed exactly the same. I earned a shy smile coming and going from class, sat with her at
lunch when she and Ron quarrelled, yet I was forever pulling away from a world
I knew I had to leave, and she was diving into it deeper and deeper. I knew that I had to go back to Wales and
bury myself there into work, into a trade school so that my family could
survive. I also knew I had to bury her
and all thoughts of her in my heart as surely as I had to bury my father. She was as unobtainable, as hard to catch as
a falling star, and while, for a sweet moment, she had blazed forth in my heart
and I'd felt so close to holding her for my own, eventually she fell away. Or perhaps I did. I was never as clever, and I became less and less willing to put
myself on the line, to lay everything out for her, for anyone. She withdrew as well; working harder than
any human has a right to work, never mind one as beautiful and gentle as
Hermione. But the past cannot be re-written. Only rethought and savoured, then let go,
like a captive bird.
In retrospect,
I wish I had been braver. I wish I had
spoken better English than I did. I
wish I had been able to tell her everything I felt, had been able to keep her
close to me through my darkest time at Hogwarts. I wish a million and one things about that moment, but mostly I
wish I could have lived it forever. It
was bittersweet, hopelessly flawed yet perfect. It was the brightest and darkest moment I'd ever known, played out
in the winter of a year filled with so much sorrow and anguish even I can't feel
it all again. But I can feel her lips
against my cheek. I can feel her arms
around me; hear her voice in my ear. I
can play that moment out over and over again; relive that kiss again and again,
no matter what is around me. I'd like
to think I could meet death with her kiss alive and vibrant in my memory. The Welsh are blessed with a memory like
none other, and it is with that gift that I keep that winter alive. I wish you knew what I had said to you,
Hermione. I told you that I loved you,
and I meant every word.
'Rwy'n
dy garu di, Hermione, always, with all my heart.