I've had this piece left lying around unfinished since December, and I figured it's about time I wrote up the full thing and gave it some resolution. It's my first attempt at a second person POV and I spent ages trying to get it right.
It was supposed to round out at about 3,000 words. I may have, uh, overstepped my goal. Just a little bit. Go figure.
Major, massive, giantamando thank yous to both Bex and Ari for helping me with this piece. I've whined and cried to them for practically every section and they patted me on the head and gave me all the cookies and I love them lots. Seriously. So much love. So thank you to Ari, my fabulous, tireless beta and thank you to Bex, my best cheer-wonder. You two have been fantastic to me.
Written for the March assignment for the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry and well as for a host of other challenges in the same forum.
Assignment #4: Etiquette (The Dos and Don'ts of Table Etiquette)
Task #3: If you do not want a refill DO politely decline the offer, and DON'T flip the cup over or place your hand over the cup. Write about someone who has had enough of something/someone/a situation.
Disclaimer: J.K Rowling is not a goddess, but her writing is magical, and I can never compare. So, she keeps the characters, the places and her own created world, while I borrow them all every now and then like the pathetic human I am. The plot is all mine though!
Warnings: references to canon deaths
Word count: 7616 words
"Hermy, I want to tell you something."
You're seven years old, sitting still on the only occupied swing in your school's play area. Kids all around you are screeching and hollering, playing with a big ball. Some of them sit cross-legged on the ground, colouring painstakingly on torn sheets of paper. One boy is swinging upside down on the monkey bars.
You're sitting on the only occupied swing, scuffing your right foot lightly as you read the detective novel you brought to school especially for break. Your favourite hero is just about to declare how a nefarious robbery was committed, and you have your own theory about who the thief is. Only a chapter to go till you find out if you're right.
And suddenly, you're not the only one occupying the swing sets.
"Hermy, I want to tell you something."
You look up with a questioning hum, finding the face of your best friend gazing earnestly at you from the next swing.
"Yes?"
Ally blinks wide eyes at you. "Erin told me that you're a mean person and I shouldn't be friends with you."
You blink back, confused. "Okay?"
"Are you mean to others?"
You give Ally a look. "You should know if I am or not; you're my best friend."
Ally bites her lip and looks at the ground. "Erin said that you're only mean when I'm not looking."
You frown. "And you believe her?"
Ally shrugs. "Erin's nice. Everyone likes her."
You frown harder, tucking a thumb between the pages like a makeshift bookmark, and close the cover of your book. "So you believe her."
"Mm-hmm," she mutters to the ground. "Sorry, Hermy. But I can't be your best friend anymore." She's up from the swing quick as a flash, leaving the little plum-coloured bench swaying softly behind her as she runs with a hopeful smile to a smug-looking girl with pretty long hair. Erin.
You stare at the empty space she leaves behind dumbly, then at where she bounces lightly in place next to Erin, then at your closed book with your thumb still in. You don't throw your book to the ground. You don't burst into tears. You don't even stomp away.
But you never let a soul call you 'Hermy' ever again.
.oOo.
It's your eleventh birthday. There's just a cake and your parents because they stopped believing in birthdays since your sixth one. So of course, you don't believe in birthdays either. Erin had had a whole party on her birthday a few months ago, which you weren't invited to. But that's okay because you don't want to be like Erin anyway. A simple store-bought cake with eleven candles, that's all you need. It's more grown-up this way.
You don't get presents, because you have everything you will ever need. You have no need for presents. You have everything you will ever need.
Except.
This birthday, you do get a present. It's in the form of a spry older woman dressed in the weird green garb, wearing a pointy hat on her head. She's the oddest thing you've seen, but you can tell by the rimmed glasses and the severe yet kind, pinched look on her weathered face that she's smart too.
She rings the bell with a letter in her hand, and Mum lets her in because she doesn't know what to say. The lady's name is Professor McGonagall, and she invites herself in for tea like she owns the house. Your father stares at Professor McGonagall like she's the last person he expected to see. Maybe she is; you certainly didn't expect a Professor to join as a guest on your birthday.
Professor McGonagall straightens in her seat once she drains her cup of tea, and you know that whatever this is all about, it's something big.
"Miss Granger," she starts, "Hermione. I want to tell you about the wizarding world."
And you're right, as you always are. It's something big. It's something that will change your life forever.
It's the best birthday present you've ever received.
.oOo.
You're finally at Hogwarts, and the castle is more majestic than you ever dreamed.
It's wonderful. The castle is huge. It has turrets. There are ghosts. The portraits talk. The staircases move. The library is rumoured to be enormous. The classes are going to be magical.
It feels like you're living in a dream. Then, of course, someone has to dump cold water over your head and shock you back to reality.
The only thing remotely good about this is that there's no actual bucket of water that's been poured over you. You hate being cold. It's a small concession.
"Hi! I'm Lavender!" The first one exclaims happily. "We're going to be roomies!" She has this huge smile that stretches her face. You cringe internally.
"And I'm Parvati!" the second one says with the same exuberant smile. You can hear the exclamations in her voice. "It's sooo nice to meet you! We're going to be the best of friends!"
You try not to roll your eyes, but it's hard. You aren't blind, you want to tell them. You saw them shifting away from you on the bench in the Great Hall like you've been labelled the pariah they don't want to be associated with. You do have eyes, but they don't seem to know that.
"I'm Hermione," is all you say. You're going for a civil approach; you want to fall under their radar. These two are going to be trouble.
The first one squeals, nearly startling you. "That is such a pretty name!" she gushes, clapping her hands excitedly. Her blonde curls bounce, and you stare at her disbelievingly, because how is she even real? "Oooh, can we call you Hermy?"
"No," you say firmly.
She pouts. "Why not?"
"Because I don't like it," you say honestly. She looks at you, blinks, then laughs.
The second one laughs with her. You wait for them to finish impatiently, because they're blocking your path further into the dorm.
"Oh, you're adorable!" the second one says brightly. She grabs you then and pulls you into a sideways hug, her voice going progressively shriller in your ear. "We're going to be such good friends!"
You try to smile at them, but it turns out more like a grimace. "How… lovely," you say, trying to wriggle your way out. The second one frowns but finally lets you go.
There are two other girls in the dormitory. They stay by their beds, digging into their trunks, and stay silent. They don't even look your way, and you are thankful for it.
"Hermione, I want to tell you that we're going to be besties," the blond one, Lavender, says sweetly to you. "You're in good hands with us. Oh, and by the way," she smiles, "your bed's over there." She points to a dark corner, the furthest away from both the window and the bathroom. "You were busy asking those Prefects all those many questions, so you got the last pick. You don't mind, do you?"
You sigh. "Why would I?"
The two other girls don't make eye contact with you, but you feel Lavender and Parvati's gazes on your back all the way to your bed. Somehow, the air feels colder in your dark corner of the room.
.oOo.
The classes are wonderful. You're learning just so much. The students though—the students don't like you.
You knew it wouldn't be that clean-cut—you may have thought that you'd fit in among people like you, but you should have known better. The teachers loved you from the very first class, and the students hated you at that very same moment. You were doomed the second you raised your eager hand and answered that very first question.
You persisted for those first few days. Maybe if you helped your peers, maybe if you shared your homework, maybe if you answered some more questions, they would start to like you. Maybe they would be impressed. Maybe you would make a friend.
Six days in, and you've thoroughly given up. You still raise your hand in class now, but that's just because you're petty.
You used to think it childish before, but now you don't care. They don't like you because you're smart; you might as well give them a genuine reason to hate you.
Two months in, however, and you finally learn that you've dug yourself a hole too deep.
It all comes to a head on the day of Halloween. You've been getting glares all day, you've heard every single whisper behind your back, and you take your bad mood out on Ron Weasley, your partner for Charms class. You do feel bad about snapping at him—you walk up behind him after class to apologise, but when you hear Ron Weasley talk about you to Harry Potter, you've finally heard enough.
"It's no wonder no one can stand her," Ron says to his friend, "she's a nightmare, honestly."
You move on instinct, running away to find a quiet place to hide. You knock into someone but you don't stick around to apologise. Parvati and Lavender call out to you in their shrill voices, letting everyone in the hallway know that you're crying, but you just snap at them to leave you alone.
You hide in one of the girls' bathrooms, for lack of a better idea. You don't know how long you spend crying in an empty stall, but it's not long enough. You're eleven years old; you don't know how to deal with this.
When it finally, finally feels like the catharsis is taking effect, you decide enough is enough. You're Hermione Granger. You've dealt with worse. You're not this, this crying mess.
You're better than this.
Clearly, though, fate is trying to tell you something else, because the second you walk out the stall door wearing your best brave face, you're hit with an overwhelming stench of badwrongwrong and the sight of a granite grey, full-bellied gut attached to the ugliest, most horrifying monster you've ever had the fear of letting your eyes witness. The troll—it's a mountain troll, you've read all about them—is scarier than your wildest dreams, mostly because it is less than four feet away from your nose.
You scream.
It's all chaos after that. You're frozen in place, your back flat against a grimy wall, and Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, of all people, come to your rescue. A part of your brain screams and stomps and argues that you're not weak, Hermione, do something, but it's utterly paralysed by the rest of your brain that tells you that you're eleven years old and you don't know how to deal with this.
Harry and Ron do something, and it works. You're not sure if your eyes are seeing right, but you think you see Harry jumping on the troll's back and sticking his wand up its nose. And then Ron Weasley does the Wingardium Leviosa charm he'd failed at this very afternoon and does it right, knocking out the troll with its own wooden club, and you wonder if you're having hallucinations.
The teachers come in at some point. Professor Snape glares at the three of you on principle, but Professor McGonagall looks absolutely furious and it scares you so much more. She looks ready to tear into both Harry and Ron. You put two and two together, listening to the sparse conversation and watching the boys' scared expressions, and you come to a decision.
You don't know why you take the blame for the whole thing, but you do. You tell the teachers that you'd gone looking for the troll yourself and they believe you. You get points taken off from you for the first time in your life and it's horrible. You get reprimanded terribly, getting sent to Gryffindor tower immediately, but for some reason, it feels worth it.
And it is, because when Harry and Ron finally walk into the common room and see you standing at the door, you gain two brand new friends. The three of you mutter an embarrassed "thanks" at the same time, looking anywhere but at each other, silently walking up to where the tables at the centre of the common room are loaded with the dinner dishes.
"Hermione?" Ron says to you shyly, after the three of you finish eating. "I just… I want to tell you that you're not as bad as I said you were this afternoon. Maybe we can be friends after all?"
You're jumping around on the inside, but all you let show is the narrowing of your eyes. You can't be too desperate, after all. "I suppose so," you say suspiciously.
Ron swallows. "I'd… I'd like that," he stutters, and he sounds genuine enough that you believe him.
"Fine," you say, and it's nice to see Ron smile. Harry, at his side, gives you a small smile and a jerky wave, and yes, it's nice. It's a nice feeling.
You have friends now.
.oOo.
Having friends turns out to be more life-threatening than you imagined.
You can't believe yourself sometimes, honestly. You've been breaking rules left and right with more and more fervour since you've had your first taste of it at the beginning of the year. You'd blame your friends for it, but you can't, really. Harry Potter, for example, gets into so much trouble on a daily basis that you've genuinely wondered multiple times how he ever made it alive to eleven.
So, you do what you can to keep your friends alive and unharmed. It takes you through a tangled journey of midnight escapes and unauthorised spell-casting and unapologetic rule-breaking till you reach the point where you are now, frantically telling the Headmaster of the magic school you study in that the three of you have broken the one rule the Headmaster himself has especially set for the school along with many other standard school rules, and your eleven-year-old best friend might suffer for it.
Ron stands silently beside you, still recovering from the blow he'd taken to the head by sacrificing himself to the faceless white queen stone statue in the giant chess game you've had to play your way through against ten-foot-high chess pieces to get to the other side.
Sometimes, you wonder if there is such a thing as too much magic and if all the spell-casting you've done over the year has addled your brain a little.
This is not what you signed up for when you hoped silently for a good lasting friendship. And yet, here you are.
Headmaster Dumbledore seems to know what you're trying to say—which is lucky since you're too breathless to talk clearly, let alone systematically explain the way you and your two best friends have broken multiple Hogwarts rules in one night.
"Where is Harry?" Headmaster Dumbledore interrupts your incoherent attempt at an explanation, and by some tiny miracle you're able to force out the words "trapdoor" and "third-floor corridor".
Headmaster Dumbledore nods his head, his silver beard glistening in the lamplight. "Fawkes," he says to the phoenix perched on his shoulder, "Go."
The bird seems to know where to go, flying off with a flap of its red and gold wings.
Headmaster Dumbledore looks at you then; his smile is genial, but his eyes are serious. "Dear girl, will you take Mr Weasley to the Hospital Wing? He looks like he needs Madam Pomfrey's expert care."
"Of course, Headmaster," you say hurriedly. You grab Ron's hand to get him to Madam Pomfrey, but first, you stop Headmaster Dumbledore before he leaves. "Sir… Sir, will Harry be alright?"
Headmaster Dumbledore slows down to look at you. His smile is kinder this time. "Harry is a resourceful boy, my dear," he says in his gentle voice, "and Fawkes will take good care of him till I get there. You just focus on getting that one to Madam Pomfrey, Miss Granger," he points to Ron, who seems to be swaying in place next to you.
You lead Ron with a hand on his back, the path to the hospital wing already engraved in your mind. Ron isn't talking and you're too worried about Harry to make conversation.
Madam Pomfrey is waiting for you when you arrive—you don't know how she always knows, but she does—and you tell her that Ron's had a bump to the head, but you don't tell her how. She doesn't ask, and you think that she probably already knows that too.
Ron is helped up onto a bed, and you take the seat beside him, settling in for the wait. You have friends now, and you won't abandon them. You need to know that they're okay; that Ron is okay, that Harry is okay.
You just need to know.
Time blurs the minutes you spend waiting in suspense. You hate not knowing things, and this is cluelessness at its finest. You don't know how long you've been frozen still at Ron's bedside, staring into space while your thoughts race, but when you next blink back into focus you're not sitting but standing, clutching the bed rails, and watching earnestly as an unconscious Harry Potter is levitated into the same bed Ron was resting in however many hours ago.
They push you out of the Hospital wing as Madam Pomfrey starts chanting spells and summoning potions from her cupboard, but your last glance at Harry lets you get a glimpse of his peaceful, sleeping face.
Three days.
That's how long it takes for Harry to wake up. You walk into the room with Ron at your side on the third day, feeling significantly more anxious than the first day of Harry's bed rest. The first thing you see is Headmaster Dumbledore's unmistakable purple and orange robes at your friend's bedside.
Headmaster Dumbledore mumbles something unintelligible to Harry when he peeks up over his half-moon rimmed glasses to spot the two of you standing in the doorway. The headmaster stands up with a pat on Harry's shoulder and an audible "take care, my boy" and moves quietly towards you, smiling genially at the undoubted shock on your face.
"Surprised?" he asks you. He is probably addressing both you and Ron, but something about the headmaster always makes you feel like he's talking directly to you. "Harry is a strong boy, children, he'll be back on his feet in no time."
You nod back silently, bemused.
Headmaster Dumbledore smiles brighter, his blue eyes twinkling madly behind his glasses. "I must say, Harry has some good friends. Well done to the both of you."
Beside you, Ron swallows. "Th—Thank you, sir."
The headmaster nods pleasantly and shuffles past you. You and Ron wait silently in unspoken agreement till he leaves out the door, and when he's gone, you both dash madly to Harry's bedside. Harry gives you a bright grin.
You can't help the relieved smile stretching your face as you reach out to hug him tightly. "Harry! You're awake!"
"How do you feel, mate?" Ron asks as you pull away, grinning just as widely.
"Ahh, got a banging headache," Harry responds, wincing, "but otherwise, I'm alright."
"Blimey," Ron says, grimacing. You cringe sympathetically.
"Oh Harry, what happened?" you ask, concerned and a little bit impatient to know. "They wouldn't tell us anything; they brought you in unconscious three days ago and you've been asleep ever since—"
"Woah, Hermione, calm down," Harry raises a hand to stop you. "I'll tell you everything, promise."
You take a deep breath. "Sorry, Harry," you respond sheepishly. "We were worried."
Harry looks a little overwhelmed at the idea of someone worrying over him, which worries you even more. Harry hasn't been very forthcoming about his family, but you've learned enough. You have years to get him used to having friends who are concerned for him, though.
Ron scratches his head at the look on Harry's face, flushing in embarrassment. "Well, I wasn't worried, mate, I knew you'd be right as rain soon enough. I was just… mildly concerned. A little bit."
You roll your eyes at his immaturity. Boys, honestly.
Harry has a tentative little smile on his face. "Hey, Hermione?"
"Hmm?"
Harry's green eyes look bigger than ever behind his ridiculous glasses."I just want to tell you… thank you. For being a good friend. I… I like being friends. It's nice."
You blink, then smile back, pleased. "Well, of course, Harry. I value our friendship a lot."
"Thanks for having my back," Harry adds, his lips quirking in an odd sort of half-smile.
Your smile grows.
"Hey! What about me, mate?" Ron exclaims defensively. You can't help but laugh at the put-out look on his face.
Harry's smile turns into a cheeky grin in an instant. "Well then, Ron, you're a good friend, I guess. Mildly. Just a little bit."
Ron flushes, the freckles on his face making his cheeks turn a blotchy red. Harry laughs at him and you join in, and soon enough all three of you are giggling into the sheets, Ron laughing loudest of all.
You've known each other for nearly a year, but this is the moment that truly cements your friendship. When you settle in to hear Harry's story—and it is quite the story indeed—you have a smile on your face.
.oOo.
Being friends with Ron Weasley nearly drives you round the bend. He's impulsive, reckless, infuriating, and has absolutely no control over his words. He enables Harry in the best and worst sort of way, which makes it doubly harder for you to keep the two of them in line. He gets jealous far too easily, seldom thinks things through, and has a care-a-damn attitude towards rules and safety that never fails to get on your nerves. Ron Weasley is your opposite in almost every way that matters.
Being friends with Harry Potter nearly gets you killed. Multiple times. Over seven years. When Harry's around, imminent injury or death is practically an expectation. You're conditioned to see threats everywhere, from an expensive broom Harry receives from an anonymous source to Harry's sixth-year potions textbook to the jar of peanut butter at the breakfast table. Most of the time, you're usually right.
The three of you have the most unconventional friendship you ever imagined for yourself. While others used to stress over their end-of-year exams, you were researching ways to keep yourselves alive. While others worried about dating and relationships, you've dealt with Time-Turners and love potions. While others worried about their Defense grades during Professor Umbridge's reign, you were losing sleep over thinking up ways to overturn a resurrected Dark Lord who no one else believed was alive.
The three of you have aged before your time, and it shows. With every year that goes by, Harry's jaw grows tenser, his eyes grow tighter, his mouth presses harder, his hands clench tighter. With every year that passes by, you find it harder and harder to recall the Harry of the previous year. As you grow up, the memory of your eleven-year-old best friend grinning with abandon and wonder feels more like a fever dream.
The three of you feel like soldiers sometimes. Pawns in a game you don't know the name of. Killing Voldemort evolves from a scary adventure to your life's mission. You feel like you're carrying the weight of the world—both worlds, Muggle and magical—on your shoulders.
Other days, you feel like you're one of three kids on a magical field trip through a fairytale.
Magic has turned your life into something out of a book. And sharing your experiences over the years with your two best friends has made the past seven years wonderful. It's the little moments that count—the three of you in the library, Ron trying to copy your homework, the trips to Hogsmeade, sneaking out after curfew, Harry fidgeting with his dress robes at the Yule Ball, cleaning out Grimmauld Place together over the summer, the hours spent at the Three Broomsticks drinking butterbeer together, the pretty little locket Ron bought you for your birthday last year.
Hogwarts has changed your life.
It's in these little moments that you've treasured Ron's goofiness and Harry's smiles. It's these little moments that have strengthened your friendship as much as the end-of-year death-trips. It's these little moments that have brought joy to your life, and it's these little moments that keep the three of you spinning around each other, never quite able to let go even when you try to walk away. It's these little moments that have made the three of you inseparable.
It's easy to forget these little moments when you're seventeen years old and holding a wand to your own parents' heads.
It's easy to forget this happiness when you're stealing your parents' identities and memories and packing them off to Australia for their safety—when you're stealing your parents from yourself.
It's easy to forget this peace when you're not just seen as the scum of the earth, but your heritage, your very existence is ruled illegal. It's easy to forget when you're running from the law.
You're seventeen years old and fighting to stay alive in a world of turmoil trying to break you down, but you have your two best friends right there with you.
If the first six years of your friendship were unconventional, the seventh year is downright crazy. It starts with you erasing your parents' memories and it just gets wilder from there. Being on the run is hard; living in a tiny tent with Ron and Harry is an experience you never want to revisit in your life. There's snapping and petty arguments and glaring and heavy silences and an undercurrent of fear that seems to wrap its noose tighter and tighter around your neck, and endless headaches that only you seem to be prone to because Harry and Ron are too busy being depressed in their worlds to complain about any headaches they might be experiencing as well.
And yet, this is as good as it gets.
Because even when tempers are running high and rations are running low, even when you're fumbling and struggling and don't know what to do, even when your mission feels endless and impossible and you have no leads to go on, the three of you are together.
You need each other. You need Ron's survival skills and hidden wisdom and his ability to make light of any situation; you need Harry's resilience and quick thinking and sudden brainwaves, and they need your ability to reason and think ahead, and the protection spells you've studied up on for this very purpose. You need each other.
Your seventh year of friendship is your bleakest one yet, but it takes you on the greatest adventure of your life. There are Horcruxes and lockets and endless forests and dragons—because Harry's life seems to attract all sorts of dragons—and two-timing goblins and Snatchers and swords and everything in between.
And yet, the little moments never stop. There's the second night of camping when you've opened up the cans of soup for dinner and Ron finds a way to heat them up, and you sit around a makeshift, smokeless fire sharing the lighter, more pleasant stories from over the summer. There are nights upon nights poring over maps and throwing out strategies. There's the time Ron smuggled chocolate from an out-of-the-way Muggle store for you and accidentally left too much change to cover the cost. There's the month spent at Grimmauld place, watching Harry spend time with Kreacher while you read the newspapers. There's the feeling of victory when Salazar Slytherin's locket is finally in your hands—the first Horcrux you've found since you embarked on your mission together.
When Ron leaves you alone in the woods, it's the comfort you and Harry take from each other in his absence. The hugs, the understanding silences, the night you spent laughing and stepping on each other's feet in a doomed attempt to dance. It's the wreath you magick into existence for the graves of Harry's parents on the night of Christmas eve.
When Ron comes back and saves Harry from the lake, it's the renewed attempts to heal your friendship, the smiles, the tears, the apologies. It's the newfound understanding that you need each other, you really do. It's the decision you take to never leave each other alone again; and sure enough, not even when Dobby dies do you leave Harry alone to grieve by himself. He protests, of course, and says that he needs space, but you see the relief in his anguished eyes when Ron states that the three of you can grieve together.
Bellatrix Lestrange is a recurring nightmare. Every night, you wake up with the image of her bloodstained smile burned into your eyelids and frantically claw at your arm for signs of more blood. Every night, Ron squeezes your arm and tells you that she hasn't broken you yet and she never will, because you're stronger than that.
There's a pattern over the year. You chase great highs to find nothing, crash and burn till the mission feels hopeless, and then stumble upon success. It is this pattern that gives you hope, which keeps you moving and motivated. It is this pattern that gives you strength—every time you're bruised and broken and hopeless, you remember your analysis and know that the next success is just around the bend.
It's this pattern of failure followed by success that keeps you going. It's the wand in your hand and the contents of your expanding hand-bag which keeps you alive. But it's Ron and Harry who keep you safe.
.oOo.
The Final Battle has ended. Voldemort is dead. Hogwarts is still standing.
You feel a little dead inside.
The chaos hasn't settled yet. The bodies of the deceased are all laid out in neat rows in the Great Hall, with families and friends of the dead gathered around their ice-cold corpses. There are muted sobs and cries coming from all around, but to you, the world has been whitewashed into shocked silence.
Tunnel vision; all you see is Fred's still form lying on the ground, and all the Weasleys crying over him. You see Remus and Tonks laid side by side on the cold stone floor. Death calls to you all around, but all you notice is the death of the ones who felt like family.
It's chilling.
You feel a tight grip on your arm, and look up at Ron. He stands tall; head straight, mouth set—but his eyes stare unblinkingly down at his family, and you know that he's looking at Fred's body with enough grief and guilt to obliterate his state of mind.
Voldemort is dead. This is the price his death costs.
You don't know if the price was worth it.
Harry is kneeling two feet away from the Weasleys, staring fervently at George. George is sobbing harder than Molly, but you see in his eyes that the grief hasn't hit yet. George… George is never going to be the same after today. You wonder whether Harry's thinking the same thing.
Looking again at Harry, you realise what's on his mind. If you and Ron are thinking about the deaths on your hands, Harry is thinking of the people the dead have left behind. Of the lives ruined forever. Of the people who will never be the same. Of the people who are now dead inside.
You have those people on your conscience too.
And suddenly, you find it hard to breathe. You have blood on your wand, blood on your hands, blood on your clothes. There's blood everywhere, blood painting your vision, and it's all because of you. You caused this. You let this happen. You didn't protect the world well enough.
"No, Hermione," you hear a familiar voice whisper roughly into your ear. The grip of the hand on your arm loosens, turns firmer, more reassuring. "Now's not the time for this, 'Mione. Don't panic."
Ron always did know how to handle you best—better than Harry, even. 'Now's not the time' would sound callous to anybody else, but Ron knows how you work. He's right, you don't have time to panic. There are things to be done. There are people who need you. Harry needs you.
You look up at Ron's closed-off face. He glances at Harry, his face blank, before he turns to you. The two of you share a look.
You swallow, and Ron nods slightly.
He bends down to get to Harry's level. "Come on, mate," you hear him whisper. "Stand up." Harry doesn't look away.
You bend down on his other side. "Harry."
Harry's face shutters at your voice. "Come on, Harry," you murmur to him. "Let's go outside. We need some air."
Harry swivels on his knees towards you with enough force that he nearly loses his balance. Ron steadies him by the shoulder. "Outside?" he hisses venomously. You fight not to flinch at the edge in his tone. "Away from this? Away from them? You want to hide? You—"
"Mate," Ron says, and like a deflating balloon, Harry slumps in response. He shakes his head defeatedly; you notice the blood plastering his black curls to one side of his head.
"I… I can't… don't…"
You reach out to grip his other shoulder as gently as you can. "We need to breathe, Harry," you murmur. You bore your eyes into his, trying to make him look at you. "Even you do. We need to breathe."
"Do I deserve to?" he asks in this broken voice, and your heart breaks.
"We need you to," you respond, hoping to stir a reaction from him. A purpose. Something.
"She's right, mate," Ron adds with a squeeze to Harry's shoulder.
Harry finally, finally looks you in the eyes, and watching his edges crack and splinter in the depths of those haunted green eyes knocks the breath out of your lungs.
"Okay."
Together, you and Ron help him to his feet. He sways as he stands; he looks weak. You choke down reflexive nausea as you steady him. He's Harry, he shouldn't be this way. Harry's the strong one.
But not tonight.
Ron gives you a look over Harry's slumped shoulders. Your pursed lips tell him enough—you don't know how to deal with this either. Ron turns back to look at his grieving family where they are all still huddled over Fred's body. His nose flares, his jaw tightens, and he's the first one to walk away.
Harry doesn't look back. Neither do you.
The walk to the grounds outside is silent. Yesterday, the wind howled all night. Tonight, you feel like the air is in mourning. You can relate. The stillness of the trees and what's left of the charred grass haunts you, but not as much as the echoes of screams you still hear ringing in your ears.
The three of you had passed a few people in the hallways, tattered robes and blood stained skin. You tried to catch their gaze, but they seemed very keen to avoid you. None of them would look you in the eye, or look at you at all.
Standing at the edge of the Black Lake, the still waters mere feet away, you understand them better than you thought. You don't want to look at yourself either.
Ron comes up behind you; you know his footsteps. He's silent as he moves to stand beside you. You flash back to the shore at Shell Cottage, where only a few months ago you and Ron were skipping stones in the afternoon light. Hard to believe, but those times were simpler.
"He's dead," Ron murmurs. His voice sounds rougher, unlike him.
"Voldemort's dead," you agree. You've seen it with your own eyes—the killing curse rebounding towards him, Voldemort's final scream. You still hardly dare to believe it.
"Yeah," Ron says. "So's Fred."
Your hand reaches out to find his. It's the only way he will let you offer comfort.
"So's Fred," you echo, squeezing the hand in yours.
"I died."
The voice comes from behind you—Harry's voice. You and Ron turn around as one.
Harry is sitting on a tree-stump not far from you, the same one he used to sit on every time you've come to this area of the lake. He stares at the dullest spot on the ground like it might give him the answers to the world.
You share a wary glance with Ron.
"I died," Harry says again—as if the first time didn't already grab your attention. "I was at King's Cross station."
Had Voldemort secretly cast something on Harry? In the woods, maybe? You wonder if you need to take him to Madam Pomfrey. Maybe St. Mungo's.
"I… there's a lot I need to tell you," Harry says. He looks up, but doesn't meet your eyes. "There's… there's so much…"
"Mate," Ron starts, but Harry's not listening.
"Snape was on our side," Harry says. His eyes look glazed. "Snape… Snape killed Dumbledore. But he was on our side. Snape—I saw my mum. Headmaster's office, and the stone—I saw her again. And Dad. And Sirius, and Lupin. They were there. And I saw Dumbledore at King's Cross. And… and Voldemort's dead—"
Ron is already at Harry's side, quick strides away from you forcing you to let go of his hand. He grasps Harry by the shoulders, looking worried.
"Harry—Harry, mate—"
"I died, Ron, I did—"
You join Ron near the tree stump, letting your legs carry you closer to the pain on your two best friends' faces. Ron murmurs "bloody hell" at your side. Harry is still lost in his memories. Fantasies? You don't know the difference anymore.
You crouch down to Harry's level. "Harry. Tell us later, okay? When your head is… clearer. When we're all in a better position to understand you. We'll listen, we promise."
Harry looks you in the eyes. "They were there, 'Mione. I saw them. They were there. All of them."
You take one of Harry's hands in both of yours, avoiding the cuts on the palm. "We trust you, Harry."
"We do," Ron affirms, squeezing his shoulder. "Tell us everything. Later. We trust you."
Harry's throat bobs. "Okay."
You stay in your position, kneeling before Harry, and Ron doesn't let go of his shoulder. Harry looks out at the lake, but you observe Harry instead, and judging from the gaze you feel boring into your scalp, you know that Ron is watching you.
You look at Harry's torn clothes, the little cuts and bruises peppered along his arms and face. There is stubble along his jaw and frown lines in his forehead, but the sad, lost look in his eyes makes him look more child than man. You itch to repair the cracks in his glasses with your magic, but you don't want to startle him.
"Where do we go from here?" Ron asks softly. You and Harry look up.
"Ron?" Harry questions.
"He's dead. We did it. It's done." Ron's eyes are closed off again, his expression giving away nothing. "Where do we go from here?"
Harry is just as silent as you are.
"Hermione?" Ron asks, and your eyes meet his in shock.
"How am I supposed to know the answer to that?" you ask a little heatedly, but Ron's face stays unreadable. The undercurrent of desperation in your voice mocks you.
"You always know all the answers, 'Mione," he says to you. "Tell me this one. What do we do?"
"I don't know all the answers, Ron," you snap, "At least, not to this. In case you didn't realise, I've been fumbling just as much as you this year." It's a hard admission to make when not knowing things has haunted your dreams and kept you up most nights, but it's about time you made it. "I don't know everything."
For the first time, you see Ron's eyes get wet. He doesn't let them fall, but seeing the tears pool in his eyes makes tears form in your own. "Is this it?" he asks hoarsely. "We fulfilled our mission. Our job is done. Is this it?"
"Don't say that," you say, but Harry interrupts you.
"It feels like it is."
"Don't say that," you say again, shaking your head. "We fulfilled our mission. Not our purpose. Our purpose wasn't him."
"Wasn't it?" Harry asks you, his voice raw. "'Mione, it's what I was born for. It's what I was let to live for. It's what I died for, 'Mione, don't you see? The prophecy was my purpose. He was my purpose. I've fulfilled it, so what use do I have now?"
"Harry, no," you say forcefully, "you've got it all wrong. Your… your life's purpose has never been reduced to him. Not just him. He was one man, Harry. Your life does not revolve around the existence of one person. That's just not how this works."
"What was it 'Mione used to say?" Ron adds, thinking. "That life is a war and this is just one battle? Face it, mate, she has some good lines."
You crack a smile. "I didn't think you'd still remember that, Ron."
"I remember a lot of the things you say," he responds with a little smile of his own. "It's the backbone of our friendship."
Harry blinks. "We've had quite a friendship, eh?"
"We really have," you murmur. "That's something that won't change."
"You know," Ron says, "if the Horcruxes were a mission, and killing You-Know-Who—"
"Voldemort, Ron."
"—killing Voldemort was a mission, then so is our friendship."
"What?" you ask, looking up at him. Harry stares.
"Think about it. We've been fighting against Voldemort for years now. But haven't we also been fighting for ourselves?" Ron looks earnest, his eyes reflecting something other than pain for the first time tonight. "We've protected this friendship and each other like it's our own personal mission."
"Well, he's right," you say, equally surprised and amused. "We have had more than one mission."
"And hey, we've had one successful mission," Ron adds, "but that doesn't mean we give up on the others. It's our duty to see this mission to the end, isn't it?"
"You mean our friendship?" Harry asks.
"Among others," you shrug, taking over for Ron. "Hogwarts needs to be seen to—they'll have to start the repairs sometime, and we might be able to help—and Ron, your family is a mission too, we need to help them heal." Ron swallows but nods. "And my parents… Australia… I should find some way to get them back."
Ron's eyes are sympathetic. Harry's eyes are understanding.
"You're right, we'll need to go to Australia," Ron says, and despite seven years of friendship, you're still awed at the way he immediately says "we". As if it is a given.
"And we need to finish our N.E.W.T.s as well," you continue, bolstered. Harry instantly cringes at the thought of exams. "We do need to complete our education, you know," you say to him, amused. "We've worked six years in Hogwarts for this. It's no less a mission than our other missions."
"What would I do with my N.E.W.T.s, 'Mione?" he asks. He doesn't sound broken and miserable like he did before, but there's still a hint of defeat in his tone. "I don't want to be an Auror. Not after this. I don't think I can."
"You don't have to," you say, smiling softly. He squeezes your wrist gently. "Get your N.E.W.T.s, Harry. You'll figure out what you want to do with them when the time comes. Your days aren't numbered anymore. You have time."
"And we'll help you figure it out, mate," Ron adds with a smile of his own, "in whatever way we can."
Harry smiles at the ground before he looks up at you. "I want to tell you something." He looks up at Ron. "Both of you."
"What is it, Harry?"
Harry's eyes are on you. "They ask me sometimes, 'what do you think is your greatest achievement in life?' And everyone expects me to say something about Voldemort, but I never answer."
Ron frowns in curiosity, wondering where this is going. There's an encouraging smile on your face.
"It's you," Harry says, glancing at you and Ron, "What we have. You're my greatest achievement." Harry looks so earnest, his green eyes finally, finally growing a spark as he looks at you, and when your eyes well up this time, it's not because you're hurting. "I wouldn't be alive if it wasn't for you two. And… all those people who have died… I'm glad it's not you. If it was one of you…" His voice breaks, but you don't let him finish.
"Don't," you say, giving him a tight hug. His arms cling to you like a lifeline. "We're here. We're with you."
"Is this… is this real?" he asks, shaken, and you nod silently into his neck. You feel his smile against your skin.
"'Mione," he whispers. His glasses dig into your shoulder, but you don't mind, clutching him tighter. "'Mione, it's over."
"It's over," you echo. Ron crouches down to wrap his own arms around you both, and you see the relief in his blue eyes.
"It's over," he says, before you're lost in his embrace and Harry's lost in yours, and you don't know who's whispering what anymore because you're all one voice. The three of you are inseparable. The three of you are going to make it. You've won.
It's over.
But the greatest mission of your life never ends.
March Writing Club Prompts:
Twisted Tropes - Time Skip
Record Collection - There You'll Be, Faith Hill: Write about someone always being there.
Written in the Stars (Pisces) - (character) Ron Weasley
Showtime (Phantom of the Opera) - Down Once More / Track Down the Murderer - (emotion) Despair
Elizabeth's Empire - (genre) friendship
Liza's Loves (D&D Clerics) - Life Domain - Write about healing or helping someone get better
Sophie's Serial Killers (Colin Ireland a.k.a. "The Gay Slayer") - Prompt: (word) Robbery
Scamander's Case (Clabbert) - (plot point) receiving a punishment/facing a consequence
Marvel Appreciation - Harry Potter
Lyric Alley - And I wonder why we hold on with tears in our eyes
TV Spree (The Handmaid's Tale) - (scenario) Trying to escape
The Forecast Says... - 13th: Sunny with clouds: Scared
EnTitled (New Girl Season 1) - Bad in Bed - Write about being concerned/worried over something
Hobby Hole (Baking) - Genre: Family
Gen's World Tour - Japanese Pond Turtle - Write about someone who feels small
Winter Seasonal Challenges:
Days of the Year & Religious Events - January 1st - New Year's Day: Write about the beginning of something.
Black History Month - Muhammad Ali: Write about someone who might be considered "the greatest" at something.
National Weddings Month - (scenario) Going down on one knee
Crochet Week - Puff Stitch: (weather) cloudy
Penguin Awareness - Fairy Penguin: (emotion) hesitant
Colours - Plum
Flowers - English Primrose: (dialogue) "Is this...is this real?"
Crystals & Gemstones - Blue Howlite: (scenario) Struggling to get to sleep
Tarot Reading - Page of Swords: Write about someone who is eager to begin something
But Can You Spell It? - D: (theme) Death
[March] Fortnightlies:
Leading Ladies Pt 2: Emma Swan - (plot point) searching for one's family
Badge Collecting: Geocaching - Going on a treasure hunt or scavenger hunt
[March Monthly] Wicked Bake-athon: (restriction) No romantic pairings
[March] Pop Figures: 27. Harry In Sweater: (Genre) Friendship
[March] Bottle Fame, Brew Glory (Beautification Potion): Rose Petals - (Emotion) Grief
[Quarterly] Resolution Evolution: Writing Resolution - Write a fic that has no romantic pairings, only friendships