Chapter 36: The Parallel

Ron and Harry were late; no surprise there. Hermione drummed her fingers absentmindedly on the desk, simultaneously bored and anxious. As much as she disliked being late, she especially disliked tardiness in others.

She glanced up, biting the inside of her cheek as she narrowly avoided the direct blow of Professor Snape's signature scowl. His eyes darted quickly from her to the empty seats beside her, and she shifted uncomfortably to avoid his sullen glare.

It was happening again, she thought, blinking away a strange feeling that she couldn't quite place.

Hermione was given to vague, opaque metaphysical shifts at times, not that she had ever told anyone about them. They were nothing more than feelings of déjà vu, she supposed, though that was more a muggle term for the sensation; nothing alarming, of course. Just instances where she would hear a familiar voice in her head - whispering to her, consoling her, like a conversation from a dream; or she'd see a bright, pale flash in her mind that would momentarily tear her attention away from whatever she was looking at or thinking about.

She attempted, as always, to shake the feeling, still averting her gaze. Perhaps she was permitting herself to indulge in some kind of meaningless whimsy, but she had an inexplicable feeling that if she were to meet Snape's eyes - however innocently - she would surely tumble into one such distracting recollection.

"Not minding Potter and Weasley quite so successfully this term, are we, Miss Granger?" Snape drawled lazily. "Perhaps the Christmas holidays have had a detrimental effect on their ability to travel through space and time?"

She heard a snicker behind her and she turned sharply to glare at Theo Nott and the Slytherins that made up the minority of the class. As soon as she did, she regretted it; she should have known that the simple act of acknowledging Nott's derision would have been fuel enough for his usual taunts.

"Temper, temper," Nott mused condescendingly. "Or are you upset that Gryffindor's golden boy and his weasel boyfriend have finally chosen each other and left you on your own?"

She felt it again, the strange jolt at his words that she hadn't been expecting. The sentiment itself was void and worthless as far as she concerned; neither Nott nor any other member of his house, frankly, were worthy of her time or attention. She was troubled, though, by the strange internal shifting she seemed to be experiencing yet again - the odd, ringing haze, as though she'd had this precise dream before. Even the way Nott's green eyes flashed seemed somehow eerily familiar, which didn't make sense. As far as she could fathom, they'd rarely spoken; and if they had, it would have been wholly unremarkable.

Surely she would have remembered a dream featuring Theo Nott, wouldn't she?

It was only at the sound of Nott's intolerable snicker that she realized she was staring.

"Hit a nerve, have I?" Nott mused, garnering the appreciative jeers of his fellow Slytherins. As he turned to the seat next to him, however, his haughty face twisted in surprise to find that its usual occupant – his teammate in pathetic sneering and derogatory heckling – was absent.

"Malfoy not so perfect either then, Nott?" Hermione scoffed, turning her back on him decisively. She grinned slightly to herself then, relishing in the moment. She didn't expect much wit from Theodore Nott, and was pleasantly surprised by the ammunition of Malfoy's absence.

She had had just about enough of Malfoy this year; his absence was out of character – he had, after all, come close to her performance in his O.W.L.s and seemed to find a bit more value in academia than did her two best friends – but Harry simply would not stop talking about him since their run-in on the train. Hermione found Harry's preoccupation with Malfoy utterly laughable; at his best Draco Malfoy was competent. Maybe intelligent. Possibly – and this was already a major stretch - skilled in some areas of wizardry. But capable of carrying out serious damage to anyone, particularly while under Dumbledore's watchful eye?

Something itched inside her, somewhere inside her chest.

What do you think it will do to me?

She heard herself answer.

To your soul, you mean?

At the sound of feet shuffling in quickly behind her, she turned to meet the eyes of the red-faced and breathless Harry and Ron, violently shaking away the leap she'd experienced at the words that felt so heartbreakingly familiar.

"What did you do, run here from Surrey?" she hissed quietly to Harry as he sat on her left, scrambling for his notes. "Where –"

"We got distracted," Ron interrupted, sitting on her right. She took a moment to look at him, a jarring wave of uncertainty suddenly washing over her, uninvited.

Does he excite you? Does he push your limits, does he test you, does he keep you on your toes?

She shivered. Where had that come from?

She gritted her teeth, straining to concentrate. "Obviously, Ronald, I have eyes –"

"Miss Granger. Surely your lecture can wait until after mine is through," Snape said curtly, "and Potter, Weasley – perhaps we should start class on your schedule? Or better yet, perhaps excuse you from my instruction, seeing as you have dealt so many crushing blows to the Dark Arts already."

His words were positively dripping with sarcasm and still they felt wrong - somehow. Something felt wrong.

Hermione fought through the dizzying, oncoming haze to let her eyes flick nervously to Harry, noting that his posture was alarmingly erect while he stubbornly maintained an insubordinate glare. He didn't speak, and a small part of Hermione fought the urge to check if he was breathing. The rest of her, though, was jittery and unfocused, her mind racing.

It was unsettling. All of it - and yet none of it.

"This year," Snape began slowly, "Professor Slughorn and I decided to attempt a collaboration between Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts. I, of course," he continued airily, "will be the one to determine your success, though if you have any questions pertaining to his subject, you are free to approach Professor Slughorn for . . . assistance."

Hermione could hardly hear him over the sound of a faint ringing in her ears, a slight interference in her airwaves. Like she was tuning into a frequency that didn't yet exist.

"The assignment is to create a draught that would aid or cure a curse, if you are ever to endure one at the hands of the Dark Arts."

She had an image now of something, of someone . . . face down on the ground, a river of blood. She shuddered violently, and at the same time she heard it -

Only you, Hermione. Always you.

"Both the curse and its corresponding potion are open to your choosing."

Snape's ongoing words were little more than a whisper against the boisterous rush of the images flooding her mind. Dreams?

Or memories?

A copper cauldron, the shattered glass of upended vials, a golden hue, a flash of stormy grey, white walls, and then the red - dark, viscous, and she was drowning in it -

"You will have one month to complete this assignment with a partner, as potions of great difficulty can require some additional time and skill. I advise you to push the limits of your ability, as I will not award points to lazy or unoriginal work."

She could barely look up; her chest was painfully tight, her breathing labored.

If something happens to me -

No!

It's not your outcome to control.

But -

You know, don't you?

Her heart was pounding. Snape was saying something, his narrative continuing but she couldn't hear him over the sound of voices. The sound of fear - of true, bodily, visceral fear, flooding through her, drowning her -

The classroom door opened and she didn't dare look up, knowing - somehow - who it would be. Who it must be.

Let me save a piece of your soul this time.

I won't let you forget.

Protect his heart.

Promise me.

I promise.

They had a love that was stronger even than death.

You're not alone.

I miss you.

You're not alone.

Please give them a happy ending.

You're not alone.

I wish that had been the story -

Ron reached out to grip her wrist. "Are you okay?" he whispered, but she couldn't answer, she was doubled over in her seat -

You're not alone.

I wish I'd run.

Why didn't we just run?

You're not alone.

This life or any other -

"Ah, Severus."

At the sound of the new voice, the pain in Hermione's chest slowly ebbed, the ringing in her ears gradually subsiding.

Snape looked up. "Headmaster?" he asked, his tone uncharacteristically betraying surprise. Harry, too, leaned forward, curious at his presence.

"Ah," Dumbledore said, looking around the room. "Assigning partners, are you?"

"Clearly," Snape mumbled irritably. "Were you interested in participating?" he posed, gesturing. "Does selecting class assignments now fall under the Headmaster's purview?"

"Oh, surely it was never exempt," Dumbledore said merrily. "Actually, Severus, I wondered if I might borrow Mr. Potter?" he asked. "Conveniently, then, Miss Granger can be paired with Mr. Weasley."

Hermione looked up to see Dumbledore looking curiously at her; at the back of the classroom, she caught a glimpse of Malfoy and shuddered.

"Are you okay?" Ron asked again, and she nodded slowly. Her knees felt weak, but the lingering pain was starting to fade.

"Oh you think so?" Snape asked Dumbledore drily, glaring at Harry as though he had somehow made this happen.

Dumbledore shrugged. "If it suits you," he said primly, though Hermione could tell the decision had been made.

"Fine," Snape barked, grimacing. "Potter, go with Dumbledore. Granger and Weasley - Malfoy and Nott - "

Abruptly, any lingering trace of dizziness was gone from Hermione's mind; she took a cool breath of air, like the wind in the classroom had somehow changed.

Harry stood, edging his way from behind her chair. "I'll tell you guys about it later," he muttered, and Hermione nodded vacantly.

"Anything else?" Snape asked, crossing his arms and continuing to glare sulkily at Dumbledore.

"Yes," Dumbledore replied, turning over his shoulder. "The secret duelling tournament that the school has no doubt heard about has been canceled," he said, nodding pleasantly. "That's all!"

With a final sweep of his heavily robed arm, he and Harry disappeared behind the classroom door, any lingering trace of her episode of mania gone with them.

"So," Ron posed, laying his head down on the desk and looking rather adoringly at her. "Which potion do you want to do?"

Her mind whispered to her. Sanare Pura.

Hermione frowned. Where had that come from?

"Um," she started.

No. Too difficult, she determined, eyeing Ron's eyes as they drooped sleepily.

"I'll just do it," she muttered hastily, and Ron gave her an approving nod, patting her knee affectionately.

Across the room, Draco's pulse slowly returned to normal.

Hermione watched Harry's pale, sickened expression from where she sat in the common room.

"I won't say 'I told you so,'" she said hesitantly, and Ron glared at her.

"Leave it, Hermione," he snapped angrily.

She sighed, reminded once more whose team Ron would always choose. But really, Harry was in the wrong here, wasn't he? It was foolish. Beyond foolish. Trusting that spell. Trusting that book. He'd nearly killed Malfoy, hadn't he?

Malfoy. She'd heard he nearly bled out, and she couldn't stop her brain from formulating the image, the river of blood that sometimes invaded her thoughts.

The crimson tint, and a pale white hand - a flash of gold -

"I told you there was something wrong with that Prince person," she muttered, fighting to draw herself away from whatever threatened to seep from the crevices of her mind. "And I was right, wasn't I - "

"No, I don't think you were," Harry said stubbornly, but she could barely hear him.

"Harry," she said groggily, her head suddenly heavy with fear.

The amount of blood was astonishing, staggering -

It was like something out of one of his nightmares -

She felt a primal scream erupt from her lungs as she desperately tried to cover his wounds, scrambling to stop the bleeding -

"How can you still stick up from that book when that spell - "

He shouted at her and she responded, answers reaching her tongue in a practiced way; for she was rehearsed, wasn't she? It was her job, wasn't it? Protect Harry, help him see things clearly.

Harry.

Harry first.

This life or any other -

She slowly caught her breath.

They were coming. They were coming, and it was his fault.

Draco heard a whisper in his mind, the smell of something familiar.

Vanilla. Gardenia. Rose.

Strength and comfort. The peaceful cadence that occasionally traipsed through his thoughts.

I love you.

He'd never understood it. It was painful and soothing, crushing and comforting, strident and fulfilling, and all of it at once.

I want you to feel it, the way it beats for you.

He'd never understood it.

But now he raised his wand.

Albus opened his eyes, blinded momentarily until a shadow came over him.

Severus . . . please . . .

He remembered now.

"I was falling," he explained, and he thought he saw the shadow nod.

"I'm beginning to think you're taking advantage of my hospitality, Albus," Death rumbled in his stuffy, formal way, and Albus closed his eyes.

"You again," he sighed, comforted by the presence of an old friend.

The drawing room dazzled after the darkness outside, but alarm bells were going off in Hermione's head, growing louder with each step as she was shoved inside the Manor.

Something horrible is about to happen here, she thought, her breathing labored with fear.

No.

She closed her eyes, seeing it again - the river of blood. The flash of a silvery pale glow that was suddenly and violently extinguished.

This life or any other -

No, the voice said again.

Something horrible has already happened here.

"Look, Draco, isn't it the Granger girl?"

Vanilla. Gardenia. Rose.

"I . . . maybe . . . "

Of course it was her. Everyone knew it was her. The Dark Lord would know it was her, and then who would be punished?

His mother's blue eyes were wide.

Bile erupted in his throat, his heart searing through his chest.

" . . . yeah."

I'm sorry.

The glint in her eyes was so familiar.

Vanilla. Gardenia. Rose.

So were her screams.

So was the pain.

But the volume of his shame - that was new, and he might have reveled in it, in the concept of finally uncovering a tangible newness, a departure from the haunting haze of vague familiarity that he'd never been able to explain - if he hadn't wanted so badly to die from it. To be struck down because of it.

Vanilla. Gardenia. Rose.

He'd never understood it, but today it brought him to his knees.

When the pain became too much and her throat was hoarse from screaming she wearily turned her head, catching the blurry form of his dark robes from where she lay on her back.

"Hi," she whispered, straining the tips of her fingers to reach him. "I know you."

He seemed saddened at that, if such a thing were possible.

"Not yet," Death said grimly, his reptilian lips pressed thin.

She felt a tear slip from the corner of her eye.

"It hurts," she told him, ashamed.

He shook his head. "Hold on," he said softly. "You've been through worse."

This life or any other -

She sighed. "Okay," she agreed, a glimpse of red hair coming into view.

Theo's hands were shaking.

"I won't do it," he said, his voice breaking. "I won't do it."

The first year Ravenclaw had big hazel eyes, just like Daphne.

"I won't do it," he said again, turning to walk out of the room.

"Coward," Crabbe spat from behind him. "You're worthless, Nott - not 'alf the man your father is - "

Theo whipped around instantly, stalking forward with his wand aimed steadily at Crabbe's throat. From across the room, Amycus Carrow curled his hand around his mouth, silently observing.

"Do it," Theo hissed through his teeth, grabbing onto Crabbe's collar. "Give me a reason."

Crabbe grunted his amusement. "You don't 'ave it in you," he snarled. "You're soft - "

"Crucio," Theo said blankly, holding Crabbe up with one hand as other pressed his wand against the folds of thicker boy's skin. He watched Crabbe convulse dangerously, felt him start to extinguish - but he didn't let go, didn't relent.

So this is how it feels to make someone else suffer.

Theo felt a rough shove and stumbled backwards unsteadily as someone took him by the shoulders, backing him against the wall in time to see Crabbe crumple to the ground.

I would warn you, then . . .

"Don't," Draco said, his voice firm. "Don't lose yourself like this."

It's best to stray towards the light.

Theo gritted his teeth, watching the shallow rise and fall of Crabbe's chest. "He asked for it - "

"Don't," Draco said again, his grey eyes downcast. "Stay with me, Theo."

Theo swallowed heavily.

You're my brother.

"Stay with me, Lancelot," Draco muttered in his ear, and Theo slowly relaxed.

Severus was pacing the floor of his office, his face tight and tortured.

"Students are receiving the Cruciatus Curse," he said bluntly, his overlong robes flapping as he turned. "They are disappearing - "

He looked up, desperately facing the portrait of his predecessor. "What do I do?" he demanded. "Surely there is something I can do?"

Albus looked glum.

"It's too soon to tell," he pronounced flatly, and Severus sank helplessly into his chair.

Hermione's breathing was slowly returning to normal, even as Harry's agitation seemed to be rising.

"The Dark Lord no longer seeks the Elder Wand only for your destruction, Mr. Potter," Ollivander said, his pale, emaciated face in stark contrast with the soft, faded sheets. "He is determined to possess it because he believes it will make him truly invulnerable."

"And will it?" Harry asked tightly.

"The owner of the Elder Wand must always fear attack," said Ollivander, "but the idea of the Dark Lord in possession of the Deathstick is, I must admit . . . formidable."

Hermione felt something at that, something residual, and deep. A yearning. A calling, like her blood had suddenly begun to pulse in tune with something out of reach.

Perhaps it was only the chilling thought, or the particular choice of words, Hermione thought, eyeing the glint that had appeared in not only Ollivander's eyes, but in Harry's as well.

"You - you think this wand really exists, then, Mr. Ollivander?" she asked tentatively, fighting a rush of blood in her ears, a tingling in her extremities.

He grimaced. "Oh yes."

She felt something in her hand, like her fingers themselves were remembering. The slim curves, the slickness of the wood.

Slickness?

The crimson tint, the river of blood.

Her knees buckled.

"You have one hour."

The words were ringing in his head as Draco and the other Slytherins marched slowly out of the hall. To what? To the dungeons? To the Death Eaters?

Or just to death?

Something weighed heavily on him. Something. Like always.

Something he couldn't explain.

What will you allow to destroy you? Him?

Or you?

Draco turned abruptly, reaching out for Theo.

"I have to go," he said, and he knew his face must have looked tortured.

"I can't - " Theo looked helplessly to Daphne, who was shaking beside him and gripping her sister's slender form so tightly there were white outlines surrounding the pads of her fingers. "I can't leave her - "

"Don't leave her," Draco agreed adamantly. "Get everyone safe."

Theo's face was pained, his entire posture torn with indecision. "But - "

"Just do it, Theo!" Draco shouted, turning to run. He had no idea where he was going, what he was running to, but it was there, that feeling - the feeling of being pulled - being yanked by something -

He turned the corner and swiftly collided with what felt like a padded brick wall.

"Where're you 'eaded, Malfoy?" Crabbe drawled, his mouth slipping into a grotesque, silky grin as Goyle crossed his arms wordlessly.

His stomach sank. "I - "

"I thought so," Crabbe replied brusquely, throwing an arm over his shoulder and leading him away from the others. "Now. Where're we off to?"

Draco didn't know. He'd never known.

"Potter," he lied.

Vanilla. Gardenia. Rose.

"Hermione Granger, I have seen your heart, and it is mine."

The voice was strangely transfixing, she thought, holding the fang above what had once been Helga Hufflepuff's cup. There was so little light in the Chamber, she thought, squinting in the darkness, and any that existed seemed to come somehow from the cup itself, the golden sheen of it twisted and corrupted.

"I can see your dreams, Hermione Granger, and I can see your fears. All you desire is possible, but all that you dread is also possible - "

She was paralyzed for a moment, her body responding to the familiarity of the words.

"An outcast, always, rejected by your peers . . . an outcast as a muggle, an outcast as a witch . . . not enough for your friends, who would choose each other over you . . . not enough for the one you love, who will always see through you to your dirty blood . . . an outsider, always, never to belong . . . "

"That's not true, Mione!" Ron yelled. "Stab it!"

It isn't true, she agreed, frowning. Ron had never once questioned her blood.

The bloody thing wasn't just evil. It was wrong. And if there was one thing Hermione Granger couldn't abide, it was a wrong answer.

She plunged the fang deep into the heart of the cup, feeling a fire burning in her lungs as she heard a loud clang of metal and a long, drawn out scream, the dying sound of the Dark Lord's abhorrent soul.

A horcrux is not enough - I want to see him bleed -

She jumped back, letting the fang clatter to the floor.

"What was that?" she asked, panting.

"What was what?" Ron asked, taking her hand.

Let go of me - LET GO OF ME -

"Probably just the residual effect," she said, dazed. "Like an aftershock, maybe."

Only you, Hermione. Always you.

"Let's get out of here," she managed hoarsely, turning and taking off at a run.

Face to face with Potter and Draco could barely stand to look him in the eye.

"So how come you three aren't with Voldemort?" Potter asked coldly, and Draco wished he had a better answer for why he'd come.

I don't know. I've never known.

"We're gonna be rewarded," said Crabbe. "We 'ung back, Potter. We decided not to go. Decided to bring you to 'im."

"Good plan," Potter mocked.

It felt like a cruel dream being back here. Draco was ill at the thought.

"So how did you get in here?" Potter asked, obviously trying to distract them. Not that Draco needed the distraction.

"I virtually lived in the Room of Hidden Things all last year," he choked out, his voice ragged. "I know how to get in."

He knew very few things, but he knew how to get in.

Goyle was babbling and then Crabbe was pointing his wand - the fool - but Draco could feel it, whatever it was - the pull. Whatever it was.

He'd never known.

The near collapse of the mountain of old furniture, the books and junk that were so quintessential to this room, woke Draco from his reverie.

"No!" he shouted, staying Crabbe's arm as the idiot moved to repeat his spell, trying desperately to think of a reason the piggish thug might understand. "If you wreck the room you might - " he paused, breaking off. "You might bury this diadem thing - "

"What's that matter?" Crabbe grunted, tugging himself free. "It's Potter the Dark Lord wants, who cares about a diadem?"

"Potter came in here to get it," said Draco tightly, still feeling the swell of whatever he couldn't reach. "So that must mean - "

"'Must mean'?" Crabbe turned on him. "Who cares what you think? I don't take your orders, Draco. You an' your dad are finished - "

More babbling from Crabbe, Draco thought desperately, tuning him out. It was all a blur - Don't kill him! - STOP! - He wants him alive - sounds and spells and then fire -

"It's that Mudblood! Avada Kedavra!"

Vanilla. Gardenia. Rose.

"NO!"

"But don't you realize?" she whispered. "If we can just get to the snake - "

But there was no time for realizations, no time for whatever was pulsing around her, whatever was orbiting her and just within reach.

She saw him again in his hooded robe, out of the corner of her eye - and she turned, questioning -

"I thought you said - "

"Not you," Death said simply, cutting her off. "Not you. Keep going."

She felt for the blood where it was caked in her hair, felt the slow trickle of it dripping down her neck.

"But if it's not me - "

"KEEP GOING!" Death shouted, and she struggled to her feet in the wreckage.

Dudley looked up from his magazine, the seventh time it had been read since they'd been holed up for their protection.

"Do you ever wonder if there's something . . . more?" he asked his parents. "Something different we're supposed to be doing?"

They exchanged a look.

"Eat your bacon, Duddy," his mother said cheerfully, reaching out to pinch his cheek.

Death watched the boy and the girl where they stood apart from each other, their eyes on the Chosen One where he was carried, tiny and limp in the arms of the giant. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

Who continued to live, despite the calculated charade.

Death did not feel cheated, despite what tellers of tales would say.

The girl looked to Death first, her eyes dripping with tears he guessed she did not know she was weeping. How telling, he thought, that she would look to him for comfort. How indicative of the struggles she scarcely knew she'd lived, that she'd learned to recognize Death.

No, he told her silently. I'm not here for him.

The boy glanced over repeatedly, his pale blond head shining amidst the darkness - the robes, the bodies, the broken bits and rubble. Everything was dark, including Death himself; he knew he did little but contribute to the chaos, but his presence there was purposeful.

He was here for something. Someone, in particular.

For Death was not an envious being, nor was he possessive. How could he be, when men like Albus Dumbledore were permitted to bend time and history to their will so long as they walked the earth? The boy himself continued to live long past his time, and Death could not hold that against him. Would not hold that against him. Death did not suffer the trivialities of greed. Of selfishness.

But while Death could appreciate a skillful hand, he had never learned to like a cheater. And a man who need be destroyed eight times to be his? Who challenged his authority as though Death himself did not know the rules?

Well.

Death had come to personally collect.

It was over, Draco thought with relief, his arm around his mother. She was clutching at him desperately. Pulling him away.

"Come, Draco," she beckoned softly. Pleadingly.

She was pulling him away. From what?

Vanilla. Gardenia. Rose.

He'd never known.

"How did we survive?" he croaked, feeling the grime on the tips of his fingers. "Why did we survive?"

"That's not ours to question," she whispered back.

Dumbledore's portrait was looking at her strangely but she didn't care. She felt emptied and sick. Hollow and swollen. The wand in Harry's hand was generating a buzz in the room that she couldn't ignore but she couldn't possibly focus, her mind pulling her elsewhere. Her hand was in Ron's but she could barely feel it, like her limbs belonged to someone else.

"And then there's this," Harry said, raising the wand.

Hermione slipped her hand out of Ron's, suddenly remembering the feel of the wood against her palm.

The slickness of the wood against her palm.

She swallowed the urge to vomit, suppressed the desire to run.

"I think Harry's right," she managed softly.

But she could feel her heart beating in the wood.

Moving on.

Moving on - from what?

He'd never known.

"Go back," Narcissa urged. "Go back to Hogwarts."

"I can't go back," he muttered. "I can't."

All was well? Not hardly.

She sat up straight, her heart racing.

You think this is just one of our lives?

This life or any other -

"What is it?" Ron mumbled sleepily, blindly reaching for her hand.

"I don't know," she whispered.

She'd never known.

Something about her hair under his fingers . . . it wasn't quite right.

"I love you," Astoria said sweetly.

Only you. Always you.

Not quite right.

"I love you," he replied.

She smelled like the air of a summer night, she was the feeling of freedom under his fingers. Like a splash of cold water in a moment of crisis.

Still -

Vanilla. Gardenia. Rose.

Not quite right.

a/n: Dedicated to MoonNott and LawlietHanabi. Chapter 37 very shortly.