Author's Note: This piece comes after my previous story "The Trailed", which is a companion to "The Trail". "Four Steps by Three Steps" is a companion to my "Return Trip". I'd suggest you read the others before attempting this one. But please do read! I like feeling affirmed. This is getting complicated.
Four Steps By Three Steps
Four steps from the bed to the door. Three steps from the desk to the wall. Back and forth I pace the tiny room I've rented for the night. It's late; Hermione has been in bed for a few hours now. But I keep the light burning and my mind working. Back and forth.
It has been two days since I last slept, and then only for twenty minutes or so. I can last longer than that. I've had to, the past several years. To avoid the dreams. I'd thought it would be safe again, now that I've been found and am returning with my follower. But two nights ago, when I tried to sleep, there she was, clearer than ever. Hermione. Not my current traveling companion, no. The original. The REAL one. Not some imitation, someone named for her.
Four steps from the bed to the door. Three steps from the desk to the wall.
I shouldn't say that. I shouldn't even think that. It isn't as if this new Hermione is trying to serve as a replacement. She can't help the fact that her father named her as he did. Although I can't imagine how Ron was able to deal with it, having her around constantly. A reminder of the friend he lost, the friend we both lost, just before we lost each other. To . . .what?
To guilt?
Three steps from the desk to the wall. Three steps from the wall to the desk.
I wonder frequently why I am returning. Why Ron needs me now, after 30 years. And yet I won't let her tell me. Something in me doesn't want to know. Something in me wants this to be the opportunity for a happy reunion. A return to the content adult life that I have never allowed myself to have. And I know that if I hear the truth, if I let her tell me, all illusions will be shattered. I will be faced with a cold reality, harsher than any I have faced up till now. Harsher than the pain of my childhood, the tragedy that marked the end of my school years, the self-inflicted solitude of my adulthood thus far.
I think I need a drink.
Four steps from the bed to the door. Out the door.
I walk quietly down the narrow staircase, careful not to make too much noise. I hear faint voices coming from the bar. When I walk in, there are only three people there. The crowd of the evening has returned home. I sit on a stool at the end of the bar. Before I am able to order, the bartender reaches under the bar and pulls out a bottle and a mug, of which he pours the contents of the former into the latter. He set the mug in front of me. "On the house, Mr. Potter."
I nearly knock over my drink in my surprise. I am not used to being recognized on sight any more. And the fact that this man running a Muggle bar knows my name, even after I signed the register for the room with an alias (Neville Longbottom), means that he must be a wizard. I take a sip of my drink to settle my nerves and I receive my second surprise of the night. Butterbeer. That warm, sweet flavor that I have not experienced since my days at Hogwarts. Here. In a Muggle establishment with a wizard proprietor. Amazing.
The bartender smiles at me with an expression that suggests a shared secret. I want to ask him so many questions, I want to hear his story, but he moves to serve his other patrons. I finger the scar on my forehead self-consciously. I am returning to the world, and once again this mark means something. Am I to be reminded of its significance every day once again? Am I ready for this?
I finish my drink slowly, nursing it until the sun begins to rise. When it is gone, the last drop consumed, I push the mug away from me and lay my head in my arms for a moment. I am starting to realize that this journey is a reality. I close my eyes with a sigh, wondering. And for the first time in nearly as long as I can remember, sleep comes. Peacefully.
There are no dreams.
Fini.