Oops, I haven't put a disclaimer on this yet. I'm sure no one thought otherwise, but…
Disclaimer: I own none of these characters (except maybe one or two minors that will appear later). They are part of JKR's universe. I just like to add a little chaos.
L'il Timmy: God, why do bad things happen to bad people?
God: Because it makes for better reading.
Boy, you guys really reacted to that last chapter. And here I thought I was just writing for 5 or 6 people, but chapter 5 brokered 70 reviews in 3 days! That's impressive for me. I hope none of you took off, damning me for what I did to Harry. You'll be disappointed if you don't ever come back!!!
I'm heading on vacation, so this will be it for two weeks. I will be writing on the story, but not posting until I return. I know this is short, but I wanted to get this out before I leave. It's short and sweet (hopefully not sappy) and a touch angsty (not much yet), but both parts are necessary for what's to come. Enjoy!!
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To say the least, Mrs. Weasley was not impressed by the twins' ingenuity in creating the Extendable Ears. Rather, she was outraged. As punishment, Fred and George were made to clean the marble floors of the parlor the Muggle way, without the help of magic. Ginny and Hermione snuck down to help as a thank you for not squealing on the other eavesdroppers. Not that this disappointed them. It actually placed them closer to the meeting, so they knew it continued for another thirty minutes before the entire party rose and left the house. Everyone, that is, except Mrs. Weasley and Sirius. They knew Mrs. Weasley was still there because she came in to check on the boys' progress (Hermione and Ginny hid). Sirius could be heard arguing with Dumbledore from the main foyer (waking Mrs. Black, to everyone's chagrin) that he should be allowed to join in the search. So, they were searching for Harry's body.
The work was good, as it took everyone's mind off the news they had heard, or at least, gave them a reason to remain silent in the midst of the others and contemplate it.
Harry was dead.
Murdered.
These words swam in Hermione's mind hours after as she lay in her bed, unable to sleep. Ginny had cried herself to exhaustion some time before, but Hermione found no solace in sleep. She had shed her own share of tears, listening to Ginny and attempting to console her, but the back of her mind was trying to give herself hope.
Harry couldn't be dead. Not after everything he'd been through. Not after everything he'd survived. If anyone was going to survive this, Voldemort's resurrection, it was Harry. Despite everything she'd told herself for the last five years, he was not just Harry.
He was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.
It was only in the short hours before dawn that she broke down again, hearing the door open and close amidst the deathly silence of the house. They were back. Mr. Weasley, Charlie, and Lupin were back from searching for Harry's body. Hermione strained to hear the voices on the stairs as Mr. Weasley met his wife on the steps.
"Did you find him, Arthur?" Mrs. Weasley sounded as if she too had been awake all night.
"I'm afraid not. We found lots of mud and weeds, but no sign of Harry."
"But what-?"
"I'm tired, Molly. And cold. Let's go to bed." There was little argument, though a small humph told Hermione that Mrs. Weasley was just as starved for information at this point as she was. She waited until she heard the door to their bedroom close, then waited as long as she could before rising from her own bed and wrapping a robe around her body. She would find no rest tonight.
She slipped out of her room, and nearly screamed as Kreacher slunk past her, muttering under his breath.
"Dirty Mudblood, befouling my Mistress' home. Sneaking about in the darkness. Kreacher sees her. Stain on the name of witch. She'll-."
Hermione turned in the opposite direction. Ron's room was two doors down. Perhaps he was still awake?
She knocked softly, waited, then knocked again, quietly calling his name. The door opened moments later, and she slid through the crack before closing it firmly behind her. Turning, she found the room was dark, but after adjusting for a few seconds, could make out the outline of Ron sitting up on his bed.
"Ron?" When he didn't answer, she made her way to the foot of his bed and sat down, feeling him draw his feet away as she lowered her weight onto the mattress.
"What are you doing here, Hermione?" His voice sounded almost accusatory.
"I-." She stopped. For once in her life, she didn't have an answer. Why was she there? To comfort him? He didn't exactly ask her to come, nor did he show any sign of wanting comfort. To talk? Not with the huge lump in her throat. Certainly not to plan? What was there to plan? Harry was dead. No amount of planning could save him.
Hermione's cheeks turned hot. Her eyes stung. Unable to contain what she'd been feeling for the last ten hours, she finally allowed herself to totally break down. Not just cry. She'd already cried. The emotional side of her took over, her body too tired to attempt to quiet the shudders that wracked her body with each silent, but heart-wrenching sob.
She was tired of being the strong one, the logical one. She didn't want to be the one to take apart the problem and discover the answer. She simply wanted to cry and rant and scream and sob. Unfortunately, the hour only allowed for crying.
It took Ron a moment to realize what was happening, that Hermione had broken down at the foot of his bed. His own grief was forgotten as she fell sideways on the mattress, burying her face in her hands. In the pre-dawn darkness, he could see her shoulders shaking weakly as she drew her knees up, curling herself into a ball.
"Mione?" he whispered, reaching out to her shoulder.
"Don't," she answered, wiping her eyes and face on the sleeve of her robe. "Don't- don't tell me I'm being silly or emotional. And please, please don't tell me to leave." A shuddering breath escaped her lips. "I know you don't want me here, but I can't stand to be alone right now with nothing but my- my brain repeating-." A fresh wave of tears escaped her eyes.
"I'm not going to say that," he told her, pulling her up by her shoulders and wrapping his arms around her shoulders comfortingly, drawing her to his chest. Ron held his friend tightly, glad that his own store of tears had been exhausted. He comforted her and his own whirling mind by absently rubbing her back and whispering to her in a low voice, though what exactly he had said, he could not have recalled afterwards.
Hermione began to calm as the first light of dawn filtered through the window, washing the room with blushing light.
"Thank you," she whispered, pulling out of Ron's embrace and sitting again on the foot of his bed. "I guess I just needed to let that out."
"Yeah," he answered awkwardly. "I did the same thing when I came in here." His face flushed when he realized what he had just admitted to.
"It's odd," Hermione said, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them after adjusting her robe to cover her. "All of this just kind of blindsided us. All the risks he used to take, and then this. I keep thinking we just misunderstood everything we heard."
"How do you misunderstand, 'Vernon Dursley killed Harry Potter'? Harry's dead. Stupid git. He wasn't supposed to die."
"Ron?"
"Well he wasn't. I know he's just another kid at school, but in the wizarding world, Harry's a big deal. You've seen how people react to him- even adults. It's like he's not a real person, just this ideal of what every good little magical kid should be. I mean, we all knew who he was before he did. I bet that's why they all went out right away- to find his body. Nobody's going to believe he's gone without proof."
"You seem willing to," Hermione answered.
"Are you saying he's not dead?" Ron jumped off the bed and began pacing the bare wood floors, the bottoms of his pajamas revealing several inches of bare leg. "Do you really think that Harry's alive? That everything we heard was wrong?" He stopped, looking at her, as if daring her to answer. "Do you really think that that stupid Muggle uncle of his was able to lie even after he was given the Truth Serum?"
"No. All I'm saying is-."
"Harry's dead, Hermione. He's not going to be the savior of the Wizarding world again. He's not one of the Great Wizards. He's just a regular kid like us."
Hermione scoffed.
"He's the furthest thing from being a regular kid there is."
Ron sniffed sardonically.
"No, Harry is not a regular kid." He picked up a crumpled shirt from the floor, balled it angrily and threw it across the room. "He never was." He stood motionless, staring at some unknown spot across the room.
"Ron?"
"I hated him. I- hated Harry."
"Ron, you don't mean that."
"He was my best friend and I loved him like my brother." He turned and looked at Hermione, held her gaze. "But I hated him, too. He was everything I could never be, just because he was Harry-bloody-Potter. But you know what? At the end of the day, he was still my best friend. He was still Harry- just Harry."
"Of course he was, Ron."
"But a part of me still hated him." His voice shook as he resumed looking at the far off spot on the wall. "I knew he never wanted any of that- that attention and celebrity, but- but…" Ron squeezed his eyes shut, willing the hot salty tears to stay in their place, but one escaped, falling from his fair eyelash and making its slow path over the contours of his cheek, mouth, and jaw. "I never wanted him to die, Hermione. Believe me, I never, never-."
"I know, Ron." She wrapped her arms around his waist, comforting him as he had done for her earlier.
"He was my best friend," Ron croaked, burying his face in her shoulder. "He was my best friend, and I never wanted him to die, I promise. Why did he have to die?"
Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk in the Headmaster's Office of Hogwarts. His long, thin hand absently petted Fawkes, who was perched on the arm of his chair. His blue eyes, often described as glittering, dancing, or sparkling, were none of these, in fact, were quite tired and dull as they stared unfocused into space.
"Albus."
Called back, Dumbledore looked back to his Heads of House who had been gathered in his office for some time. Three of them, McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout, were still dappled with mud, having trudged through the fields of Cranleigh in search of Harry's body. Snape, however, had been summoned, and now stood a little apart from the others, still wearing his black cloak, his Death Eater mask tucked inside one of the many pockets hidden within its voluminous folds.
"We did not find his body, Severus."
Snape cocked an eyebrow.
"I know that, Albus. You told me nearly twenty minutes ago when I asked."
"How odd. How very odd." The headmaster closed his eyes, murmuring softly to himself. "…many possibilities… explanations…"
"Albus," McGonagall said, "shouldn't we inform the Ministry? The papers? Someone?"
"No," Dumbledore answered firmly, his eyes still closed. "We will inform no one."
"But surely it will get out. There are only three and a half weeks of Holiday left. When the students return-."
"That's exactly it, Minerva. Until the students return, there is no reason-."
"Albus! You can't-."
"Hear me out. Announcing Harry's death to the world tomorrow or next week would do more harm than good at this point. We have no hard evidence, no body, and without that, who would believe it, even with the stories run by the Daily Prophet. For those who do believe that Voldemort has again risen, Harry's death will be the death of what he represents: hope. No, we will wait for September first. Hopefully, by then, the problem will remedy itself."
"Remedy itself?" Flitwick leaned forward in his chair. "What do you mean, Albus?"
"Idle thought, Filius," Dumbledore answered with a slight smile.
"You haven't had an idle thought in your life."
"There is a first time for everything," he returned, a faint glint in his eyes, that disappeared quickly. "We announce nothing until September first, allowing of course that Severus informs Voldemort beforehand, for the sake of his own safety."
"Thank you," Snape answered darkly, daring not to think on the recriminations of the Dark Lord learning this information from any but himself. An involuntary shudder passed through his shoulders, unnoticed to all but the Headmaster's eyes, which were focused solely on him. "Are we finished here?" he asked. "I'm sure I'm not the only one who would rather not remain in their current garb for longer than necessary."
"Yes, we are finished. Go, get some rest."
Snape began to follow the others out of the room, but was stopped by Dumbledore's voice.
"Severus, if you would stop by my office tomorrow afternoon for tea. I would like to have a conversation."
"A conversation?" An odd way to phrase it. "About what?"
"Philosophy, theory, potions, and truth." He said these words with a measure of finality, leaving Snape to wonder at their meaning.