Disclaimer: Is this ABSOLUTELY necessary by now? I mean, do you REALLY think I own ANY of this? Tuh...
A/N: Wow! I've gotten tons of really good reviews! For THIS drivel! D'you lot have any idea how terribly
appreciative I am?
Okay, and for Azrael Prysteria and Ebony Foxfire's benefit, so I don't hear about this on Monday when I
get back to school (yep, I'm home again, due to a really, really, really, really sore throat...), Ron
did not DO anything with Hermione at the end of chapter one, okay? He wasn't even under the covers! And
Azrael, if you're reading this, I don't wanna hear about how you interpreted that last remark.
Okay, I'm done ranting--well, almost. The title is now "Lost" because I got tired of typing the original
title. From now on look for that, okay? Okay. I'm a bit hyper right about now, so excuse me. My mind's
going through some major...uh...weirdness right now. Hopefully it'll help me write.
The wonders of sudafed and about a bazillion other decongestiants...I never cease to be amazed...
The Effects of Cold Medication on Writers' Block (A.K.A. Lost)
Part 3
by Veralidaine
Lost
By the shadows of the night I go
I moved away from the crowded room
That sea of shallow faces masked in warm regret
They don't know how to feel, they don't know what is lost
Lost in the darkness of a land
Where all the hope that's offered is
Memories of being taken by the hand
And we are led into the sun
But I don't have a hold on what is real
Though we can only try
What is there to give or to believe
I want it all to go away
I want to be alone
Sympathy's wasted on my hollow shell
I feel there's nothing left to fight for
No reason for a cause
And I can't hear your voice and I can't feel you near
Lost in the darkness of a land
Where all the hope that's offered is
Memories of being taken by the hand
And we are led into the sun
But I don't have a hold on what is real
Though we can only try
What is there to give or to believe
I wanted a change knowing all I could do was try
I was looking for someone...
--"Lost," by Sarah McLachlan, from the album "Solace," which has got to be one of her best ones. I just
had to put that song in here somewhere. ^_^ Okay, on to the fic:
Harry sat up in bed, thoroughly exhausted, and looked at the luminous alarm clock. 6:42 AM. Well. That
explained the exhaustion. So why, exactly, was he awake?
Tap, tap, tap.
Oh.
An owl.
He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and put on his glasses, not bothering to straighten them. There was a large
brown owl flapping about outside in the pouring rain, and beside it, getting blown about in the stormy
winds, was Pigwidgeon. Harry rushed to the window and opened it quietly, so as to keep the Dursleys from
waking.
For once, Pig was a bit too tired to hoot and flap in circles, much to the delight of Hedwig, who had
decided to stay inside for the evening, as it was so very unpleasant outside. Pig just flumped down on
Harry's bed, panting, and reminding Harry forcefully of Errol. Meanwhile, the large brown owl, which
looked as though it was from somewhere important, was preening its feathers in a rather haughty manner,
and merely paused to dropped the letter from its claws before returning to its work.
Anxious to hear from Ron, Harry opened the wet parchment and saw the usual messy scrawl of his best
friend, only this time it was a bit smeared from the rain.
Harry,
Sorry I didn't waterproof it, but I've not got the time. Maybe you've not heard about it, since you
don't get the Prophet, but Hermione's an orphan now. Her Mum and Dad were killed last week by a bunch
of Death Eaters, including that...Wormtail. So she's with us, but she doesn't talk much and won't eat
anything. Her Aunt sent a letter saying she could live with her, but I don't think 'Mione wants to. She
says she can't stay with us, though. You know how she is.
Anyway, I was wondering if you could come visit sometime, and talk to her, since you can sort of--you
know--identify. She needs it. I'm really worried about her...
Heard from Snuffles lately?
~ Ron
Harry paused, staring at the letter again without reading it. Hermione's parents? He, for one, knew what
it was like to not have parents. But then, he'd never really had them to start with but for a year, and
that wasn't enough to really remember it. Hermione'd had nearly seventeen years to make memories.
Still not quite registering this new predicament, he turned his attention to the more official looking
letter. It was on thick, yellowing parchment, much like he usually got from Hogwarts, but it was stamped
with a different seal, this one with a large star on it, surrounded by the words, "Ministry of Magic
Judicial System--Dept. of Mysteries." Thoroughly curious, Harry opened it and read:
Mr. Harry Potter,
This letter is to inform you that the supposedly dead Peter Pettigrew has recently turned himself in to
the Ministry of Magic, clearing your legal guardian, Sirius Black, of all suspicion of murder. You are
asked to please report to ministry offices by this coming Monday, August 30, in order to sign the
release papers for Black, and to organize who you have chosen as your official guardians.
Sincerely,
Bode and Croaker
Dept. of Mysteries
Harry stopped, blinked, and read the letter through once more. Then he blinked again. And then he broke
into a grin. "YES!" he whispered.
Well, that explained it, didn't it, that he'd not heard about it? If the Department of Mysteries was
working on it, and that made sense, as they obviously didn't want the press in on it, then even Mr.
Weasley wasn't allowed to hear about it. But Harry didn't really care about minor details like that--
Sirius was cleared! He could go live with him!
But then, why in the world had Wormtail decided to turn himself in?
***
For some reason, the thought of self-mutilation, suicide, or, in fact, anything remotely violent never
crossed Hermione's mind over the next few weeks. The one way she could escape her feelings was to sleep
--even reading didn't work anymore. She'd remember how her Dad used to have her sit her little seven-
year-old self on his lap while they read "A Wrinkle in Time," or some other science fiction book. She'd
loved it, then, even though she didn't always understand what the story was about. She supposed that it
contributed to her love of reading. And that much was enough to make her never want to read again,
knowing she'd always grow teary-eyed thinking about it.
So she slept. And slept, and slept, and slept. She'd get up for lunch, but wouldn't eat much of anything
as it made her feel sick to her stomach to. She'd eat something small, not speak much, and go back to
bed, claiming to feel sick again, which was true. Then she'd get up later in the afternoon and help with
the chores: feeding the chickens, de-gnoming the garden, and anything else she could think of. She'd
work furiously, concentrating on every single detail and trying to make it perfect. She couldn't explain
why she obsessed, but at least it took her mind off of her parents, if only temporarily.
And the days dragged on in that same fashion, Ron growing more worried and Hermione growing more tired
each day. Finally, he came into Percy's room, where she was staying, and confronted her.
"Hermione, you can't just go on like this."
In response, she pulled the covers up over her head. "Watch me," she muttered, closing her eyes tiredly.
She jumped a bit as the covers were pulled down roughly, revealing Ron's angry, concerned face. She
scowled. "Ron, just leave me be, okay?"
"No, I won't!" he said, keeping a firm hold on the quilt, which she was trying to wrench free of his
grip. "You can't just stay in bed forever and not eat anything! It's not healthy!"
"I don't care," Hermione muttered angrily, turning over on her stomach and covering her head with one of
the huge feather pillows. "Go away," she mumbled.
"No."
She sighed. WHY was he so stubborn? WHY? "Ron, just--"
"No, Hermione, I'm not going to let you do this to yourself! Now get up!"
Thoroughly annoyed, she sat up, throwing the pillow to the floor like a small child having a tantrum.
"No! Why don't you MIND your own BUSINESS and LEAVE ME ALONE! You have NO idea what this is like, okay?"
She instantly regretted her little outburst. Ron looked as though he'd just been slapped. He stood up
and walked towards the door, not saying anything. He shut the door behind him and Hermione crumbled,
sobbing violently into her pillows. Eventually, she fell into blissful, dreamless sleep again, and was
liberated from her worries temporarily.
***
He wasn't going to cry. There was NO WAY he was going to cry. Nope. Ron Weasley did NOT cry. It wasn't
a statement--it was a law of nature. He didn't cry. And he hadn't since he'd been a toddler. He didn't
cry when Ginny got taken into the Chamber of Secrets. He didn't cry when Hermione had been turned into
stone. He didn't cry when Harry had gone missing during the third task of the Triwizard Tournament. So
why were his eyes stinging now?
Because it hurt.
More than anything else, it hurt. She'd said it just to hurt him, and it had worked. Well, fine. He'd
leave her alone. He'd mind his own business. That was just fine for him. He wondered how she'd changed
so drastically over the past few days. Last time he checked, she was still a scared little girl, not
sure what she was going to do with her life now that this had happened. And all of a sudden, she just
wouldn't get out of bed and face the world anymore. And when she did, she was almost violent about it.
She cleaned and cleaned and cleaned. And slept and slept and slept. That was her life, right there. And
all he'd done was try to help.
He tried reminding himself that she was very depressed and had recently had a horrible experience, but
there was another part of him that wouldn't ever be healed after what she'd said. Sometimes, you can't
take back what you say, and this was the case for Hermione.
"Fine," he muttered hoarsely, sitting in his room, glaring at the Chudley Cannons. "Fine. I'll leave her
alone. If that's what she wants, then fine." He wiped his eyes, furious with himself.
A/N: Man, Hermione was mean, wasn't she? It's the Sudafed's fault, not mine. I swear. The Sudafed's a
better Romance writer than I am, isn't it? Or maybe (hopefully) it's a joint effort. Okay, since I'm on
a roll, I'm going to go do the dishes like my Mum asked me to, then I'm going to write the next part and
post it! Lucky you! (yeah, right...) Just gimme time to gather my thoughts, 'kay? Kay. I'll stop my
mindless babbling now.
~ Veralidaine
A/N: Wow! I've gotten tons of really good reviews! For THIS drivel! D'you lot have any idea how terribly
appreciative I am?
Okay, and for Azrael Prysteria and Ebony Foxfire's benefit, so I don't hear about this on Monday when I
get back to school (yep, I'm home again, due to a really, really, really, really sore throat...), Ron
did not DO anything with Hermione at the end of chapter one, okay? He wasn't even under the covers! And
Azrael, if you're reading this, I don't wanna hear about how you interpreted that last remark.
Okay, I'm done ranting--well, almost. The title is now "Lost" because I got tired of typing the original
title. From now on look for that, okay? Okay. I'm a bit hyper right about now, so excuse me. My mind's
going through some major...uh...weirdness right now. Hopefully it'll help me write.
The wonders of sudafed and about a bazillion other decongestiants...I never cease to be amazed...
The Effects of Cold Medication on Writers' Block (A.K.A. Lost)
Part 3
by Veralidaine
Lost
By the shadows of the night I go
I moved away from the crowded room
That sea of shallow faces masked in warm regret
They don't know how to feel, they don't know what is lost
Lost in the darkness of a land
Where all the hope that's offered is
Memories of being taken by the hand
And we are led into the sun
But I don't have a hold on what is real
Though we can only try
What is there to give or to believe
I want it all to go away
I want to be alone
Sympathy's wasted on my hollow shell
I feel there's nothing left to fight for
No reason for a cause
And I can't hear your voice and I can't feel you near
Lost in the darkness of a land
Where all the hope that's offered is
Memories of being taken by the hand
And we are led into the sun
But I don't have a hold on what is real
Though we can only try
What is there to give or to believe
I wanted a change knowing all I could do was try
I was looking for someone...
--"Lost," by Sarah McLachlan, from the album "Solace," which has got to be one of her best ones. I just
had to put that song in here somewhere. ^_^ Okay, on to the fic:
Harry sat up in bed, thoroughly exhausted, and looked at the luminous alarm clock. 6:42 AM. Well. That
explained the exhaustion. So why, exactly, was he awake?
Tap, tap, tap.
Oh.
An owl.
He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and put on his glasses, not bothering to straighten them. There was a large
brown owl flapping about outside in the pouring rain, and beside it, getting blown about in the stormy
winds, was Pigwidgeon. Harry rushed to the window and opened it quietly, so as to keep the Dursleys from
waking.
For once, Pig was a bit too tired to hoot and flap in circles, much to the delight of Hedwig, who had
decided to stay inside for the evening, as it was so very unpleasant outside. Pig just flumped down on
Harry's bed, panting, and reminding Harry forcefully of Errol. Meanwhile, the large brown owl, which
looked as though it was from somewhere important, was preening its feathers in a rather haughty manner,
and merely paused to dropped the letter from its claws before returning to its work.
Anxious to hear from Ron, Harry opened the wet parchment and saw the usual messy scrawl of his best
friend, only this time it was a bit smeared from the rain.
Harry,
Sorry I didn't waterproof it, but I've not got the time. Maybe you've not heard about it, since you
don't get the Prophet, but Hermione's an orphan now. Her Mum and Dad were killed last week by a bunch
of Death Eaters, including that...Wormtail. So she's with us, but she doesn't talk much and won't eat
anything. Her Aunt sent a letter saying she could live with her, but I don't think 'Mione wants to. She
says she can't stay with us, though. You know how she is.
Anyway, I was wondering if you could come visit sometime, and talk to her, since you can sort of--you
know--identify. She needs it. I'm really worried about her...
Heard from Snuffles lately?
~ Ron
Harry paused, staring at the letter again without reading it. Hermione's parents? He, for one, knew what
it was like to not have parents. But then, he'd never really had them to start with but for a year, and
that wasn't enough to really remember it. Hermione'd had nearly seventeen years to make memories.
Still not quite registering this new predicament, he turned his attention to the more official looking
letter. It was on thick, yellowing parchment, much like he usually got from Hogwarts, but it was stamped
with a different seal, this one with a large star on it, surrounded by the words, "Ministry of Magic
Judicial System--Dept. of Mysteries." Thoroughly curious, Harry opened it and read:
Mr. Harry Potter,
This letter is to inform you that the supposedly dead Peter Pettigrew has recently turned himself in to
the Ministry of Magic, clearing your legal guardian, Sirius Black, of all suspicion of murder. You are
asked to please report to ministry offices by this coming Monday, August 30, in order to sign the
release papers for Black, and to organize who you have chosen as your official guardians.
Sincerely,
Bode and Croaker
Dept. of Mysteries
Harry stopped, blinked, and read the letter through once more. Then he blinked again. And then he broke
into a grin. "YES!" he whispered.
Well, that explained it, didn't it, that he'd not heard about it? If the Department of Mysteries was
working on it, and that made sense, as they obviously didn't want the press in on it, then even Mr.
Weasley wasn't allowed to hear about it. But Harry didn't really care about minor details like that--
Sirius was cleared! He could go live with him!
But then, why in the world had Wormtail decided to turn himself in?
***
For some reason, the thought of self-mutilation, suicide, or, in fact, anything remotely violent never
crossed Hermione's mind over the next few weeks. The one way she could escape her feelings was to sleep
--even reading didn't work anymore. She'd remember how her Dad used to have her sit her little seven-
year-old self on his lap while they read "A Wrinkle in Time," or some other science fiction book. She'd
loved it, then, even though she didn't always understand what the story was about. She supposed that it
contributed to her love of reading. And that much was enough to make her never want to read again,
knowing she'd always grow teary-eyed thinking about it.
So she slept. And slept, and slept, and slept. She'd get up for lunch, but wouldn't eat much of anything
as it made her feel sick to her stomach to. She'd eat something small, not speak much, and go back to
bed, claiming to feel sick again, which was true. Then she'd get up later in the afternoon and help with
the chores: feeding the chickens, de-gnoming the garden, and anything else she could think of. She'd
work furiously, concentrating on every single detail and trying to make it perfect. She couldn't explain
why she obsessed, but at least it took her mind off of her parents, if only temporarily.
And the days dragged on in that same fashion, Ron growing more worried and Hermione growing more tired
each day. Finally, he came into Percy's room, where she was staying, and confronted her.
"Hermione, you can't just go on like this."
In response, she pulled the covers up over her head. "Watch me," she muttered, closing her eyes tiredly.
She jumped a bit as the covers were pulled down roughly, revealing Ron's angry, concerned face. She
scowled. "Ron, just leave me be, okay?"
"No, I won't!" he said, keeping a firm hold on the quilt, which she was trying to wrench free of his
grip. "You can't just stay in bed forever and not eat anything! It's not healthy!"
"I don't care," Hermione muttered angrily, turning over on her stomach and covering her head with one of
the huge feather pillows. "Go away," she mumbled.
"No."
She sighed. WHY was he so stubborn? WHY? "Ron, just--"
"No, Hermione, I'm not going to let you do this to yourself! Now get up!"
Thoroughly annoyed, she sat up, throwing the pillow to the floor like a small child having a tantrum.
"No! Why don't you MIND your own BUSINESS and LEAVE ME ALONE! You have NO idea what this is like, okay?"
She instantly regretted her little outburst. Ron looked as though he'd just been slapped. He stood up
and walked towards the door, not saying anything. He shut the door behind him and Hermione crumbled,
sobbing violently into her pillows. Eventually, she fell into blissful, dreamless sleep again, and was
liberated from her worries temporarily.
***
He wasn't going to cry. There was NO WAY he was going to cry. Nope. Ron Weasley did NOT cry. It wasn't
a statement--it was a law of nature. He didn't cry. And he hadn't since he'd been a toddler. He didn't
cry when Ginny got taken into the Chamber of Secrets. He didn't cry when Hermione had been turned into
stone. He didn't cry when Harry had gone missing during the third task of the Triwizard Tournament. So
why were his eyes stinging now?
Because it hurt.
More than anything else, it hurt. She'd said it just to hurt him, and it had worked. Well, fine. He'd
leave her alone. He'd mind his own business. That was just fine for him. He wondered how she'd changed
so drastically over the past few days. Last time he checked, she was still a scared little girl, not
sure what she was going to do with her life now that this had happened. And all of a sudden, she just
wouldn't get out of bed and face the world anymore. And when she did, she was almost violent about it.
She cleaned and cleaned and cleaned. And slept and slept and slept. That was her life, right there. And
all he'd done was try to help.
He tried reminding himself that she was very depressed and had recently had a horrible experience, but
there was another part of him that wouldn't ever be healed after what she'd said. Sometimes, you can't
take back what you say, and this was the case for Hermione.
"Fine," he muttered hoarsely, sitting in his room, glaring at the Chudley Cannons. "Fine. I'll leave her
alone. If that's what she wants, then fine." He wiped his eyes, furious with himself.
A/N: Man, Hermione was mean, wasn't she? It's the Sudafed's fault, not mine. I swear. The Sudafed's a
better Romance writer than I am, isn't it? Or maybe (hopefully) it's a joint effort. Okay, since I'm on
a roll, I'm going to go do the dishes like my Mum asked me to, then I'm going to write the next part and
post it! Lucky you! (yeah, right...) Just gimme time to gather my thoughts, 'kay? Kay. I'll stop my
mindless babbling now.
~ Veralidaine
