Chapter 6. Hermione Weasley.
Hermione wrote down the last word in her report, put a period, signed it, and slowly set aside her quill, trying not to stain the paper. She hadn't noticed it getting dark. Perhaps it was a mix-up on the part of the department responsible for the weather display in the underground windows, although it was more likely that she simply lost track of time.
Hermione propped her elbows on the desk and rubbed her face, trying to chase away the drowsiness and fatigue. She still needed enough energy to make it home where Ron was waiting for her. And she also wanted to find Harry, if he was still at work. She knew that during the last few days he wouldn't leave work before eleven o'clock at night in order to keep pace with the paperwork and all the status reports for his management.
She put her paper in the drawer with other documents, put the locking spells on it, and left her small office.
Most of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement employees were still there – the wave of attacks on Muggle children overwhelmed them. The entire Ministry was under the gun; the Minister continuously demanded results, but so far they weren't able to do anything substantial.
Hermione walked toward the elevators, hoping to make it to the Auror's floor as quickly as possible. On her way down the still crowded hallways, she nodded absentmindedly at her co-workers and saw in their faces the reflection of her own fatigue and a kind of despair. It was as if a little personal Dementor hovered over each person's shoulder, sucking out joy and hope. Even those who were not involved in the cases of the escaped criminals and the Muggle murders – not everyone knew that it was really one and the same case but many had guessed so – felt the aura of helplessness that had engulfed several departments.
Hermione entered the elevator, fingering her necklace pensively. She was always good at piecing together the big picture out of seemingly unrelated facts – one example was the Chamber of Secrets with its resident monster – and, therefore, understood much of what was happening now, even not having all the information.
The case of the werewolves. Top secret clearance. She couldn't look it up in the archives. Five years ago, when the ministry celebrated the successful wrap-up of the operation of "disarming the group of aggressive wizards-werewolves", Hermione was just an average employee of the department. No one knew the details of the operation except for those who developed it and carried it out; and those people did not say much.
The court hearing for the captives – there definitely were several of them – was a closed one and those who were present not only didn't want to, but also weren't allowed to speak about it. Whatever happened there, Hermione could only guess.
The rumor about a special Azkaban section appeared much later and Hermione never thought about who was held in it. And then – the escape. From that section. And almost immediately following – the deaths of Muggle children. And the emergency summons to work. And the main clue – Harry. The expression on Harry Potter's face was more telling than words, facts, and logical conclusions. At least it was so for the Deputy Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
"You don't look so good, honey."
Hermione flinched and only then realized that she had already left the elevator, walked down the hallway, and was standing in front of the door with a sign "Aurors Headquarters". And that old before her occupied the office adjacent to hers. Hermione couldn't remember his name and so she simply shrugged non-commitally and pushed the door open.
Everything here was different from the other Ministry departments. A different atmosphere. Hermione always thought that in here, on the razor's edge between life and death, good and evil, crime and repentance, everything – both joy and sorrow – were felt sharper, brighter. It was as if those who worked here tried to breathe their deepest, live their fullest, because they never knew when their lives would come to an end.
Hermione stood in the beginning of a long aisle between the aurors' cubicles. It was loud here; notes were constantly flying over the cubicle walls.
"Hey, Hermione, what brings you here?" an Auror she knew headed toward her with a wide smile on her tired face.
"Is Harry here?" she asked instead of answering, not even capable of summoning and answering smile.
"Yeah, I don't believe he has left yet. He and his team had three calls today; he must be taking a break somewhere. Feel free to look around," the Auror waved her hand vaguely toward the back of the room and walked out.
There were still a lot of people here. Hermione was constantly hailed by people she knew, but she swept past them on her way to Harry Potter's office. She finally pushed open a grim-looking door and was enveloped by the silence of a space as small as her own.
She knew this room down to the last scratch on the floor. One wall was plastered with photographs of the wanted criminals, status charts and tables. This wall was in the shadow. The shelf above the messy desk (although Harry had no problem finding stuff on it) held the Dark Arts books. Among them – the practicing kit that Lupin and Sirius gave Harry for Christmas many years ago. On a table in the far corner were various objects, both proven and suspected to be holding dark magic. On top of the closet where – as Hermione knew – Harry kept work clothes and a change of robes was a box with Weasley Wheezes defense objects. Next to it was the broomstick. And in the darkest corner stood a chair, its cushions worn down by hundreds of people sitting in it.
There was not a single picture of Potter or Weasley family members, no personal pictures at all. And Hermione had a good idea why.
When her eyes adjusted to the gloom – the room only had one small window and it currently showed the night sky – the woman was able to see the office's sole inhabitant. He sat in the chair, arms wrapped around the dark-haired head, his face hidden, elbows rested on his knees. He wasn't moving, and his breathing came noiselessly. Hermione hoped that Harry wouldn't catch aa chill – he was only wearing a light-weight shirt and the room was freezing cold.
It was not from cold that Hermione shivered, however, but from her friend's pose. She knew this pose and these stooped shoulders, and the noiseless breathing.
The woman quietly got to her knees in front of Harry and lightly touched his cold arm with her fingers. He started and looked up. His eyes faintly shone in the semi-darkness. He wasn't wearing glasses.
She knew – she remembered – this expression on his face. She could recognize it even in the dark. This was the grimace which he wore upon his return from that raid five years ago. He didn't say anything then; he didn't complain. He simply sat like this, all night long, staring off into space.
"Harry," Hermione whispered, taking his hand in hers and and rubbing it between her warm palms. "Have you gone insane? You will get sick."
"I do not have a fireplace here," he answered simply, still frozen and not making an attempt to move. "You know that."
"Harry, are you a wizard or what?" she smiled weakly at her own question. They liked to tease each other like that since their first year at Hogwarts when Hermione panicked and didn't know where to get file to release Ron from the Devil's Snare.
Harry didn't smile; he did not react at all. Hermione felt that he was at the very end of his physical and emotional strength.
"I could not conjure a fire," he said thickly, confirming his friend's suspicion. "Like back then, during the battle at Hogwarts: I could not conjure a Patronus."
"You are just tired," Hermione drew forward, letting go of his hand – it dropped limply in his lap – and stroked his hair, looking into his eyes. They were right next to hers and seemed almost black now. "Do you remember what Luna said then?"
"'We are still here and the battle continues'," Harry mumbled, but his voice became a little more animated. Hermione rejoiced even at this sign of progress; she then reached over his shoulder to feel for the wand in his back pocket. For a moment, she smelled his scent – musk, au de cologne, and a little male sweat. Then she pulled away.
"The battle continues, Harry," she said tenderly, inserting his wand into his cold palm. "They will not win unless we allow them to win."
Harry finally gripped the wand that was his faithful companion during the battle with the greatest of dark wizards – and, perhaps, feeling the warmth from the contact, heartened up a little. He waved the wand. Blue fire that Hermione invented during her first year at Hogwarts sprang to life in a little bowl on his desk. Another bowl, a little smaller than the first, lit up in the corner, then another one, and another, until the room was filled with a blue glow. Hermione instantly felt the warmth coming from the flames.
"Don't sit on the floor," Harry said, reaching out to her, and Hermione sat in his lap, hugging him tightly. How many contradictions were in this man – so strong, and yet so fragile; so firm, yet so easily hurt; capable of loving, but also of so fiercely; capable of succeeding at most difficult missions, yet so easily discouraged by failures.
A boy with green eyes, who was not afraid to pursue the Philosopher's stone, while facing a much stronger adversary; a friend, who would not leave a little girl to die in the terrible Chamber of Secrets, raising his sword instead against a eons-old monster; a godson, who was ready to do anything to save the only family member who loved him; a boy, who did not break down after his friend was killed before his very eyes, not even when he stood face to face with his enemy without his trusted godfather and his wise mentor; a youth who defeated death itself.
They sat in the dark and she felt him getting warmer. Hermione stroked his hair and his back so that the terrible tension would leave his body. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the headrest; his face looked a calmer; the sharp lines and wrinkles smoothed out; the convulsively contracted muscles relaxed. He breathed more evenly now and his hands relaxed on her back.
"You have to go home and get some rest," Hermione whispered to her friend, but he only shook his head. "Why not?"
"I won't be able to pretend, not today," he said and opened his eyes. Despair and fear look out of them at Hermione, scaring her.
"But Ginny is worried."
"I sent her an owl," he said in the same flat tone. "I wrote that I had a night call."
"Harry," Hermione said with a light reproach, looking him in the eye, "Why do you lie to her? She doesn't deserve it."
"I told you – I do not have the strength to pretend. I need a little time."
"Why pretend?" Hermione was worried now. She drew back, still sitting in her lap. "What is going on, Harry?"
"A lot is going on, Hermione," he said vaguely, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it.
"You are scaring me."
"I am sorry, I didn't want to," a shadow of a smile touched his lips. "I just don't want Ginny to see me… like this. I don't want her to worry. It won't change anything anyway."
"She has a right to know, Harry. She loves you! And if you think that she does not feel that something is going on, then you are mistaken. And you are making it doubly hard by hiding the truth from her." Hermione looked him straight in the eye, not letting him look away. "Harry, she loves you. She will understand."
"No," said Harry categorically. "I will not have her carry an even heavier burden."
"Listen to yourself, Harry! You are speaking – and acting, too – like Dumbledore! You are hiding the truth from us and meting out the information when you think it is the right time! Remember where such behaviour ended Dumbledore, Harry!"
"I remember, I always do," he looked away, pursed his lips, and frowned.
"Forgive me," Hermione said quietly as she realized that she reminded her friend not only of the Headmaster's mistakes, but also of his own, that led to the death of the last person close to his family. "I just don't want you to end up the same way… You are different, Harry. You are better."
He did not reply, either not wanting to argue, or not having the strength to.
"Go home, please," Hermione pleaded, stroking his cheek again. "Ginny will understand everything; she won't ask if you don't want to tell her. Just let her be close to you. For the one who loves, even that is a lot."
Harry gazed into the brown eyes that reflected the dancing blue flames, and then dropped his head warily onto Hermione's chest, hugging her close. Only then he whispered:
"Ok."
Hermione breathed a sigh of relief, feeling his hands against her back – they were warm now. She knew that she had to make him get up and go home, right this minute. She knew that Ginny wasn't sleeping, even having received an owl post. She knew that it wasn't she who should be in Harry's arms right now. But she decided to give him – and herself – a couple more minutes. And then they would go home.