Hello again!
It had been a long time since I updated this. Well, I haven't really ever updated seeing as I only wrote a chapter, but anyway, now I'm trying to get back on track with this story because I truly am very fond of it.
I must thank Theundyinglands from all my heart for shaking me out of my procrastination and even making a banner for my story(the lovely picture you see up there is made by her). Well, she did that one year ago and only now I managed to gather myself and finish the second chapter. Nonetheless, I bow to you for all you did and dedicate this chapter, and all the others to come, to you!
Someone was sad that they didn't see any Maedhros in the first chapter. I must say that this will be a longer story and I am a lover of well developed plot-lines and I slavishly work on reaching that standard, therefore Maedhros will take some time until making an appearance. But let me assure you that the first chapter was not completely, "elf-less", or so to say… ;)
And, just so you know, there will be some implied Ron/Hermione, but not for very long. The more obstacles the hero faces, the bigger the satisfaction when they finally reach their goal!
Enjoy…hopefully...
The Fin Whale
The first night in the cottage was silent and dark, and they slept deeply, engulfed in fresh, fragrant sheets and crisp air. She forgot what the real darkness of night really meant. In London, and in almost all cities, big or small, night was never truly dark, there was always a sliver of light coming through the window.
In the cottage, on the shore of the Atlantic, night was pitch black and, before falling asleep, she was startled by how odd it felt to open her eyes and see nothing, as if she never opened them at all.
The morning was bright and the crisp air was filled with the promise of change and joy. It wasn't unusual for her to be unnerved by change, but this time the peaceful rays of the morning sun filtering through the old windows, made everything wholesome, chasing her worries away.
She prepared a quick breakfast while Ron was fixing the shower. Fortunately the weather was still cold, so until an icebox was available, they could keep the food outside. She lined apples between the double windows of the kitchen as her grandmother used to when she was just a girl.
Four eggs were sizzling in a pan and a teapot with bubbling water accompanied them on the stove as Hermione scoured the old but inviting kitchen. She thanked whatever higher force gifted her with magic. She couldn't even conceive cleaning the old, muggle way anymore.
Like any well respected Irish family, her mother and grandparents insisted that she be baptized Catholic and her mother raised her in the Christian faith, surprisingly keeping her own, even after the reality of magic was revealed to her.
Her mother's faith was a special and fascinating one, not completely rejecting her daughter's powers, but standing proud and unwavering in her belief in God and Christ.
She was still very undecided and not yet ready to face a belief or another. She was a religious person, she knew that eventually she will have to adhere to a higher power or another, but for now she enjoyed thinking that her last and most feared day was a long time coming, until then she could slip in blissful materialism. She realized what an immense paradox that idea was in her case. A user of supernatural powers that still can't fully accept the existence of a Creator, or a God. But then again, she knew from Harry that not even a dead Dumbledore could tell him what exactly lay beyond the veil of the living.
Her thoughts kept whirling in her head as the old grime covering the kitchen table dissolved to reveal the warm texture of old, thick wood. She remembered eating at this table when she was a little girl. It belonged to her grandmother and she was certain that it was older than her. It was a beautiful, if very rustic and heavy piece, made of thick oak boards shined, carved and marked by many hands that ate and drank on it. She touched the warm dark wood, taking in every wave and swirl.
Smiling she searched for a table cloth to bring some life back into the old table. She pulled with all her might and finally managed to dislodge one of the drawers, discovering all sorts of mismatching sets of dining cloths. She chose one that she remembered since she stayed here with her grandparents during the holidays. It used to be a white linen cloth with flowery patterns, but now it was just as yellowed and sad as the bed covers she had to clean the night before. Another deep 'Scorgio' brought life back into the fabric and the little flowers seemed to bloom merrily on the immaculate white. She would become most proficient in the 'Scorgio' spell during her time here, she thought.
She quickly cleaned the old silverware and porcelain set of plates and set them on the table. The eggs were scooped from the frying pan and carefully set on plates, soft butter was at hand, and so were some olives, sliced tomatoes and four, thick, green onions. She sliced the fragrant bread and popped a piece of crust in her mouth, feeling delightfully bucolic.
Inspecting her work she decided that something was missing. Ah, some flowers would be lovely!
She waved her wand and conjured a thick bouquet of colorful, wild, flowers. A little vase was unearthed from one of the cupboards and now the flowers were sitting proudly in the middle of the table, completing the inviting view.
"RON, BREAKFAST!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. Ron answered with a muffled affirmation of, 'be right there' but didn't show any immediate signs of 'being right there' any time soon. Her stomach was lurching and she sat at the table, doing all her best not to dip a piece of bread in the creamy egg yolk.
A flittering movement caught her eye. A fiery orange robin had landed on the windowsill and was now preening its minuscule wings. It was such an adorable and delicate bird. She remembered the Irish robins to be very tame, used to humans indulging them often with bread crumbs. She quickly grabbed a slice of bread, broke it into tiny pieces and, cupping the crumbs in her palm, she ran to the door. She didn't want to scare the bird away by opening the window, so she decided to approach it stealthily by going into the garden and placing the bread on one of the old boulders that she knew was once used for the same purpose by her grandmother.
The cold air smelled of sea and dried grass as she opened the door. The wind tumbled her curls about her face and she took a deep breath. They were going to take a walk on the ocean shore today, she decided, even if Ron would probably not like the idea very much.
She looked to her right and spotted the skittering little bird in the same place she saw it before. She closed the door and stepped lightly towards her target, the thick, tufted grass muffling her every step. From what she could remember since she was a child, these birds used to come within 50 centimeters of her and sometimes, with patience and calm from her part, even eat from her opened palm.
She was very closed to it now, being able to see the tiny, black eyes and the fluffed little chest with the white downy undercoat. She reached the boulder, just a step from the robin on the windowsill. The bird looked at her attentively. She slowly sank down on her haunches and extended her hand, resting it, palm up, on the sun warmed stone. A light breeze ruffled the grass and send whispers in some trees nearby. The bird hopped hesitantly across the wooden windowsill and observed her, turning its tiny head from her face to the opened palm holding the inviting offering.
"Come on, little one, I won't hurt you.", she whispered and tried to radiate only positive energy to convince the little creature of her words.
Finally, after a few more minutes of cajoling, the bird flew off the windowsill and onto the boulder. Her heart skipped a beat. She would always feel exhilarated when a wild creature, even one so small, would approach her so bravely. So few did and she craved the purity and strength of nature.
Without much preamble, the little guy hopped closer and closer until she felt the downy feathers of its breast on her fingertips, as it extended its neck to peck at the breadcrumbs. The next thing she knew it was perched on her fingers, feasting with abandon, and the widest smile was spreading on her face.
The sun was warming her back and the coolness of the wind was soft as a caress. The trees whispered again and within their voices, another sound was entwined, a chime, so faint and small that she might have thought it was her imagination.
The bird lifted its head towards the sound and she looked in the same direction. The soft bell chime seemed to come from the direction of the tall mound, where the car was parked. She could still feel the tiny stings in her fingers where the robin held her with its needle like claws, but she couldn't feel it pecking from her palm anymore. She somehow knew that the bird had also been aware of the sound and was now listening for it.
She kept her eyes on the mound, holding her breath and straining her ears for every sound surrounding her. The wind was still blowing softly, the sound of it through the trees was entrancing and she still wasn't certain if the sound of the bell was there or not. She looked back at the bird. It was still as a statue, looking intently at the same spot in the distance. How she wished she could read it's mind. She vaguely wondered if memories could be extracted from birds.
Suddenly, a loud creaking sound and a bang startled her and the bird twinkled away from her hand like an orange arrow.
"What are you doing down there, luv? You okay?" Ron had managed to dislodge the kitchen window above the boulder, tumbling some of her apples outside in process, and was now peering oddly down at her from the house.
"Err, yeah, I am fine... I was just feeding a little robin. It came at the window and I remembered how I used to see them everywhere when I was little." She stood up and smiled at Ron's equally smiling face. She picked the apples from the grass and arranged them back on the window, throwing Ron a pointed look. "I used to play with them, you know. And you know what, it actually ate from my hand! Can you believe that?"
'Wow, that's pretty cool, luv!' he said, 'You always had a special thing with birds! Remember when you made those sparrows attack me, in the astronomy tower?' he winked at her and grinned.
"They were canaries not sparrows, Ron, and I had every reason to make them attack you!" This time she was the one to wink at him, but rather than grin, she stuck her tongue playfully at him, and turned around to enter the house. 'Come on, I need to eat, now!'
Ron was delighted by the food she prepared and was even pretty impressed with the presentation. He ate with relish and complimented her on her skills, even though it didn't take much skill to fry eggs and slice tomatoes. A comfortable, warm feeling bloomed in her heart. They could be happy here. The simplicity and peace of the entire community could erase dark memories.
After breakfast they kindled a merry fire in the old hearth and settled on the small sofa with mugs of steaming Earl Grey.
The sun had hid behind clouds several times, light showers fell, and after each return of the golden rays of the sun, small rainbows appeared in the garden surrounding the house.
They watched one of the fading rainbows, through the window in front of the sofa were they were curled in each other's arms.
"Never seen anything like it, you know, 'Mione. So many rainbows in one day... Amazing!", he whispered looking out the window and lazily running his hand through her hair.
It was March, a month when the sun was beginning to show its golden face more often and, due to the often short showers, rainbows would form easily.
"Yeah, I know. It's often like this here. I missed it.", she whispered. "It's because of the ocean, you know. The rain comes from the Atlantic frontal systems that travel over the island, from north to east. And here, on the western coast, we get four times as much rain as on the eastern coast." His face fell a little. She knew he wasn't very fond of the rain and grey days of Britain. It wasn't much better here, but maybe the prospect of a little sunlight would cheer him up. "But don't worry, the rainy months are almost over, we'll get less rain and more sun, come April."
"You read that in a book, don't tell me?", he grinned and kissed the top of her head. "My little know-it-all! What would I do without you?"
"Don't call me that!" she softly slapped his thigh. "And I haven't read it in a book, I read it on the internet and experienced it myself, if you want to know."
"Ah, the internet, my dad's latest obsession! Few things have fascinated him more than this internet..." he shook his head.
"Well, you can't say it isn't great! You can find anything, and I mean anything, on the internet!", she spoke excitedly.
"Yeah, I reckon it's pretty cool, but I just don't get it. I dunno how to use that thing, the laptop. It's so complicated that, more than anything, it pisses me of. Don't have the patience for it.", he was frowning thinking about the muggle contraption that seemed even more complicated than a car.
"Well, we will have to get internet in here, after we renew the contract with the electric company, and maybe I could teach you to use both the laptop and the internet.", she said and he looked at her with hope. Maybe he would learn to use them, given some patience and time.
"You brought the laptop with you?"
"Of course I have!"
"Well, then we could try, I suppose.", he said and then frowned. "We'll have to go out to town again, if we want to make that contract, right? I hope we won't have to meet that Morrison again, won't we?", he grimaced.
"I don't think we'll see him. Hey, speaking of going out. Let's take a walk on the beach! It's so wonderful there, you'll love it!"
"Oh, come on, it's so nice and warm in here. Why would you want to go out now?", he gathered her in his arms tighter and snuggled deeper in the large pillows of the sofa.
After a few minutes of cajoling, not unlike those spent trying to charm the robin, Ron finally admitted that he would do with some exercise and the ocean was definitely worth, at least a little effort.
They packed some snacks, some tea and a small blanket in one of Ron's backpacks and set of. They agreed that the door didn't need all the old locks secured, so instead of going through Morrison's complicated routine, they casted a simple Coloportus.
Just right of the house, around the short stone wall, a steep, narrow trail descended to the beach. She remembered the path all to well. Whenever she came here as a little girl, she would often be found on the beach. She used to love the ocean, she still did but not with the same abandon and passion of childhood.
The trail looked like it hadn't been used for a long time. It was overridden with short, spiky brambles and tall tufts of yellow grass. They picked their way carefully and after a little while they finally stepped on the soft sand.
The beach was small and mostly covered in mossy, jagged stones and pebbles, but, like a soft carpet, a patch of sand extended from the end of the dirt trail and right to the shore, disappearing into the ocean. They followed the trail of sand until they reached the middle of the beach. There they laid the blanket and sat.
The sun was out again and she turned her face to it. She closed her eyes, basking in its rays, the cool breath of the wind caressing her.
"Anything to say now, mister 'I Don't Want To Do Anything But Lay Around And Eat All Day'?"
Ron chuckled and rummaged through the backpack.
"I can eat and lay around here just as well, thank you very much!" he said as he took a bite out of an apple.
She let her body fall back, onto the soft sand and closed her eyes, shielding them from the surprisingly bright glare of the sun. Ron bit the apple with a loud, crisp 'crack' and started munching in his characteristically eager manner.
"So great that dad put these apples in the car yesterday. They are so delicious and if it wasn't for him I would have forgot about them."
She remembered the light by the car and the strange man she had seen, only a night before, walking down the same beach. She wondered if it was safe to tell Ron, if it wouldn't disturb him. The war had left its scars, on her, but most of all on him. Loosing his brother left a trauma and no matter how much he fought it, it would sometimes resurface.
She needed to tell him though, last night had been odd and she couldn't help thinking about it on and on. Maybe if she took it off of her chest by sharing it with someone, she would stop pondering on it.
"Ron, I wanted to tell you something..." She kept her eyes closed and her face to the sun. He stopped chewing.
"What?"
She told him about what she felt and seen from the window, leaving out minor details, like the ocean singing a song, or the strange moon that seemed to swell before her eyes, or the maelstrom of emotion that overtook her. She really didn't want him to think that she was off her head somehow. Now, in the light of the day, the experience seemed rather...deranged, for lack of a better word.
An odd man wrapped in a dark overcoat, smoking a pipe and taking a moonlit stroll down the beach she could take, but the ocean singing a song, the moon shapeshifting and, strangest of all, the unreasonable grief, the tears and the terrible longing for nothing in particular, were beyond her explanation. She didn't even want to dwell on them anymore, that is how outlandish they seemed now.
Ron didn't say a word all throughout her story. Rather uncharacteristic of him, she realized. He was concerned for sure.
She opened her eyes and looked up at him. He was sitting next to her, his eyes lost in the horizon.
"I don't like the sound of all this..." he said frowning.
"Ron, it's fine, don't worry. My problem wasn't the man with the pipe, rather the light by the car. It unnerved me because I am certain I saw it and you were there, next to it and didn't notice it."
"I told you, there was no light by the car. Maybe you saw some reflection from the hallway or the light outside. Anyway, how did this bloke look? Was he old, young, tall, short? Did he look at you?"
She was feeling to good to argue with him so she decided to answer his questions, calm him down and be done with it.
"No, I don't think he saw me. He was not aware of me, and anyway it was too dark by the window, he couldn't have possibly seen me." She said looking at him. He kept his eyes on the far horizon.
"And? How did he look?"
"I told you. He had a dark, long overcoat or cloak. He was tall, that much I can be certain off and he seemed young, I think. I don't really know for certain, it was very dark..." She tried to remember what she had seen, but it all seemed rather vague. A faded memory, much like dream.
"Maybe it was Morrison..." Ron looked at her hopefully.
"No, Ron. He was tall, and by the way he walked he couldn't have been an old man. Morrison is a wizened, short geezer. Anyway, I've never seen Morrison smoking a pipe and I've known him since I was a little girl. He smokes cigarettes and drinks cheap ale, he doesn't have enough patience to fill and light a pipe every five minutes." She smiled thinking of Morrison. She always thought he was funny in his own way, all sharp edges and dark sneers.
"This isn't funny 'Mione! Seriously! It could be anyone, one of Voldemort's old cronies, come here to hide, or worse, following us!" He was upset and she realized she shouldn't have told him all this. Yet she couldn't have kept this to herself, she was just as distressed, if for different, more personal reasons. Reasons that concerned her sanity.
"Ron, calm down! I personally believe it was a fisherman."
"At that hour? And, isn't this a private beach? Doesn't it belong to your family? What was he doing here? He must have walked down the path that we had, around the house, there are cliffs over there, he had no other way. What was he doing, walking to a dead end only to return the same way he came?" He waved in the general direction of the jagged cliffs that encircled part of the small bay in front of the house.
"The beach isn't our property, we only own the house and the land surrounding it. He could have walked down the beach from the opposite direction, there is a small path through the cliffs there and I saw him walk through it. Fishermen usually place the traps at night and come in the morning to gather their catch. No one lived here for a long time, it's only natural for people to come to this cove and use it. If this is the case, and I'm sure it is, I can only be happy that this place hasn't been completely useless." She could see that some of his worries had been melted away and his blue eyes were much clearer.
"You may be right. I'm just worried because I must go in three days and you will be here alone for almost a week..."
"Ron, please relax." she took his face in her hands and kissed him. He sighed. "No one knows of this place. We decided to come here because it is so secluded. Even Kingsley and the aurors declared this house and town, safe. By all the detection spells, no one, no escaped Death Eater or dark wizard can find us. Let's not spoil that with useless anxiety and worry. Okay?" She smiled widely at him and kissed him again, harder than before. He calmed down, and this time she thought that it was going to last.
"You are right, Hermione! I'm sorry. We must go on, we must enjoy our peace. You know, when you haven't had peace for a long time, when it returns, it feels almost unnatural. How odd is that?" he laughed at his revelation.
"No, it's not odd, it's normal. We lived in fear for too long." She said and the words somehow reflected her own worries about the experience she had a night before.
They lingered on the beach for as long as rain allowed them. When the cold clouds gathered and needles of water pinched their faces, they gathered their things and went for the comfort of the cottage.
The following three days went by like mere moments. They slept till noon, made love, cooked, carried their food and ate it on the beach, and when night came, they would curl between the soft cushions of the sofa and read or watch a movie on Hermione's laptop. She had succeeded in directing and containing her own magical energy into a quartz crystal and by attaching the laptop to it they could charge it without problem. It took a while longer than normal to charge, but it was better than running around town for hours, filling forms to renew the electricity contract.
Ron had started to really enjoy watching muggle movies. It was one of the muggle inventions that he grew almost addicted to. That and the car. She couldn't wait to show him how the internet worked. Add muggle sports and TV series to all that and she would probably make an Arthur Weasley out of him in no time. She wasn't sure how that would sit with her, but she did want to be able to share everything from her own world with him.
The day he had to leave came, grey and cold. After an early breakfast she packed him some lunch and walked with him to a more secluded area of the yard so that he could peacefully fly his broom. They still needed to receive authorization to travel via the floo network and the car had to stay with her. She hated flying and, even if she had loved it, she couldn't possibly fly to the muggle town on a broom.
"Bye, love!" he said into her hair as they hugged.
"I love you! Take care of yourself. Floo me when you arrive at the Ministry, okay? I want some gossip!" She winked and kissed his cheeks and mouth.
"I will! Promise! Love you!" He called after her as he climbed his broom, looked around for any possible passer-byes, gave the broom a nudge and shot up into the grey sky.
Suddenly she was alone. She stood there, in the middle of the windy path and took a deep breath before turning around and walking to the cottage.
The sea wind was creeping beneath her cardigan like ice-cold fingers. She had considered taking a walk down the beach after Ron was gone, but now she decided that that was a bad idea. Gathering the thin cardigan tighter around her shaking body, she realized that she will probably not leave the warm cottage that day.
She stocked the fire in the hearth, the low glowing embers coming alive at the touch of fresh wood. She turned on the music player on her laptop and sat in the armchair looking into the crackling flames, not knowing what to do with herself in the silence and loneliness.
Loneliness was easy to heal with a book. She scoffed to herself. That was such a 'Hermione Granger' thing that she though that maybe she should take it as her motto, tattoo it on her arm for everyone to see.
Shaking her head she sat back in the armchair and closed her eyes. It was still so early in the morning. What will she do all these days? Maybe they should have hurried the arrangements for the Floo travel authorization somehow. She was Hermione Granger, war heroine! Couldn't they make some sort of exception? But no, that wouldn't be. Bureaucracy was the third certain fact in life, except taxes and death.
She had to have patience. She had decided that, as much as she wanted to have a peaceful and fulfilled family life, so she wanted a career. More than a career, she wanted to bring change to the Wizarding World, make people's lives easier and fairer.
More than anything else Hermione Granger hated hypocrisy and that is why she had to admit, at least to herself, that there was another thing that motivated her, maybe more than all the other selfless reasons she could find for herself. She wanted to leave something behind.
Wanted to mark the infinite web of time with something that was fundamentally her, not tied to Harry Potter, Dumbledore or Voldemort, but just her.
She had often wondered if it was selfish, or arrogant, this wish that fueled everything she did. Maybe to most people that knew her it could have looked like that, but it became so close to her very being and she had had it for so long that she couldn't question if the will that drove her was bad or good. It just was.
She had tried to explain this fire that burned inside her so many times to Ron, but he couldn't get her. He just wasn't built like that. He had other, more domestic wishes for himself and their family, and he seemed somehow hurt that she wanted something outside their bubble of comfort. He always seemed almost disgusted by her ambitions, saying that it wasn't right to want more greatness or singularity now, after they had literally saved the world and they had everything they could ever want. She knew that in theory he was right, but what it was she wanted had nothing to do with them or even the Wizarding World, it was something that was so deeply ingrained in her very being that it felt like she had been born with it and, had she tried to fight it, she would have to flay her very identity.
It wasn't pleasant living with it either, because it always made her want more - more knowledge, more success, more praise, more, more, more. She had thought that winning the war, getting the man, looking forward to a bright future would satiate this desire. She had waited for all to end, worked hard to help Harry every step of the way, overcame all her fears and personal quirks about Ron, thinking that finally, after the war, she could rest and be satisfied. She still wasn't. At least not completely.
She opened her eyes again and looked into the flames that licked the blackened wood hungrily. Maybe, just maybe, after she went back to Hogwarts, attained her NEWTS, applied for a job at the Ministry, climbed the ranks in the Ministry, maybe had a baby or two, she would stop being such an overachiever. Was it all that technical, like a well brewed potion? All she had to do was check a list and she would be happy?
She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hands and then racked her fingers through her curls. She sighed. She will never be satisfied.
Not even picturing herself as an accomplished Ministry official, standing on Platform nine and Three Quarters with her equally accomplished Auror husband and one or two kids, waiting for the Hogwarts Express, wasn't kindling any glow of peace in her heart, though it should have. She was horrible, ungrateful and she had to stop pondering on this.
She had promised herself that she would take a brake. Rest, put her life in order, repair broken relationships and family ties and, most importantly, repair and care for this old cottage that meant so much to her and her family. She shook herself from her useless sulk, turned the music a little louder and stood up from the chair, with the clear intention to start cleaning the rest of the rooms on the second floor. She picked up her laptop and climbed the stairs. She had to have the music with her, it made the loneliness seem less oppressive.
She placed the laptop on the floor in the middle of the long hallway, so that she could hear the music from any of the rooms she would clean. She started with the small guest room at the other end of the hallway and worked her way back.
It was well into the afternoon when she finally reached the last room, her own tiny one. She wondered if there will ever be a time when she could enter her old childhood room and not be overcome by nostalgia.
The air was musty and thick. The first thing she had to do was find a way to dislodge the small window. She pulled out her wand and tried several charms over the old wood of the window frame. None worked. She then proceeded to the old and tried method of wrenching it with her bare hands. Nothing short of breaking the glass would work, it seemed, and that wasn't a very good idea considering that the house was draughty enough even with all its windows intact.
She sighed and pushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. Maybe this room could wait until tomorrow. She was spent and needed rest and maybe a bite to eat. Just then the familiar tinkling sound of the floo network startled her. Ron must have arrived.
She ran downstairs and activated the hearth, Ron's face appearing among the low burning coals. They spoke and laughed through the floo, while she ate some of the food that was left from the day before. After they were finished, the silence and loneliness wrapped around her again and she went back to her room, turned the music on and for a moment didn't know what to do with herself again.
She looked out the small window at the large expanse of fields and grass, disrupted only by the large mound in front of the house and the birch glade just behind it. The sun had set and the air looked cold and unwelcoming, the wind making the twinkling, yellowed birch leaves tremble. She vaguely wondered how could those trees still hold on to their last year's leaves, when all the other few trees she had seen were completely naked, waiting for the breath of spring to bring out new foliage. Looking at them now she realized that their very existence was a bit of rarity here on these barren shores. A shiver ran trough her body and she hugged herself.
She turned away from the window and looked around the room that was slowly but surely being swallowed by the creeping darkness of evening. Her eyes stopped on the thin, wooden bookcase. She smiled to herself. Maybe she would find some book or even a diary from her childhood and amuse herself for a while until sleep would come.
She lighted one of the candles that she had brought with her and placed it on the nightstand. The candle light warmed the cold gloom of the evening and brought comfort even in the solitude of the house.
She filled her arms with all sorts of books, little papers, drawing notebooks and even an old diary and plopped herself on her old, rickety childhood bed. She scattered all her findings around her, sitting cross-legged between them.
She opened the drawing notebook first. She used to like to draw when she was a child and her parents, thinking that she had talent, encouraged her. But then again what child didn't like drawing, and what parent didn't think that it was a sign that they had a Michelangelo in the making? She chuckled to herself.
The drawings were childish but no less charming and only looking at them brought back vivid memories from her past. There were drawings of the house with it's straw roof, her parents and grandmother, robins and some cats, but most of them were of the sea and the rigged, stony shoreline and cliffs.
Sunsets and sunrises over the ocean, walks on the ocean, crude studies of pebbles and shells or of strange, tangled seaweed.
She looked long at one that was most striking. The one that marked a turning point in her life. The one with the whale. She clearly remembered that day, just two months before her ninth birthday.
It was summer and she was staying at her grandmother's house over the holidays. One morning she woke up earlier than usual. Until this day she couldn't understand what woke her up. It was one of those odd things, that not even magic could explain.
Another odd thing was that she wanted to see the ocean, for no reason that she could reason to herself. And look at the ocean she did. She went to her parents' bedroom and just like she did one week ago, when she had first arrived here, she looked out the window. There, on the white beach, lying on it's side among pebbles and sand, was the most immense creature she had ever seen in her life. A whale, a Fin Whale, from what she later found out.
It was so early in the morning that not even her grandmother was up. She tiptoed to the door and opened it carefully. The sun was just rising behind the house when she walked, no, ran, down the cliff, to the shore. She stopped, afraid and overwhelmed by the size of the creature.
She remembered, with tears in her eyes even after all this time, that the whale was still alive. She could see the rise and fall of its wide chest, in rhythm with the opening and closing of its blowhole and she remembered the way the sand formed a hole around the creature's body, as if the very ground had collapsed under its great weight.
When she had finally gathered the courage to walk closer to it, the image she saw would stay with her forever. The large, gentle, obsidian like eye of the whale followed her, looked at her, acknowledged her. She could still feel the smooth, cold skin that she had gathered the courage to touch, could still remember the painfully sad eye looking at her. She had promised the whale then, promised with tears in her eyes, that she would do anything to save it. Gave her word to that sad, obsidian eye as she draped her small body over the whale's head, trying to comfort it the best she could. Her grandmother had come after her then and took her away telling her that there is nothing she could do and that they should call the authorities and maybe they could save it.
But they couldn't do anything. They came too late and they said that even if they had arrived earlier, the internal organs usually collapse without the support that such large mammals have in water.
The sadness had been overwhelming and so strong that it triggered her inherent magic for the first time. After the authorities had left she had went down to the beach again and cried and begged for the whale to return. She kissed and caressed the smooth, cold skin and the now tightly shut eye. She promised, again, that she would return it to the ocean even though she was loosing all hope of keeping her promises. In her innocent mind there was the certainty that the touch of water would bring life back into the dead creature.
So long she cried, and so deeply and passionately she wished for the whale to be returned to the depths of the ocean that a surge of indescribable energy tingled inside her body then. It flared from her very being, escaping through the palms that she kept on the whale's skin, leaving her breathless.
The last thing she saw before she fell in a heap in the soft sand, was the pale light from her palms that seemed to be absorbed by the dark skin of the whale, causing a strange shiver to pass through the massive creature's flesh.
She awoke in her bed, her grandmother over her, looking worried . The old woman had been more than worried, she was afraid of something, looking at her oddly, as if she had sprouted two heads. She ran to the window in her parents room and gasped as she looked at the empty beach. The whale was gone. The only proof of its existence and her own sanity, was the shallow pit it had laid in and the red tendrils of blood permeating the sand and floating through the water gathered there.
She wiped her tears and put the drawing away. The memory was much to intense and still baffling to this day. After studying magic for seven years and defeating Voldemort, she still couldn't explain what happened to the whale, what she did to it. She suspected that her will had ignited her magic, transporting, or rather apparating it, into the water. At the time she had really thought that she resurrected it and she was even afraid to talk about the events to her parents. They had all went by an unspoken rule to never mention anything about the incident. And so they did until she received her Hogwarts letter. Then everything seemed to be explained, or so her parents thought. But it wasn't. At least not to her. Not even in the magical world could that incident be completely logical, or explainable. For some reason she never mentioned it to anyone, because it seemed outlandish even for the Wizarding World. Later she forgot about it. Maybe it was time to talk to someone about it, McGonagall or Harry perhaps.
She shook her head as she wiped her tears away and then picked the last of the drawings, trying to recompose herself. She recognized the small birch copse in front of the house and the large mound. She remembered that she used to stay among those birches and even lay on top of the grassy mound and read or draw. In the bottom left side of the dogeared drawing, faded and not quite readable, was a word. It was pointy and childishly written and she brought it closer to the candle and squinted to understand what it was. An 'h' or maybe an 'n', no definitely an 'h'. An 'O', an 'L' and a 'i' afterwards? No, that was another 'L', not a 'i'. An 'W' at the end. Hollow?
She frowned. What could little Hermione mean with that? She sighed and put the drawing away. She had enough sentimentality for one day.
She looked through the books deciding to read one of her childhood favourites that night, before bed.
"Peter Pan"? She smiled. Not really in the mood for that. "The wind through the willows?" Adorable, but not quite what she wanted. "Old Irish Fairytales"? She smiled fondly and placed it aside. Maybe she should choose two books tonight, not only one. "The Hobbit"? She gasped. Oh, how she used to love this book! And it had been so long since she had last read it.
She opened it eagerly and searched for some message from her young self. She had a very long lived habit of writing on her favourite books. Her signature or name scribbled neatly in a corner, a favourite quote or the year when it had been purchased, could always be found on her most beloved of books.
Riffling through it she found it. On the last page there was her name, signature and a quote, "Over snow by winter sown". She grinned to herself quite clearly remembering that this quote was from some song or another in the book.
She looked at her old bed and decided that she felt much more comfortable sleeping in her little room while Ron was away. She gathered all the drawings and books off the bed, arranged them neatly back into the bookcase. Among them she also found another book by JRR Tolkien, the first book from his famous trilogy, "The Lord of the Rings". She smiled again. This was her childhood, all gathered among these pages. She looked for the other two books from the series, but they were missing. Well, this will have to do for a while, she thought to herself.
How did she ever forget about Tolkien, she asked herself as she opened "The Fellowship of the Ring". Her signature and name were written proudly, clearly by an older, more self-assured hand, on the last page of the book and, just beneath them, flowing beautifully, a word that made her smile. "Namarie".