Homecoming: Part 2
**A/N: Hello, all. Well, Dobby, I'm going on with this, without waiting for your opinion. . .let's just see what happens. I can't believe it took me so long to write this next part! Sorry for the incredibly loooooooooong wait. I had finals, and summer school, and an essay course. . . .but most of all I had (have) a festering and not-unfounded inferiority complex and an immense case of writer's block. PG-13 for my potty mouth and the fact that this is going to get pretty intense later on , I hope. Please, please, please, review-Morrigan, Meritre, Alicia Spinnet, Katie Bell, Flourish, Wolfie Twins, Masoumi, Kain/Mena whoever you are, Firebolt, WeasleyTwinsFan, Dobby (Fudge's Friend), and everyone else who *doesn't* belong to the League of Idiotic Reviewers and who has anything remotely resembling an opinion. You can flame, but flame *intelligently,* please. Oh, and don't forget to enjoy. That's kind of important, too! ;)
-Wren**
P.s.: I'm doing italics a new way-*text.* I don't like the text thing, it's too bulky.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to J. K. Rowling, who *won't* have Harry end up with Ginny if she knows what's good for her!!!! ::grumbles:: I *hate* Harry/Ginny. Just thought I'd say that. On to the story. . ..
NOTE: HARRY JUST CAME OUT OF A FLASHBACK-HE HAS TOLD HERMIONE WHAT THAT AWFUL THING THAT HE DID IS. YOU MIGHT WANT TO REVIEW THE LAST INSTALLMENT BEFORE CONTINUING.
Harry didn't want to look up. He stared intently into his coffee, absently noting the way the fluorescent lights overhead made the dark brown liquid gleam. He did not want to look up. Meet Hermione's eyes. Stand eyeball to eyeball with guilt, estrangement. He did not want to see whatever thoughts those achingly familiar pupils betrayed.
"Harry. . . ."
*God, please don't let her hate me,* Harry prayed to that heartless god who gave human beings like him miserable lives like his. Hermione's friendship was the last worthwhile thing he had left. *Please,* he screamed to whatever fragment of order there was left in the world. *Please. . .*
"Harry. . . ."
The owner of the name gave no reply. He focused on his untouched cup of coffee, the table, *anything* but the eyes that held his judgement. The rage that had always burned in him blazed up again, for Voldemort, once again, had control of his life. Thanks to Voldemort, he had grown up an orphan, had never known his parents. Voldemort's ever lurking presence made every joy he had known at Hogwarts blunted-for each moment was tainted with fear, each moment might have been his last. Even Harry's mind was not totally in his control, and Voldemort had made him a murderer, a recluse, and, though indirectly, an alcoholic. Now the only person who mattered to him in the *whole goddam world,* his best friend, was going to hate him. He could see the last pitiful bit of stable ground he had crumble away, could see himself falling, falling, falling through nothing. . .
"Harry. . . ."
Harry's gaze rested on his hands again. He blinked with mild surprise-for his fingers were twined tightly with Hermione's. She hadn't let go. As if following his gaze, and understanding, Hermione gave his taut hands a gentle squeeze. It was brief, but it was enough.
He looked up.
A little of Harry's despair left him-there was no hate in Hermione's eyes. Her expression was unreadable, but she was frowning slightly. Harry tried to guess her emotions-sadness? confusion?
"Harry, I-I don't think I understand," she murmured.
Of all the reactions Harry had anticipated, he hadn't thought of this one.
"What?"
"I mean. . .Dumbledore's-Dumbledore's dead. . ." her words dwindled into an unsure silence.
Harry gripped her hands closer, keeping Hermione with him for a few more precious seconds. He couldn't face her, he couldn't face Ron. Why did he come back to this nightmare? Wasn't this the last thing he wanted?
"I did it," Harry whispered fiercely, "I did it. I'm a murderer, Hermione.*I'm a goddam
murderer!*" He released her hands roughly and started to get up, but he knocked the table as he rose. Harry watched helplessly, one hand at his forehead, as his mug fell over, rolled swiftly across the tabletop and plunged to the floor, erupting at the impact with a jangling crash and sending white chips of ceramic flying. One triangular fragment shot up frighteningly towards Harry's eyes, instead embedding itself in the hand hovering in the way with a force it shouldn't have had. Suddenly the previously unnoticed pair had the attention of every customer in the shop. Dark coffee flooded across the table to stream down to the white ruins of the mug on the floor. Harry stared dumbly at the mess for a few seconds, then yanked the ceramic chip from his skin and dropped it to the ground crimsoned. As waiters rushed into the silence Harry pulled a bill from his pocket and shoved it onto the table without looking at it. He strode to the door, ignoring a waiter's tentative call to stop, and hurried into the street without looking back.
Halfway down the block Harry could hear the quick footsteps of Hermione pursuing him. Ignoring her, he undid his tie and clumsily wrapped it around his bloody hand as he walked.
"Harry, wait!" Hermione's words floated up to him. He tried walking faster, and realized that, for the second time, he was running away, like a coward.
"Wait." This time the words were uttered close by his ear with a sadness that made him stop, turn around.
"Harry, don't run away from me again," Hermione whispered, and Harry was startled by the tears winking in the corners of her eyes.
"Hermione, I-" Of course Harry didn't know what to say. He hated himself, he hated coming back-but most of all he was afraid of his friends hating him too, and here was Hermione, running after him after he told her he murdered Dumbledore? Why? Couldn't she see that he was changed? "I told you, Hermione, I'm different. Seven years can do a lot to a person, remember? I don't even know why I came back. I'm a *murderer*, Hermione. I'm not the same Harry. . ." he gulped, and it was loud in his own ears. "It's better-it's better if you don't see me this way. . ."
Hermione stood quietly beneath his words, her eyes downcast and her lips parted slightly. Around her there was a sort of stillness, it seemed to Harry, as if the honking cars and the rushing pedestrians were somehow paused. *Is this magic?* Harry thought wildly.
Hermione looked up, resolved, and the world held its breath.
"But you've still got your mother's eyes," Hermione said, staring at him directly.
Harry reared his head back. "What?" he asked, a little too loudly.
"You've still got your mother's eyes," Hermione repeated flatly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Lily's eyes," she elucidated, starting to talk very quickly. "I wasn't sure just a moment ago, but now-now I am. You said you did something your father would never do, but you've still got Lily's eyes, and I'm not just talking about them being green." She paused, seemingly frustrated. "Harry. That's right, 'Harry.'"
"What are you talking about?"
"Your mother's eyes! Harry, you gave in to Voldemort that once, like you said your father would never do-so don't do it again! I understand now. Harry Potter, you are the only person in the world who can do anything against Voldemort, now that he's killed Dumbledore. Do you know why Voldemort went through all the trouble of going into your mind? That's a very complicated and draining spell, Harry, and that was his last shot. *Do you know why*?" Hermione didn't let him answer. She continued, feverishly, "*Because that was the only thing he could do!* Harry, the only person who can defeat you is yourself, understand? And you just had enough-enough *darkness* in you, all that loneliness from the Dursleys, growing up an orphan, the suspicion you faced about the Chamber of Secrets in our second year-and you knew it! You *knew* the darkness was there, and you hated it, I know, like you hate yourself now. Voldemort gave you that darkness, Harry. He manipulated so many aspects of your life from the moment he killed your parents. You lived in a controlled environment, every possible pain calculated, just so that Voldemort could use it against you in the end! And he used you Harry, it wasn't your fault! Voldemort knew you would give in. . .he had it predetermined that you would. But even then, you had your mother's eyes. Voldemort knew about this, but he certainly wasn't counting on it to come through like it did. . .do you know why Dumbledore shouted 'Lily?'" This was another question Harry wasn't meant to answer. "Because even as he saw you-the you Voldemort had possessed-kill him, Dumbledore knew you still had Lily's eyes! The real Harry was down there somewhere, so he called it up. I don't know why it worked, I think only Dumbledore knows that, and even you can't remember. But the point is, you have your mother's eyes-*the light side is always there.* You can defeat Voldemort when you recognize that, Harry.
"Voldemort is waiting, Harry, and he can win as long as you let him. As long as you hate yourself the darkness will still be there, the self-doubt. So many people believe in you-I believe in you-why can't you believe in yourself? If you run away again, Voldemort is winning. You-you have to remember you have your mother's eyes, Harry. And you have to remember even your father couldn't have overcome Voldemort. Giving in was wrong, but inevitable, and it wasn't the *real* thing that was wrong-it was *running away*. Your father would never have run away. The Harry Potter I know would never have run away. "
It hurt. Deeper than the perpetual vacant ache inside him, more profound, and for a moment he hated himself all over again for running away. But there it was, the truth like old wound laid bare, mottled scar tissue peeled away. Finally.
***********************************
The world exhaled-whatever strange magic Hermione had done, that odd pause, it was over. Harry had at some point in that eternal pause taken his hand from his pocket and it hung at his side unnoticed, bleeding gently onto the grey sidewalk.
"How did you know?" Harry murmured.
A half-smile dawned on Hermione's lips. "Magic," she said softly, "isn't just about twiddling wands and chanting words. That was the magic Hogwarts taught us. It was the only magic Hogwarts could have taught us. Real magic is-deeper. It's about knowing things, not with crystal balls or tea leaves or tarot cards. Just *knowing.* It takes a lifetime to learn, Harry, and it's the rarest thing in the world."
Harry gazed up at her, confused and awed. "It's the most wonderful thing in the world, Hermione," he said, finally. "I-"
"You're welcome, Harry," Hermione replied, her smile widening. "Maybe it's time to get to the Leaky Cauldron," she continued after a necessary silence between them. "It's almost four. We're meeting Ron for dinner around seven thirty. I should really have a look at your hand, Harry, and you look like you could use a nap. And I think we should have a *real* talk, just the cold facts, now that we've gotten over the hardest part."
"You really want to know what's been happening to me for the last seven years, Hermione?" Harry said, looking down at her curiously. "I'm sure you don't."
"Harry, for me to understand whatever's going on I've got to listen. You've got to explain. And of course I want to know what you've been doing. God, Harry, something had to be going on if you've left us for so long. I've missed you. More than you know," Hermione said, her voice too brisk for the words but her eyes twinkling with tears. "I'm going to listen, and tonight Ron's going to listen, and we'll work through this. We've never let each other down, and you're crazy if you think that's going to start now. We're going to get through this together, all three of us, like at Hogwarts."
"The terrible trio," Harry muttered, feeling a smile tug the corners of his mouth despite himself.
"Or the three musketeers," Hermione said, smiling back.
"And hopefully I won't almost kill myself with a coffee cup," Harry said ruefully.
"That's *another* thing we need to talk about," Hermione said, her voice serious, starting to walk in the direction that the Leaky Cauldron apparently lay.
As he followed Hermione back into the world he had fled for seven years, it seemed to Harry that something had started to heal in him. It seemed to him that the perpetual ache in the general region of his heart was a little less. Only a little. But it was something. And for the first time, Harry truly stopped regretting his return. He had come home and found himself, right where he had been in the first place. And that was something, too.
**Me again. God, this is bad. I hate the way I ended up explaining things. . .I'm thinking I should have saved this for later on, but I really couldn't think of another way to do it. I might write a revised version of Homecoming some time in the future, but at the moment I've decided that I'm just going to work through this a scene at a time. And I promise, it'll get better. Any unanswered questions *will* be answered in the next episode, we'll actually see some other characters (Draco and Ron have been complaining dreadfully about their non-appearances), we'll find out about Ron's dilemma, and how things turned out like they did will be revealed-partially, at least. I'm bracing myself for flames, so go ahead. But be gentle, I'm working through writer's block, and really *blazing* flames hurt!!**
