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WALK AWAY IN PLAIN SIGHT
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Chapter 1
Nervous Breakdown
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Harry Potter couldn't move his legs. Not one step further. It wasn't the downpour or the deepening gloom. Nor dreading the long walk under a low ceiling of black cloud. There he stood at the exit from Elmbridge Underground Station, deeply sick in his stomach and wondering how on earth he could possibly face Hermione Granger.
Someone nudged him in the back with a briefcase. "Do you mind!" snapped a man in a rumpled business suit, and another hassled commuter glared angrily too. "Some of us have to get home! – preferably today!"
"S–Sorry..." mumbled Harry, and let himself be pushed out into the wet as they barged past.
The icy rain roused him a little. He pulled up his collar and began running hard, really hard. His thighs ached within minutes, and his shins too, as if he'd pushed himself extra hard on a marathon, yet, he'd merely been pacing tensely back and forth all day, fretting. His fitness had definitely deteriorated over recent months. Stress can do that to you, he told himself by way of excuse.
The doorway of a closed shop offered shelter so, water dripping from his hair down his neck, he took refuge in the narrow space, and stared at the street lights which were switching on early because of the darkening storm.
Are you a wizard or what? It was her voice in his head of course, always Hermione's. As he turned his back to the street and wandlessly cast a drying spell, he heard a bus roaring and hissing through the rain, headlights piercing the heavy gloom as it swung by.
Wake up, Potter! Hermione's rebuke in his mind again, reminding him he was magical. He sighed, turned, looked furtively about, then dashed to the edge of the pavement, this time with his wand out. Why had he even bothered riding the London Underground this far when he could have–
–The Knight Bus took him to Hermione's street but it couldn't push him up the path to her home. Emotion seized him again. He stared at the unencouraging blandness of the front door, his own hot tears mingling with the cold rain. Harry Potter was utterly alone with his inner demons as usual.
Without warning, the door was pulled open, and Hermione rushed out to throw her arms about him, sobbing and mewling like a lost child. "th–thanks – coming – so quickly." She was gasping near incoherently into his neck. He stood there like an idiot, feeling her warmth but wishing he knew how to give some comfort back.
No words were exchanged; she drew him inside and dried them both with a swift wand motion.
The rain out of his eyes at last, Harry blinked, and was now able to study her appearance. He'd expected her to look dreadful, but she was much, much worse: dark shadows under sunken, troubled eyes; gaunt, haggard features; dishevelled hair and clothing as if she'd long forgotten to take care of herself. Hermione looked far older than her nineteen years. The nicest thing he could say was "You've lost... you're slimmer... and uuh..."
She pulled a face. "I know how awful I look, Harry. I'm sorry. I've been working hard since... well... nearly five months since I lost them. I've been back in Britain for three weeks."
"You have? Wish you'd owled me sooner. You've heard the news then? Someone got Lucius Malfoy for his part? Pretty rough on him too if you can believe the Prophet."
"Oh, you can – that is, I mean..."
Harry looked at her oddly.
There was an off note in her voice as she explained herself. "I meant Skeeter had a photo of him butchered, swinging like a smoked ham and dripping the rest of his blood, so I don't think there was any doubt the evil bastard suffered."
Harry's eyes widened at the expletive. Hermione had changed more than just physically. But then so had he. They'd both been hardened by the Horcrux hunt followed by the final battle, and both had regrets they'd not dealt with the enemy more strongly, more... permanently. "Mr Malfoy deserved it after reneging yet again, but Narcissa did help me, remember? I guess she's better off without him..."
Hermione took a deep breath. "I can't say it makes the death of my parents any easier though, still, I'm glad he won't... harm anyone else ever again. Come and sit down; there's coffee..."
They wandered through into the empty lounge and Harry was immediately shocked. He was used to a mess of untidy discards, but this was– "Ron not coming?"
"He's staying with George, helping in the shop. After they lost Fred, well..."
"I know, but he's been over?" He stared at the thrown-away TV dinners and empty food packets littering the carpet. Some of it was even piled – hurled – against the door at the far end which he guessed led to the dining room. He frowned: a padlock secured the handle. "Hermione... where exactly is Ron?"
She did not answer, and began pouring their drinks instead.
"Listen, he'll come through," said Harry encouragingly. "Fred's death hit the Weasleys hard, especially Ginny. It was nearly a week until I saw her properly. Then we had a long talk. Nothing made sense. Nothing was quite the same. We need time."
She stared at him. "Time, yes... That's why I called you over. Harry, I need your help."
"Anything."
His eyes were drawn over Hermione's shoulder to the scruffy far wall which he now perceived was scrawled with her writing and covered in stick-on notes and pictures. He was reminded of a crime investigation room he'd seen in a police movie once. On a shelf stood two small stone urns with flickering candles on either side. Harry shuddered. He didn't like to think what was in those.
Hermione said very softly, "You won't say that when I tell you."
"What? I won't say what?"
"You said you'd do anything to help," she replied. Her tone was now tinged with uncertainty. "Are you... are you sure?"
"Of course I'll help you, Hermione. Try me." He couldn't help gazing around once more at how far she'd sunk. The carpet was very badly stained and there was a rip in one corner near a small table with a broken leg. What appeared to be fragments of a glass flowerpot lay strewn across the tabletop, as if it had been deliberately smashed in a frenzy, and pale, gritty soil had spilt down onto the carpet. There was something familiar about it that he could not quite place. In fact, everything here was out of kilter. It would take a month to straighten up this room alone. "Just tell me what needs doing, and I'll get on with it."
She hesitated for a long time, searching for the right words. They'd been through so much, the impossible really. Finally, she decided bluntness would get his attention which now seemed to be fixed on the stacks of boxed papers heaped about:
Hermione took a deep breath. "I want you to kill Harry Potter."
Harry's head jerked back to look at her expression, trying to guess what she actually meant. "Ohhh... kay... Is that all? Believe me, I've been considering ending my misery anyway."
"WHAT!" Hermione's cup clattered down into its saucer; she'd been caught up in her own prolonged grief and hadn't fully appreciated the depth of Harry's own suffering.
His face darkened as he growled, "Well, not much has changed since Riddle's death has it? Well, has it? Pure-blood bigots still flouncing around in the Wizengamot, and... and I'm still a target of... both from those who want me dead and others who want to just use me. It began with the Dursleys, continued with Dumbledore, Snape, Skeeter, and now the Ministry." He sniffed. "Story of my life really," he added gloomily before gulping a large mouthful of coffee and swallowing it.
Hermione nodded. "Yes, you never liked all that attention, did you?"
"All I ever wanted was a normal life."
The dull look in her eyes had vanished, and she stared at him with something like excitement. "Suppose... suppose I could give it to you? Imagine if Harry Potter was dead and you were nobody special even in plain sight?"
"I doubt that Polyjuice is much fun after the first few weeks, Hermione, and even Australia's not far enough away. Now Mars or Venus I might consider, if that's where you're thinking." His grin was weak.
"Not where... but when, Harry. I'm thinking about 1985 actually."
His gaze flicked back to the smashed crystal flowerpot, and he recognised then it had been part of a large hourglass. "That's what you've been working on? A giant Time-turner?"
She shook her head, and Harry could more easily perceive how unkempt and frazzled her hair had become. She realised what he was looking at, and raked long dirty fingernails hopelessly through the strands across her head. "No, all the Time-turners were destroyed in the Department of Mysteries, remember? And they worked physically. An extra Harry Potter wouldn't fit in the world of 1985. Where could another 'you' be safely added for very long, even in disguise? Besides, within hours there'd be a catastrophic paradox. But there is another way..."
Harry's jaw dropped. So far Hermione's talk had seemed abstract brooding; now he recognised the glint of obsessiveness in her eyes, and it clearly indicated she was deadly serious in her belief. "You're... you mean dark magic, don't you?"
"I've been... experimenting with all kinds of magic, Harry, and modified a ritual – although strictly speaking, it was already modified. But I unravelled it then modified it a different way..." Her gaze had now turned inward, and an evil sneer suggested she was visualising something terrible.
Coffee forgotten, Harry became frightened for his friend and he rose unsteadily to his feet. He wished he dare gently shake her back to normality. "Hermione, you're not making any sense!"
She was up and lunged towards him, shocking him backwards. "I've worked it all out you see, Harry!" Her eyes flashed madly, reminding him of Bellatrix Lestrange as she'd killed Sirius; the girl was starting to rave, and not herself at all.
"No, Hermione!" he cried, retreating further.
"I knew YOU wouldn't carry it out, Harry! I knew you'd never do the deed that would send me back to avenge the dead! But I can send you! And it's a better solution, don't you see? You get to live a normal life with lots of normal friends, and nobody would believe it could be a nobody like you finishing off the low-life, godforsaken, sick bloody murdering–"
"–A normal person can't be a serial killer too! Hermione, you're... you need help, Hermione. Let me call someone..." His head darted in various directions, searching for the phone. Hadn't she once mentioned an owl they kept in the garden?
She cackled heartily then, and her hysteria only confirmed Harry's worst fear: the mind of the smartest witch of her year had become completely deranged by sorrow. He prayed it was temporary.
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For the next two weeks, Hermione refused to be taken to St. Mungo's for healing therapy, and Harry dared not leave her alone in case she hurt herself – or someone else. He slept on the couch, and pretended to be agreeably attentive during the days as she ranted out her psychotic plan and demanded he study the books she'd provided, memorise to-do lists, and practise magic in preparation. He went along with it, trying to act casual by speaking calmly. But he'd hatched a plan of his own now; he'd found the Granger owl roosting in the garden shed, dashed off an urgent request, and was expecting a response from St. Mungo's any day now.
"There was nobody in our year suitable for this purpose," she droned on during one early breakfast, sounding to Harry more and more like a demented Professor Binns, "so I was almost resigned that you'd have to play the part of a Muggle-born like me. There were literally thousands of suitable non-magical candidates, any one of which you might have replaced and acted as a Muggle-born – but then I found a magical family that–"
"–You want me to take the place of somebody else? And what happens to the one you replace?" Harry said affably, not believing a word, and sprinkling corn flakes into a bowl.
"Well, they have to die of course."
He only froze in horror for a moment or two. "Fair enough," he said, to humour her. "Uumm... how do we erm... I mean, do we have to do that first or... do they just stop living when I uuh...?"
Hermione glared. "What do you think I am, Harry! Have you not been listening? We select someone who's already died! What do you think all those boxes of newspaper clippings are for? Obituaries, Harry. Frankly, you'll be doing the parents a favour."
"But meanwhile, do I really have to suffer the Dursleys again? I mean until I take the place of the dead boy? And I'll be a Horcrux again! And how exactly do I–"
–She sighed. "Harry, you NEVER have to go to the Dursleys because you won't BE Harry Potter at all. You won't BE a Horcrux. Most prophecies are not fulfilled, Harry! You don't have to accept them as absolute! That was all an obsession of Dumbledore and Voldemort. Sometimes I think power goes to people's heads. You've finished with all that nonsense! You – will – not – be – Harry Potter! Don't you get it?"
"Then who will I be exactly?"
"Well, have you heard of the Fairfax family?"
Harry feigned thinking long and hard, but inwardly he knew he'd never heard the name, and likely they were only a fantasy of Hermione's disturbed mind. He nodded sagely, and lied, "They do sound vaguely familiar..."
"Well I'm surprised you've heard of them at all. They're fairly neutral Pure-bloods – better than neutral actually – but not that well known because they don't speak out nor even mix much with most of the established houses. They had one son, Derek, who was sent to Durmstrang in the sixties. That put him off dark magic for good. His then future wife, Clara Langley, was home taught. Their only child died very young. He was cursed by a Death Eater in 1983 and fell into a coma from which he never recovered."
"Ah! So I sneak in and replace him and pretend to be asleep for a day or two then shout, 'Hey! I'm awake!' and so on?" He saw her darkening expression, so abandoned levity. "It's not a bad plan, Hermione, but–"
–The worried boy could hear her counting up to ten.
"No?" he added tentatively. He'd sprinkled sugar on his corn flakes, but now was not the time to add milk. He glanced towards the window, hoping to see an owl swooping down, or perhaps, white-coated healers coming in the garden gate carried a strait-jacket.
"You cannot be sent back physically with this ritual. Nothing can. You can't even take a notepad with you, not even a tattoo. Only your mind and memories will be sent back to the exact moment the other boy's spirit departs. You'll then be conscious but exceedingly weak because his body will have been lying in bed for two years."
Harry tried not to cringe. The plan had more holes than Hagrid's hairnet. But he braced himself to avoid enraging Hermione further. "Sounds simple enough, but won't they realise I'm not him?"
"Their only memories will be of their four-year-old from two years before, but you will be six by then. You can fake grogginess and confusion for hours, even days, and pretend to be struggling to remember things. They're just going to be delighted to get their son back even if he can't recall everything. Well, they might think you sound a bit strange, but after two years in a coma, who wouldn't? No way would they think you're not their original child. Why would they?"
"But isn't this uumm... unethical?" He'd milked his corn flakes and now began crunching on his first mouthful. If he kept her talking long enough, surely she'd eventually realise how absurd her crazy scheme sounded. By comparison, escaping from Gringotts on a dragon seemed quite sensible.
Hermione frowned. "I worried about the morality of it myself, but in our time, the Fairfaxes mourned the loss of their son for years – likely still miss him. If you go back, they'll be able to enjoy seeing a son grow up in his stead. It's not much different to a child not knowing they've been adopted is it?" She looked at Harry as if for reassurance; clearly she'd suffered her own doubts. "By all accounts they're a nice couple, Harry, and they'll love you as their own. Whether you tell them in later years will be the same challenge a couple face in choosing to tell their adopted child he's not their natural offspring. So it's the other way round, like giving a couple an adopted child but not telling them... or... isn't it?" She frowned and turned inward, fretting anew.
Harry tried to change the topic. "Right... So does this ritual have to be enacted at a special time of year? Like the uumm... winter equinox?"
"Solstice, Harry. The equinox's are spring and autumn. No, there is no special time. I was thinking in a few weeks after we get married."
CLATTER!
Harry had dropped his spoon. Milk drooled out of his half-open mouth.
"Say again?"
"Oh, Harry, I knew you weren't listening. We have to be related else the ritual won't work. Don't worry, our marriage will only last for a few days or a week or so. Once you go back in time you'll be free again."
"Ah... right. So, like a play-marriage?"
"No, Harry, we won't be pretending the legal partnership. I already have the papers prepared, submitted, and provisionally accepted. We have to attend the Registry office next Tuesday to finalise it."
Somehow, the corn flakes didn't look so crunchy. Then he brightened up. He mustn't get caught up in this fiction, but keep reminding himself it was all part of Hermione's psychosis, and not real at all. "And I suppose we both have to dance naked for the ritual and consummate the marriage by moonlight?"
"No, Harry, well... unless... surely you don't... you mean that's what you want?"
"WHAT! Course not!" Harry blinked, then a puzzled frown replaced his consternation. "So... a normal but brief marriage? You mean you'd... you'd be willing to have ss–sleep with me?"
"NO! I was only... just... it would have no meaning would it?" Her face was rapidly turning pink with the realisation that was tripping over her tongue so fast she couldn't stop it. "Just saying if you were that desperate there'd be no risk or consequences afterwards because I won't exist anymore, will I? So why should I care what you wanted to do?" She turned her head away to hide the expression of anguished embarrassment that was contorting her face.
Harry sagged back into his chair. Hermione was far more sick than he'd imagined. She'd dreamed up a guilt-free suicide to escape unbearable emotional pain, now she was offering to sacrifice herself sexually to further offset her emotional burden of remorse. There was a name for it, he felt sure. St. Mungo's would know. So would Freud.
"Hermione, there'd be a few days of consequences, wouldn't there? And that's what matters." He knew he couldn't take advantage of his friend in her current mental state. But if... if she tricked me into sex... then it wouldn't be my fault would it? She still looked dreadful but he wouldn't say no even if she– what was he thinking! He clamped his mouth shut, hesitating to say anything further.
"Why wouldn't you want to make love with me anyway?" said Hermione with an air of indifference – though her cheeks were still burning. "I mean, we'd be genuinely married. I'd be terminated soon after but you'd have something to remember this never-existing person."
He shook his head slowly and stood up from the table. Then he shook his head even more vigorously to affirm it, and clear out the temptation. He'd never–
"–No," he said firmly. "You're... confused by grief. It wouldn't be right how you are now."
The next moment Hermione was hugging him. "You're such a gentleman, Harry. But promise me one thing."
"Of course, Hermione, you know that."
"In your future past, when I hold you like this, will you cuddle me back instead of standing like a statue?"
"What!"
"You've always denied me that. And I always wanted..." She broke away from him, sounding weepy. "Mum was always the one who comforted me with a hug, but for some reason, Dad never did, even though I wished he would... he never did. Now I'll never know why..."
She sighed. "Then at Hogwarts you were the same as Dad; when I hugged you, you never responded. Do you remember that first time? When you had to go ahead on your own to stop Quirrell getting the Philosopher's Stone? You were more alarmed at being hugged by a girl than facing Voldemort! So I let you go. But you'll be more... mature this time, right? Promise me, Harry, when the time comes..."
He waited, not sure whether an answer was needed or even if he had one.
She persisted. "When – even though I was... would only be... only twelve or thirteen – when I hug you, at least squeeze me slightly in return and... I don't know... gently rub my back and..."
"And what, Hermione," he heard himself saying, rather hoarsely.
"And lightly kiss my left ear." She groaned with embarrassment. "Oh, what does it matter anymore! That was always my silly, immature dream and you never did it of course, but now there's nothing to lose is there? Let me show you."
She embraced him again and he felt her lips brush his ear for a few seconds. "Can you do it just like that?" she whispered. "It'll mean so much to me how I was – will be – then. It will show me that you... that you care. I was never sure how you felt."
He couldn't believe what he was hearing. She'd been attracted to him even when he was a scrawny twelve-year-old? I'll try..." he croaked, unsure if he could ever really extend such feelings physically towards her. He'd never received compassion or tenderness at the Dursleys so expressing such affection was entirely beyond him, and Ginny had simply been the sweep of physical desire– "I will, Hermione, I promise..." He was ready to promise anything so long as he kept in mind that none of this was really going to happen.
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Harry stared morosely at the letter an owl had just delivered.
"That from Ginny?" called Hermione leaning round the kitchen doorway, before disappearing back through it.
"No, I told you we're not really... in touch anymore" He tried to think quickly. "I'm thinking of selling the Grimmauld house." At least that was true. The thinking part anyway.
Her voice echoed as it carried from the kitchen. "What's the point? None of this timeline will exist soon."
"Oh, yeah... right." He shook his head and continued skimming through the letter again. Hermione was crazy as a loon and St. Mungo's were asking him to get her to sign an agreement form? They were as mad as she was! But then when did anyone ever believe the boy who lived? He knew her handwriting though. He'd sign her name himself...
"Did you finish the Occlumency book?" she called. "Are you ready to practise with me?"
"Erm... sure..."
"Then this afternoon is our marriage ceremony after which we should have time on the range at the rifle club again. And we must go over the special shells you'll need to make, and possibly how to confine the targets safely while they die."
In shock, his eyes shot towards the padlocked dining room and he shuddered fearfully. Oh, God, please don't ask me to practise shooting random Muggles before the healers get here...
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The wedding of Harry Potter and Hermione Granger was a rushed, routine non-event. An official took the part of best man and witness – Harry wasn't sure which. It was all over in ten minutes. There was no kiss. Hermione whisked Harry aside immediately after to test him on how well he'd memorised the to-do lists. She coaxed and cajoled him all the way out to the car park from where they Disapparated back to her home.
"I'm never going to be certain of remembering it all," moaned Harry.
"The main list is the only one you need worry about," said Hermione, "because I've long since memorised all of them, and I'll be giving you my most important memories during the ritual, and they will reinforce and support your understanding of what to do."
"What? You already have a Pensieve? That one mentioned on List J? Or was it E? Or are we just putting them into vials?"
"You can't take Pensieves or vials with you, Harry, and anyway, neither are needed for transferring directly. You'll draw out my memories and put them into your own mind immediately. I'll show you how tomorrow so you can prepare by practising on simple memories. It's all about focusing on the target memory with clear determination and intent."
"But can't you do it? I'll probably–"
"–A few of them I will, but later on you'll need to copy some of the memories to my younger self else I might not believe you. And you'd probably want to discard them once they're past their use-by date. Get me out of your head as it were. It's important you thoroughly understand the principle, Harry!"
His brow furrowed. It was becoming harder and harder to fake any kind of belief in Hermione's outrageous obsession. He kept getting caught up in the nonsense as if it were real, and there was too much to do in too little time – yet did it even matter! Everything was becoming rushed and he was beginning to look almost as haggard as Hermione, with deep bags under his eyes, and an exhausted, haunted look.
At least Occlumency practice was nowhere near as painful as it had been with Snape, because Hermione had given him specific exercises to develop the technique naturally, and she was more subtle and gentle in her testing. But from their sessions, he secretly gained hints of her own thinking, and that those brainsick intentions might be soon coming to a frenzied and dangerous conclusion.
So it was a relief when he received an owl from St. Mungo's telling him they'd collect Hermione on the Thursday at two o'clock. She'd be safe from her own ravings after that, and this nightmare would all be over. He imagined visiting her in a padded cell to witness her growing shame as she realised the absurdity of her hysterical fantasy. After a few weeks of treatments she'd be released and they'd both be laughing together about this. I'll never let her forget it, he grinned to himself. But inside he still felt empty.
"Friday night," declared Hermione with finality. "I think we're as ready as we'll ever be. We'll share a calming draught to start off the ritual; goodness knows we're both stressed out enough already."
It would never happen, Harry told himself. You'll be in a padded cell before then.
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Thursday morning was odd. They spent several hours going over the most important basics yet again: how to deal with the Fairfax parents, memory transfer practice, even most of the actual memories he needed to take with him into the past, which House they needed to be Sorted in – the how and why, the necessity for Occlumency to keep his secret, gaining resources for a little child without the Potter vault to lean on, and how to befriend the young Hermione without sounding pushy or even weird.
"How many more times must we go over this?" Harry kept glancing impatiently at his watch while she was in the kitchen making lunch. Ninety minutes to go. Hopefully the healers wouldn't be late.
"You're right, Harry," said Hermione, returning with a tray of sandwiches and a large steaming mug from which she took a swallow. "Let's just relax for a while. Here, share this; there's too much for one."
He frowned and sniffed hot chocolate as she handed over the mug. He noticed her hand was shaking. "What is it?"
"It'll calm us both. No more lessons, Harry. No more studying and worrying."
He was certainly ready to relax after a gruelling morning. Satisfied by Hermione's steamy breath that she'd actually drank some of the beverage, he took a big gulp. It was smooth, and tasted wonderful. He sighed and leaned back on the sofa.
"Want to put your feet up?" she asked softly.
He nodded and took another swig as she went to fetch the footstool. He closed his eyes, listening to her moving about. He thought he heard a click, but found himself too drowsy to care. He swallowed another delicious mouthful...
Stale air with curious odours passed over his face. Something was wrong ... but Hermione would take care of it so he only half-opened his bleary eyes. Everything was comfortably in place: the tea tray, the clutter on the floor, the information wall with its tatty stick-on notes, the urn, candles, and the broken hourglass. His brow creased. Hadn't there been two urns? Or had he only imagined that? He took another drink...
"Come through, Harry," said Hermione, "and take a well-earned rest."
She guided him to his feet, and he grinned drunkenly as she drew him along towards...
The dining room door was wide open and the padlock discarded on the floor. Hazily he could make out rows of candles and a long table on top of which lay what looked like a thin camping mattress. It was very inviting. The ugly runes deeply carved into the polished woodwork didn't bother him at all, nor even the large knife she'd probably brought along to cut the sandwiches. At the head of the table stood a small cauldron. Curiously, the flames were not below but within it, reminding him of the Goblet of Fire. Even the urn and a bottle of blood were in place again, on a pedestal this time. No wait, shouldn't that be... oh, it didn't matter. Hermione must know what she's doing.
As he lay down on the table, Hermione began a soothing lullaby. Or perhaps it was a singsong chant, he wasn't certain. Many minutes passed, or was it hours? He heard the padlock click again, and a locking charm being used. Then another. He felt wonderfully secure and protected now...
The light falling on his eyelids changed: different colours and patterns. When he looked upward properly there was a nice design on the ceiling of what looked like the grinning reaper with razor scythe and hourglass running out. Sweet. Hermione always had good taste.
A soft grating sound attracted his attention, like a heavy pestle grinding bone. He turned his head. Hermione was twisting open the lid on the stone urn. She was crying. That wasn't right.
"What's wrong?" His voice sounded odd and silky, like the smooth chocolate he'd drank.
"Everything's fine," she replied. "How are you feeling?"
He frowned then, realising perhaps he had been acting strangely. He tried to turn over to see better, but felt very weak.
A cork popped, reminding him of sparkling wine being opened – except it wasn't champagne in the bottle.
Hermione was muttering a long incantation he couldn't make out, then she spoke more loudly...
"B–Blood of the enemy ... forcibly taken ... you will ... resurrect your foe."
That ripped him right back to Hangleton Graveyard and wakened his mind into sharp focus. He stared. Hermione was pouring the bottle contents into the flaming cauldron. It hissed and steamed, yet the flames never diminished.
"What...? No, Hermione!" He struggled, but felt as helpless as a baby – or someone who'd been ill for years. But it wasn't his blood, was it? "Whose then?" Deep down he had a sudden terrifying realisation...
"Lucius is finally making a useful contribution to society," said Hermione.
"You? It was you that killed him?"
"He was evil, Harry. You said yourself he deserved to die. And he really, really screamed too. Not as much as he made my mum and dad scream, but still he was frantic and badly scared, and wetting himself like a baby..."
"Hermione, stop this! It's not too late!" Frantically he pushed down with his arms, but had no strength to lift himself. He struggled to think, and realised then that a distant doorbell was ringing. "There's help coming!" he cried.
"Yes, I knew you'd betray me, Harry. Did you really think all those Occlumency lessons wouldn't give you away? But I forgive you. I know you think I'm quite mad and need treatment."
"They CAN help you, Hermione! Just talk to them!" He bit his lip. "They could advise you about... about all this!"
But she continued chanting softly until...
"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!"
Ash was being poured from the urn. He knew then why she'd insisted on marrying him. "Your...?"
"Our father now, Harry. Magic is all about intent, you see."
There was a much louder banging. It had to be the front door being kicked in. He'd made sure that the healers fully understood Hermione might be confused and reluctant to–
"–Think what you're doing, Hermione. This can't work. You know it can't."
"Ah... the final memory..."
With her wand she drew from her temple the longest memory strand of all, and touched it to his forehead. "That's everything now, Harry. Now you'll understand."
And he did. His eyes flashed wide at an astonishing revelation. Her deepest insights and feelings were laid bare to him. All her research, understanding, and meaning were now flooding through rapidly, and her love for him was undeniable too. She'd always loved him!
"WHAT! It's TRUE? It's all true?"
"Of course, Harry," she murmured, but there was a fragile tremor to her voice that caused him to strain even harder to see.
Hermione Granger was reaching for the large knife that lay on the table beside him. There was a pounding in his ears now that almost synchronised with the hammering on the dining room door. He was utterly unable to move despite his increasing terror. She raised the blade high, glittering in the light from the shimmering cauldron flames.
"Life – of the servant – w-willingly given – you will – revive – your master."
"NO, HERMIONE! OH PLEASE GOD, NO!"
The knife she plunged deep into her own breast and howled with the unthinkable agony of a heart pierced asunder. He could hardly hear her last words, yet he'd remember them forever:
"D–Don't forget ... this me ... Harry. And... avenge her. ... P–Promise?"
He was choking with sobs as shouts were heard and the door burst inward. "I promise, Hermione. I promise."
Then blackness.
It had never happened.
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—oOo—
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Author's Notes
I tried hard not to make this a cliffhanger because the next chapter flows on so naturally and I think enhances this ending. But the ending of that next scene is not a good ending for a full chapter. No, each chapter is a group of related scenes, and the next scene doesn't fit here. Still, future readers will benefit because they can read on straight away.
Novel length. Over 90,000 words already written (with more in my head) to be published once a week. All my Walkaway fics are independent so read in any order. The walkaway theme means refusing to be manipulated and controlled. Harry takes charge of his life. This results in new, original story plot rather than merely rewriting JKR's plot which is faded into the background.
Many thanks for all comments and reviews. These are most welcome and very encouraging. Let me know of any weaknesses or faults — I'm always trying to improve my writing so feedback is really useful. :)
- Hippothestrowl
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