Prologue
Harry wrapped his arms around his knees and shivered. It seemed autumn was coming early this year. He watched the waves crash up against the rocks without really seeing them; listening, rather, to their soothing, rhythmical sound.
The breeze picked up again and brushed aside his dark hair to reveal a lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead. Harry sighed heavily and reached up to feel it. That lightning bolt was him. To the others, at least. They never saw past that infamous scar that named him the one. The one who had finally killed Voldemort, Lord of the Dark, once and for all. How long ago was that? One year? Two? Time slipped by like grains of sand through an open fist to Harry.
Where had all those carefree days gone? The days when the most exciting thing that happened to you was getting away with something, and the worst was getting punished. Things had changed.
"Harry?" a musical voice inquired from behind. "Harry, what are you doing here? I was worried sick about you! Come now, you haven't eaten since breakfast yesterday; surely you want something to give you energy while you . . .stare . . . at . . .the waves . . ." she stopped, unsure of what to say next, and Harry gazed up at her.
Hermione.
So beautiful, to him. Others laughed at her frizzy hair or the way she always wanted to do everything at once or her delicate fragileness, but not Harry. He loved her for those things. And now, here she was, worrying as always, when there was absolutely nothing to worry about. For now. Soon, she would not miss him. Soon, she would find someone better for her than plain old Harry. He picked himself up slowly and followed her away from the cliff's edge, away from the ocean, to their home. Soon.
Hermione watched her dear fiancé with a worried frown. Now what was the fool man up to? He hadn't eaten or slept, he had barely talked to anyone, and all he did was sit by the ocean, right on the edge of the cliff, almost as if he wanted to . . . fall off. Hermione shuddered at the thought and hurried Harry inside.
There was truly something odd with the weather. It was only the middle of July, yet her breath fogged up in front of her in little tendrils of moisture and her ox-hide boots crunched in red and gold leaves scattered along the ground. She opened the heavy wooden door to their cottage and shooed Harry in.
She looked around the room to make sure everything was in place - you could never tell when brigands might show up, these days - then set about lighting some candles.
The room was a perfect square; fifteen measured steps brought you to the far wall from the door, then about seven to the left or seven to the right brought you to the two others. There were two large windows on the east wall, across from the door, so that the sun greeted them early each day. Between those two windows was a tiny bookcase that held a few books acquired over the years. On the northern wall was a bed, barely big enough for two, which Hermione smiled at sheepishly, thinking of improper things for a young woman to do. On the southern wall of the cabin was an old dusty chair, centuries old, most likely, in which Hermione had sat a good many times with her nose in a book, eager to learn more of the world. Finally, in the center of the room was a small stove place, by which a sturdy plank table stood. It wasn't much, but Hermione found it comforting to have such a homely place.
She sat Harry down and placed a bowl of beans in front of him. He tilted his head up at her and watched. Watched. His eyes, a stormy gray, were hard yet compassionate.
He studied her carefully, weighing her as he would two important decisions. The thought made her flinch, and Harry immediately turned away and stared hollowly at his bowl. Gingerly, he picked up a spoon and brought it to his mouth. Slowly, mouthful by mouthful, the bowl began to empty.
His eyes never changed, though. They were always cold and hard, considering, contemplating. She almost could not remember when Harry was a simple boy who laughed at most anything. She did notice, however, that whenever those chilly eyes turned toward her, they . . . unthawed. Flashes of the warmth and happiness that Harry used to be full of darted into them. It made Hermione want to cry out in desperation to see that delight trying to flicker its way back into Harry's life, again and again, always without success.
She reached out and ruffled his pitch-black hair and hid her fear and discouragement behind an all-too-fake mask of indifference.
"Well, dear," she said cheerfully. Those eyes turned back on her and she gulped before proceeding. " I think it's about time for your nap, is it not? That cold wint . . .er, autumn air tends to tire the muscles quickly, wouldn't you say? Now you rest while I go get us some mussels for tonight, alright?"
Without waiting for an answer, she gently pulled him up and led him towards the bed, then scuttled out of the room as quickly fast as she could. Once outside, she sighed deeply. It was a good thing Harry didn't realize that this was certainly no weather for mussels! She just needed to get away from the harshness of his presence. Light, what was she going to do?
Harry lay down on the bed for a minute and chuckled quietly to himself. How dim-witted did the woman think he was? There was no way anyone could catch anything in this cold weather.
His laughter faded as he thought about why she had truly left. He had seen fear in her. By now he knew Hermione like the back of his hand; her movements, her expressions, her way of talking and her ideas about things were all familiar to him. And right then she had seemed afraid. Afraid of what? Harry asked himself. Unfortunately, he knew all too well. Afraid of him. The way she talked to him, the way she treated him, like a child, was proof enough even without seeing that fearful light dancing in her eyes.
Yes, he thought, laughing bitterly, I am too terrifying. She deserves someone better. Someone more caring than I. Light, but how it burned his soul to say that! Hermione was life itself, yet here he was, giving her away to someone else like a boy would pass down a worn-out shirt that had grown too small. It made him want to weep, but it almost seemed as though his eyes had forgotten how. I must be strong, he thought fervently, the world will perish if I am not!
"I must be strong, do you hear me?!" he shouted at dusty chair. "No one shall stand in my path! No one!"
He quickly trotted to where his boots laid and pulled them up roughly, grunting as his toe whammed up against the end of the boots, but he did not slow his pace. Thrusting his arms into the sleeves of his heavy winter coat, he barely took the time to shrug into it before grabbing his sword off the wall and opening the heavy wooden door with a quick jerk.
Outside on the cliff, it had begun flurrying, of all things, and an icy wind rattled the remaining leaves on the thin bone-like trees. Paying it no mind - he could not do anything about the weather, not yet, anyway - Harry quickly paced the distanced around the house. By the time he had made his way back to the door, an odder site than snow in July greeted him.
An old man with a long white beard that nearly touched the tip of his toes and a bright blue conical hat matching his silk robe gestured silently towards a doorway with a staff as old and gnarled as he. A doorway. That was the only thing that it could possibly be described by, yet it hardly looked like the thing that Harry had stepped through not so long ago.
The huge frame of the thing, twice as tall as Harry and five time so wide, gleamed brightly with an unknown light. Thin silvery beads hung silently down the middle, each one distinctly carved with what seemed to be an unknown language. The doorway vibrated and shimmered as if trying to disappear, each bead changing its symbol with every minute movement. The thing seemed to come out of a dream.
The wizard - Harry supposed the man could be called that - blinked and turned toward him. Loudly, clearly, he uttered the words that would change Harry's life forever.
"It has begun."
* Disclaimer: Hermione and Harry are properties of JK Rowling and her publishers. The expression "Light!" is property of Robert Jordan and his publishers