Author's Notes: I think that so far, this is my favorite chapter. It's either this or Heston. Please forgive my blatant plagiary from V for Vendetta. I just thought that line was really beautiful, and wanted to include it.
Once again, special thanks to my beta, Snowyowl7. How did I see it put recently? Oh yes, she ROCKS FACES!!!!! The ONLY reason this chapter is legible is due to her diligent editing. Mille mercies!!
Also, if you haven't already go check out Avanell's stuff! She is awesome.
Harry's timing could have been better. Immediately upon getting the door from the roof open into Ron's flat, they were greeted by Neville's head in the fireplace. A raid. Ron was needed so Hermione was left to get Harry situated.
She wasn't horribly maternal, so this was a bit of a problem. Thankfully, she was practical, and being so she realized that he would need the three basics of life: a shower, a meal, and a bed.
He didn't complain; just stood there and followed her instructions. Hermione did notice that Harry had become noticeably more relaxed after Ron left. She shoved him into the lavatory, praying that he would be able to figure out how to bathe himself, and went treasure hunting in Ron's room.
She relished the search a little more than necessary. Ron had forbidden her entrance into his room pretty much as soon as she had come to his home. It was the one room she hadn't sterilized during her nesting binge. As soon as Hermione heard Harry turn the shower tap on, she slowly opened the door and walked into the room.
She stood in the doorway first, scrutinizing the scene before her. Amazingly, it was relatively neat and clean. There wasn't even a layer of dust on everything as there had been in the rest of the flat. She stepped in and took a deep breath.
Hmm…a little of him, but not much.
She went to the bed, which was made. Feeling reckless and wanting, just a little, to get caught, she sat on the bed. She reached down to touch the comforter. It was smooth, and soft, and cold beneath her fingertips. Smiling wickedly, she laid back on it, feeling absolutely sinful as the fluffy enormity of the blanket swooped in to choke her. There he was; she could smell him now. It smelled like soap, and whatever aftershave he wore, and…EWW!!! Dirty Boy Smell!
Hermione bolted upright. She didn't want dirty boy smell. Gross. Springing off the bed, she made her way to the closet. Wary now, she kept her eyes peeled for the hamper.
Dirty boy smell was not something that was within the realm of her experience. Before Ron, she had only been in close enough contact with two males to get a whiff of their scent. She had pretty much figured that smelling bad didn't fit into Viktor's whole seduction plan, as it were, so he was always totally scrubbed and perfumed before their little…interlude.
The few times she had snuggled up with Draco had been much the same. She tried to imagine Draco smelling bad but Hermione just did not have that much imagination. She tried to remember him after Quidditch games. She realized that she had never seen him directly after a game. He always shown up about 45 minutes later. Ahh…he must have been showering for eons. What a girl. She smirked. Draco's bed was the same. Pristine silk sheets that the poor house elves must launder daily. No wonder she hadn't been ready for Ron's odor.
By this point, she had made it to the closet. She opened the doors and was literally hit in the face by what she was looking for: clothing. Apparently Ron's version of cleaning his room meant shoving everything in the closet. She was astonished she hadn't been brained by an errant broom or bludger or something. She could only imagine that under the bed was kept in the same state. Thankfully, at least these clothes were clean. She grabbed a Chudley Cannons t-shirt and some lounge pants.
Do boys have the same "wearing some else's knickers" issues as girls?
Well, to be safe Harry would just have to go commando for the time being.
Next, socks. Shoes were out of the question, and he really didn't need them at the moment, anyway. They would have to amend that eventually, but for now, socks would do.
She grabbed her findings and strode out to the hallway. Not bothering to knock, but not throwing the door wide open either, Hermione thrust her arm inside and placed the clean clothes on the vanity. If he could shower himself, he could certainly dress himself! She heard the tap being turned off.
One necessity down. Now, what to do about dinner?
"I feel very sorry for you," Hermione said as she hunted through the cupboards for supplies, "It figures, your first night out of the joint and you would be subjected to my cooking. Ron'll come home to find you begging to go back to the hospital." She turned to make eye contact with him.
Harry had been seated at the table in the small kitchen following his shower. She didn't understand why, but she wanted to be able to keep an eye on him as she put something together to eat. She had horrifying images of Harry falling out of a carelessly left open window or sticking a fork in a wall socket. Hmm…perhaps she did have something of a maternal instinct after all. In any case, he really shouldn't be left to wander around; there was no telling what he might get into.
He watched her move back and forth, capturing a bowl here or a pot there. He liked listening to her talk. Harry hadn't really heard human voices in almost two decades. Well, he hadn't heard them outside his head anyway. So he was content to just sit there. Everything was mostly blurry, but so long as she kept moving, he could tell where she was. It gave him a sense of security, having her around. He liked her, he remembered her, but as he continued to come out of his medicated cocoon, he began to realize that she really wasn't there when everything happened. Somehow, she had gotten into his memories of that night.
He didn't know people could do that.
He was also glad the man wasn't there. The man was intimidating. He was too intense for Harry. Harry liked the woman. She was like a hummingbird, never still, never slow. After years of boredom, his brain craved stimulation.
She smacked her head on the underside of the counter as she stood and muttered a curse under her breath. "Well, the Two Fat Ladies I am not, but I can make a salad and boil some pasta, so we won't starve." His silence was beginning to unnerve her. Normally she liked the quiet; but a quiet person was always watching, and in her experience, always waiting for her to make a mistake.
Hermione moved to the fridge. Ron had made tomato sauce and meatballs the other night. Hoping she would awaken, she supposed, he had made enough for an army. She took the leftovers, mashed some meatballs and mixed it with the sauce. After a short zap with a warming charm from her wand, it was spooned atop some of the noodles and placed in front of Harry with a flourish. And who says I can't cook?
Harry stared at the plate before him as Hermione turned back to the counter to fix her own plate.
"Spaghetti Bolognese."
Hermione was so shocked by the sound that she started and nearly dropped her plate. Taking a few seconds to calm herself, she slowly turned around to face him. She clutched the almost-kamikaze plate to give her hands something to do.
"Pardon?" she whispered; she couldn't bring herself to be any louder than that. Harry continued to stare at the plate.
"Spaghetti Bolognese." He had taken so long to answer, Hermione had almost convinced herself that she had imagined the entire thing. Harry finally turned bright green eyes to look at her.
"My mother always called it that," the voice was raspy from disuse; the words slow, agonized over, "my parents honeymooned in Italy. She said that cooking this always reminded her of that trip."
Hermione couldn't move. All she did was gape at him. He speaks! He was speaking!! He was staring at her…
"Those must have been fond memories for her," Hermione finally forced herself to say, realizing that he was waiting for her to contribute to the conversation. He blinked.
"They were." His eyes returned to the food. "Where are they?"
Hermione hadn't been ready for this. She sat across from him.
"Harry," she began slowly, "what do you remember from that night?"
On her saying the words "that night," Harry closed his eyes and swallowed. She really didn't want to do this without Ron and Ginny there. She was going to screw it up and send him back into catatonia. Didn't they know she was no good with people?
"I remember everything," he stated flatly, "but I can't pick individual things out right now," he met her eyes again, "You tell me." Now it was Hermione's turn to swallow the lump in her throat.
"They died, Harry. I'm sorry."
"Who died?"
"Your parents."
"What about Sami and Mark?"
Hermione was confused. "Who are Sami and Mark?"
"My little sister and brother."
It was well past dark when Ron finally returned home. The bright sunny day had turned into heavy, brooding night. There would be a fierce autumn storm tonight, with buckets of rain and howling winds. Merlin, was he glad to be home.
He was filthy and achy and starving. Chasing evil was so much easier ten years ago. His lifestyle was beginning to get to him; sad considering he was only 27. The flat was dark, which was a little disconcerting as it was only 9 o'clock. He walked immediately to the kitchen.
The sight of Hermione staring blankly out the window in the darkness startled him, but he covered it quickly and continued on to the fridge. She didn't even acknowledge him. Well, that just wouldn't do.
"Where's Harry?" he asked, grabbing some meatball-pasta concoction and collapsing into a chair.
"The spare room, sleeping."
"What the hell could he possibly need more sleep for? Hasn't he been asleep for, like, the past 17 years, basically?" He didn't know why he was picking a fight with her. Maybe it was because she wouldn't look at him and just kept staring out the window. It was irritating, really.
"I don't know." Better question, why wasn't she taking the bait?
"What's the matter?" he finally relented in a softer voice. He wouldn't read her, but he could still feel some uncomfortable emotion coming from her.
"He had siblings." What?!? Finally she turned to look at him, arms crossed over her chest, numb expression on her face. "Did you know?"
His gaping jaw gave away his surprise. "No. How did you find out?"
"He told me."
"So he's talking now?"
"Yes."
"And what did he tell you?"
"He had two of them, a little sister, who was 7 at the time, and a brother, who was 3."
"I had never heard of them."
"Nor had I. What happened to them?"
"Dunno." He tilted his head as he looked at her, deciding his next statement was probably best said in a straightforward manner, "Hermione, they're probably dead." She took a deep breath.
"That's what I thought." She turned back around, facing the window once more, "It's my fault." This was said so quietly that he barely heard it.
"What? How can you say that? You were, what, 11 years old at the time?"
"It doesn't matter. I may as well have killed them. Do you know what I do? Do you know what my Deatheater job is? I develop weapons. I think up ways for my fellow Deatheaters to kill people. Innocent people. Muggle people. People who think that witches don't exist outside of movies and books. What does it matter that I was only 11 when Sami and Mark died? What does it matter that I wasn't there? The things that I create do the work for me. The most entertaining part is that my first mission was to kill someone in cold blood. And I couldn't even do it! I looked at the woman I was supposed to hex until her heart stopped and I couldn't do it. I threw up all over my shoes. Draco had to come and do it for me. It would have been better if Voldemort had killed me when we got back. The world would have been a better place."
"Don't say things like that!" Ron was out of his chair now, fatigue momentarily forgotten. He gripped her shoulders, turning her to face him, "You're working on a way to stop all this. Voldemort will be dead and his followers destroyed because of the work you're doing. Right now."
"But why am I trying to kill Voldemort? Is it for some benevolent purpose? Am I trying to save humanity? No! I'm doing it to cover my own ass!" She pulled abruptly away from him.
"Who cares?"
"What?" she turned to look at him, her surprise at his question taking some of the fire out of her self-loathing.
"Who gives two shits why you're doing what you're doing?" She just gaped at him. "Hermione, I care about the other people around me, and I want to make the world safe for everyone, but don't you think that I, and all the other 'good guys,' have at least slightly selfish motives for doing what we do, too?" She continued to just look at him. He sighed and backed away.
"A lot of the time, what's best for humanity is also best for Ron Weasley."
"So my one charitable act redeems me of seven years of villany?"
"I can't answer that. That's something you have to square with yourself."
"Ron, you may think that there is selfishness in what you do, but your day-job isn't making things that kill people."
"I do kill people, however."
"Yeah, the bad guys. Of which I am one; I'm a pretty important one. When are you gonna wake up and do what it is that good guys do to the bad guys?"
"When you give me a reason to."
"Ugh! You are so naïve. I've given you a thousand…" her tirade was interrupted by the sound of a door slamming. Drawing their wands, Ron and Hermione went into the lounge. Not seeing anyone, they continued through the apartment until they stopped in front of the door to the spare room.
"Is he alright in there?" Hermione asked Ron, who quickly read the room.
"Er, no." He put a hand on her arm to stop her from going in, "He's not in there."
"Then where?"
Ron pointed to the door to the roof. They quickly walked up the stairs and sure enough, Harry stood out on the roof, near the ledge. A gentle rain had begun to fall, and was gaining strength.
"Harry?" Hermione called from the doorway, so as not to shock him into doing something crazy. He turned to look at her. "Are you alright?" He nodded and turned back around, lifting his face to the opened sky.
"Harry, come in out of the rain, you'll get sick," Hermione left her position next to Ron in the doorway and started toward him. He gave no indication he heard her. When she arrived at the ledge, he turned his head so that he could face her.
"It's raining," he said.
"Yes."
"My grandmother always said that God is in the rain."
"Oh?"
"Yes. Do you know what the rain does?"
"No," she answered, staring at him.
He reached out and took her hand in his. As he turned his face again to the sky, he said, "It washes our sins away."
She couldn't help it. Feeling the rain fall on her head, feeling the grip of his hand on hers, it undid every defense mechanism she had. She too lifted her face to the sky as she began to sob. It had been so long since she had cried, she sometimes wasn't sure if she even remembered how; but the tears came now, huge, raking, soul bending sobs that she couldn't fight or hide; and to her amazement, she didn't want to. She cried as she felt the water hit her face and run down the round sides of her cheeks. She cried as she felt Harry squeeze her hand a little harder. She cried out everything bad and dark and evil that she had inside her; and for the first time since she could remember, she began to feel whole.
Ron remained at his place in the doorway, out of the rain and away from the pair. There was some indescribable force that kept him apart from them. He knew subconsciously that he was not invited to share in what was happening between Harry and Hermione. He looked at their clasped hands and gritted his teeth. From the pit of his stomach he felt something crawl forth, something that had lain dormant for a long time.
Jealousy.
