~Chimera's Call ~

Chapter 6

On a different day, if I was safe in my own skin,

then I wouldn't feel lost and frightened

but this is today and I'm lost in my own skin

and I'm so lonely I don't even want to be myself anymore.

(D. Armstrong)

~*~

"I've got it."

Harry flinched when Ron's voice came unexpectedly out of nowhere. He let go of Hermione's hand and rose.

Ron looked a mess. Snow was still clinging to his newly wet hair, his clothes were rumpled and rather wet, too and he sported the beginning of an incredible shiner. Yet there was something in his friend's posture that made Harry take an unconscious step backwards. Was that triumph glinting in Ron's eyes?

"How?" Harry couldn't think of more to say. He had agreed to letting Ron go, but he had never actually expected that he would be successful. Agonising moments had passed in which he had wished he hadn't agreed. Malfoy wasn't stupid, nor was he ever alone. Harry had much rather expected to go searching for Ron's hexed body.

Yet here he was standing, the fiery hair hanging in wet strands into his green eyes, fixated on Hermione's still figure.

"Did anything happen while I was gone? Did she . . ." He trailed off and waved a hand in her direction. There were abrasions on his knuckles, Harry noticed. Something odd settled in his stomach, a tight knot that refused to unfurl.

Harry shook his head. "Nothing. But the bleeding still hasn't stopped."

"I shouldn't have let him off the hook so easily," Ron muttered darkly as he went to the fireplace.

Harry took a deep breath, preparing himself for the question that burned on his mind. He gestured towards Ron's hands and his face. "What did you --"

"Don't ask. You don't want to know." Ron waved dismissively, but Harry noticed that he hid his hands in the sleeves of his jumper.

"Well, actually --"

"NO, Harry." The words were icy and more authorative than he had even heard Professor McGonagall in his four years at Hogwarts. Harry narrowed his eyes at his friend. Was this really still the same Ron Weasley he knew? He had the distinct feeling that something had changed, as though something big had happened down there.

"Ron, are you OK?"

Ron looked as though he had expected anything but this question. For a moment, he seemed to be startled into answering, but decided against it. He placed something on the table, but Harry didn't notice. He was captured by the changes in Ron's demeanour. That dark something he had seen when Ron had entered the common room flickered briefly on his friend's face, only to be replaced by something Harry could only describe as determined tenderness. "Hermione's more important now."

As if on cue, Hermione suddenly starting thrashing wildly, knocking over the mug of tea standing on the table. Within the blink of an eye, Ron was at her side, pulling the table away from her so she couldn't hurt herself. Then he reached for her flailing arms, pinning them at her sides. It all happened too quick for Harry to react.

"The pouch on the table, Harry," Ron said urgently. "Grab a handful of the herbs and throw them into the fire. Then find something to hold in front of your nose and mouth. Don't breathe in the smoke."

Confusion welled up in Harry. "What about you?"

Ron grunted with the strain of holding Hermione still. She seemed to be a lot tougher than she looked. "The smoke will put everyone who breathes it into some sort of trance. I didn't get everything, but it will somehow allow me to find Hermione in her dreams and show her a way out. But we will need you."

"Then why can't I breathe in the smoke? If you need my help, I have to be with you --"

"No, you don't. We need you here. You need to wake me up first, and then Hermione will hopefully be able to follow me and eventually wake."

"Hopefully?"

Ron pulled a grimace. "The git wasn't sure how much of the potion he had slipped into her tea." Something dark and unpleasant flitted over his face. "We'll have to wait and see."

Harry didn't like the thought of sending Ron to the same place Hermione was. It didn't seem to be pleasant at all. But still, they had to help her, like she had done on countless occasions before.

"Why don't you let me go?"

Another grunt from Ron, who had just received a swift kick from Hermione. "Because you're not the one who found out. And . . ." Harry didn't know how Ron found the nerve to grin, but he did. "I'd like to be the knight in shining armour for once. No offence, Harry."

'Family business,' Harry thought irrationally when he noticed the look in Ron's eyes. The joke hadn't reached them, and they were indomitable. He had seen this look before, when Ginny had disappeared. Nothing here had to do with playing the hero, nor with bravery, nor with anything along those lines. This was closer than personal. This was family business. Somehow, Hermione must've been promoted family, right along with Mrs. Weasley more or less adopting Harry.

Harry gave a wry grin in reply and reached for the pouch. "How long until I wake you?"

He didn't like the uncertainty he saw on Ron's face. This usually meant that his friend had no idea at all and wanted to cover it up. "Give me an hour."

"Are you sure?"

"No, I'm Ron," the red-head quipped. Then he became serious. "I don't know for sure, Harry. There's no one there to ask, and no time to read dozens of books. Keep checking on Hermione. Maybe the bleeding will stop when I've reached her. Maybe she'll stop fighting."

"But what about you? How will I know you're all right?"

Ron shrugged, seemingly careless. "You don't."

Harry shook his head vigorously. "I don't like this at all."

"Look, mate, I appreciate the concern, but we have to get moving."

"Bloody hero," Harry muttered under his breath when he reached into the pouch, still shaking his head slightly.

"What's that?"

"You heard."

Ron met his eyes squarely, and there it was again -- that look he had given Harry on that giant chess set, back in their first year. And again, Harry knew better than to argue. Bloody brick-headed Weasleys. One worse than the other. And this particular Weasley was the worst, or so it seemed. Harry smiled in spite of himself. It was an admirable character treat, as long as you didn't get in the line of fire.

His hand closed around the dry leafs in the pouch and he felt them rustling and breaking in his fingers. Then he took the remaining step towards the fire, held a handkerchief in front of his nose and mouth and threw the leafs into the fire.

Smoke rose instantly, filling the space in front of the fireplace. Harry's eyes, although stinging from the smoke, were fixed on Ron, who still struggled to hold Hermione, and by now had to use the full power of both of his arms to keep her from hurting herself and him. A grim sort of expression was on his face. He coughed when the smoke reached him, and his movements became noticeably slower.

Ron's eyelids were beginning to droop and his arms seemed to lose strength with every new breath he took. Finally, his head sunk to Hermione's waist, his hands still around her body. Harry heard him whisper: "See, it worked even without a book." Then all of Ron's muscles relaxed at once, and he was unconscious.

Interlude III

It was a place of aloneness, where all doors were sealed and corridors led to nowhere. She would never find a way out.

Hermione crouched in a corner, her back pressed against the vaulted wall and knees hugged tight against her shivering body. Blood glistened on these knees and burned in her palms, trails from her scrawl over the cobbled floor when she had tried to escape her shadow. Stealthily it had followed her, even when she could no longer run. It was still now, her pursuer, the shade that had hunted her down here. It was out of sight. But Hermione never believed it was gone.

'It's never gone,' she thought and remembered – all the nights she had laid in deep sleep, kind dreams eluding her no matter how hard she wished for them. Where other children had possibly dreamed of games in the sun, she had only this vault. In the light of day she had always managed to forget, but in the night It easily breached her walls.

The Shadow. Her loneliness.

Hermione sniffled and quickly wiped the back of her hand over her nose. She had thought she had lost this chimera, this nightmare, when she'd come to Hogwarts. Because here things had changed, hadn't they? She was no longer the Hermione she'd been back home. The Hermione that was always hidden behind piles of books, with her glance ever studious and her mouth forever serious. The girl that had carried her head high, so she wouldn't crumble under the indifference and laughter of the children her age. Those children looked at her and couldn't understand her. Why she loved to read while others made rough races down the hill. Why she knew her letters before she even came to school. They called her a swot, because her world was weird to them. They never knew Hermione yearned to be a part of their circle. She longed to play and laugh, to just be cheerful as they were. But she never found a way. She never knew how to tell them, or to approach them. Because every step she took nigh was granted with smirks and teasing remarks that made her courage fail. So she turned up her nose and turned away, sealing her hope in a drawer with no key.

So it had been before Hogwarts and her dream-born shadow had always lurked at the brims of her slumber.

'But it was gone,' Hermione thought in despair. For four years now it had been gone. It should be gone forever! "It should be," Hermione whispered with tears. She was a different Hermione; the shadow shouldn't haunt her anymore.

Yet that wasn't the truth and here in this vault, where the air was stale and moist, she knew it. Things around her might have changed, but she was still the same. The studious Hermione, the bookworm, who strove for knowledge and accomplishment. That was she. And though at one time she'd known that studiousness was a good characteristic she now believed it was hollow. Because beneath the cover of book-cleverness she didn't really know who she was. What kind of a person was she? The thirst for knowledge had little substance – there had to be more about her, hadn't there? But then, didn't the present situation show the reality? Deprived of her wand, her books and all rational explanations she was -- nothing. Just an empty pouch and of no importance at all.

'But I'm more,' a tiny voice in her head wailed. 'I'm more! I have friends! I'm dear to them!'

She had friends. Hadn't that been her fondest wish for as long as she could think? True friends, who knew her and valued her for what she was. Hermione tilted her chin and swallowed hard. Ron and Harry were her friends. The three of them were companions to the end; their previous adventures proved it.

What do they prove?

The question didn't come wholly out of herself, but at least part of it was her own heart speaking. What indeed did their adventures prove?

'We stick together,' Hermione thought defiantly against the doubts. 'We defeat all threats and look out for each other.'

Yes, but in times of peace – when there is no immediate danger – do they look out for you, as well?

'They do,' Hermione thought curtly, but her hands began to tremble. Did they really? She struggled to remember.

Do they tell you that you're important to them? Do they include you at all times?

'No,' Hermione thought. 'But they're boys, it's their way.' Of course Harry and Ron would do their own things every now and then. Things that only boys would enjoy, like broom races or other stuff. Then she would use her spare time to read and work on her knowledge. Just like old times.

Hermione twitched at the thought. In her memory, that day's snowball fight unrolled. She remembered the fun they've had, but then she also remembered how they had left her to go home on her own. While they would return to Hogsmeade and enjoy their time a little while longer.

Hermione's eyes grew wide and she clasped her knees almost frantically. Something terrible began to form itself in her mind. She imagined Ron and Harry, clapping each others' shoulders or brooding over a friendly game of wizard-chess. They were a perfect team. Why would they ever want to be around her?

'You know it,' a treacherous voice in her head offered. And indeed, she did. When she remembered all their adventures Hermione saw clearly the value she had for Harry and Ron. She was the girl with the brains. It was a cruel realisation.

They only needed her because she knew the spell. She knew the potion, the curse, and if she didn't know it, she was ever ready to look it up. That was why Harry and Ron bore with her. For them, she was a living encyclopaedia.

"No . . .' Hermione whispered. It couldn't be. She had to be more to them. In the shadows of the vault she thought she saw the boys' shadows and heard echoes of their voices. Laughter, easy mate-talk and friendly banter. She also heard what was said about herself:

"The day you'll beat me at chess will be the day Hermione stops reading."

"Perfect Miss Granger has just admitted that there are rules meant to be broken? Be still, my heart!"

There and then she could no longer ignore the truth.

"No," Hermione sobbed and laid her forehead on her folded arms. Nothing had changed. Nothing at all. How could she have ever deceived herself? She was as alone as before. It was even worse – for now she had also lost her last shield. She'd lost all support from rationality, from wisdom and the lore of books. There was nothing left.

Her soft keening was a lonesome sound in the vault. Shadows lay frozen on the stone and from somewhere drops of water fell heavy on the cobbled stone.

"Hermione?"

Tears moistened her wrists, while through the woolen fabric of her skirt coldness crept on her skin.

"Hermione?"

At first, she didn't really register the voice. Then she dismissed it as one of the vaults many cruel illusions, sent to haunt her even more. But when the call sounded a third time, she lifted her head. In the shadows some metres away from her she saw the shape of a person, hardly visibly in the darkness. Was it her pursuer?

Trembling, Hermione pressed her back against the wall, at the same time trying to make herself as small as possible.

"Who's there?" she cried softly.

"Hermione, is it you?" The person stepped hesitantly out of the shadow and into the small circle of dim twilight that surrounded her. Even in the dimness his red hair shone like a flame. He came nearer still, looking around with wonder written all over his face. Finally he stopped at her feet.

"Where are we?" he asked astounded, still not looking at her. Hermione couldn't think of a word to say, too weak from all the former nightmares and too surprised by this new apparition. Finally Ron looked down at her. He frowned then, taking in her damp cheeks and blood-stained knees. At long last Hermione found her voice.

"Ron?" she asked timidly, having no control over the tears that were still flowing. He nodded and then knelt down with not a trace of his usual clumsiness.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his fingertips briefly touching her shin. "What happened?"

She could only stare at him. Was he for real? Was it concern she saw in his eyes?

"I . . . don't know . . ." she stammered. "Where do you come from?"

"If only I would know," Ron snorted with a trace of his familiar wryness. He ran a hand through his copper hair, looking rather helpless. "I never thought it would work like that -- but then I had no idea how it should work in the first place. But this is a weird place."

It was too much. Weary, Hermione closed her eyes and felt the wall behind her swaying. She wanted to hear nothing more, wanted simply too shut her senses to all and everything around her. During all this nightmare she'd felt like falling; she wouldn't mind now if she hit the ground and all was finally silent.

But then the twisting stopped miraculously. Suddenly, the weight that had bore down on her mind was gone, as were the constricting chains of despair. Blinking, she opened her eyes. Ron's face was above her, looking down at her with eyes that shone with sorrow and care. It took her a moment to realise that he held her. It was a strange feeling – his warmth permeating through her chilled skin and the safety his embrace radiated. It felt even stranger when his hand carefully shoved away a loose strand of her hair.

"I got you," he whispered with a softness she'd never met in him before.

"Is it gone?" she breathed. "The shadow -- is it gone? I can't sense it."

Confusion wrinkled his brow at her words. "I don't know what you mean. There's shadows all about us."

But she couldn't see them -- wasn't there a more gentle light surrounding them? Weariness seeped into her limbs and since it seemed the only thing to do she leaned her head against his shoulder. It felt like he tucked her under his chin. Words drifted to her ear, sounding like, "I'm so glad I found you."

Why would he be glad? Hermione wondered. Why would he come to look for her at all? But she couldn't piece her thoughts together anymore. Through half-closed eyes she saw the cobbled walls of the vault and rivulets of dark water rippling down the stone, but it all grew dim. Everything withdrew from her becoming more and more remote.

'No.' Hermione almost smiled. Not everything. Hesitantly she lifted a hand and let her fingers touch the collar of Ron's shirt. The fabric felt real, as did the warmth that prickled beneath her fingertips. He shifted slightly, moving her weight to lean even more on him. More comfortable and gently encircled by his presence, the rhythm of her breathing slowed as she snubbed her nose against his jumper. It was slightly rough wool with the deeply familiar scent of Ron.

"You need to wake up, Hermione," he said softly, lowering his mouth close to her hair. She could feel his breath on the tip of her ear, a gentle breeze that made her dizzy, somehow. Dimly, she thought she heard a voice calling from the distance.

"Hear?" said Ron. "That's Harry, he's waiting for us. We must wake up." He'd clasped her hand and his words drifted against her forehead, softly urging her. Hermione tried to obey them, but despite her effort, she felt her consciousness slip from her little by little. She felt her eyelids grow heavy and a great weakness came over her. She flagged, more and more, but still his body was there, a constant strength that enfolded her. And his voice, carrying through the haze of dizziness and guiding her like a lantern through night and fog.

"Wake up, Hermione."

She clung to it. Savouring the sound.

"Wake up."

Epilogue

Slowly, ever so slowly, she began to feel her surroundings. Warm, dry air, and a very fine smell of burning wood. A fire crackled. Someone yawned audibly. A woolen blanket felt rough where it touched her chin. And the hand that stroked her hair was so gentle that she wanted nothing more but to stay in this cocoon of safety forever. Not seeing, just hearing and feeling. Relishing in the fact that someone was with her, that she wasn't alone anymore.

"She looks better, don't you think?" A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth when she recognised the hesitant, smooth voice. Harry.

"Told you she would be fine." A second voice chimed in, but the cheerfulness was forced, horribly forced. Ron.

"Of course I am fine. I have two knights in shining armour at my side." She could hear two people catch their breath. "Not that I needed saving, but still . . ." The flat-out lie made her voice trail off and she hoped it hadn't been too obvious.

Hermione opened her eyes, tried to smile and failed when she saw the looks on both of her best friends' faces. It lasted only split seconds before she could see the usual mask fall into place, the incredible worry and frailty replaced with nonchalance.

"Well, then I think we're out of service, Knight Potter. Move along. Let the noble queen get back to her dormitory, so we can finally have our much-needed sleep." Ron kept a straight face, but his eyes twinkled, belying his relief. Harry grinned and stifled a huge yawn.

"You are right, oh brave Weasley. We really should go to bed. The queen seems to be all right if she can wisecrack already."

When both boys rose, panic surged into Hermione's heart. They wouldn't . . . they couldn't . . . "No!" Instinctively, she reached for both Harry and Ron's hands as though they were the only lifeline she had, the only thing that held her here in the real life. Immediately, the masks dropped again, and Hermione was faced with a wave of apprehension coming from both Harry and Ron.

"Don't . . . I mean . . ." She trailed off, embarrassed. A blush climbed into her cheeks and she lowered her eyes, letting go of the boy's hands awkwardly fast.

"Do you want Ron or me to bring you up to your dormitory?" Harry asked gingerly, pushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead in an unusual display of tenderness. His eyes were full of concern.

"I reckon I could carry you," Ron said quietly, judging her weight by looking at her slim figure. "D'you . . . want me to?" Red eyebrows rose to greet the red hairline on his forehead.

No. Anything but. It was all she could do from shouting this out loud, hurting Ron with her bluntness. It didn't matter how well they meant, and how positively nice it would be to be carried back to her room, especially by Ron. But after they had seen her safely to bed, they would leave for their own dormitory and she would be alone again.

All alone.

Again.

She shivered.

"Are you cold? Should we bring more blankets? Some chocolate?" Ron sounded as desperate as Harry looked.

"It's not the cold." She moved a little on the couch and pulled her legs up to her chin. "I . . ."

"Hermione." Harry put a hand on her cheek, the careful, almost brotherly touch soothing her senses. He had calluses on the tips of his fingers from Quidditch practice, she realised. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm fine."

She felt Ron's weight dent the other end of the couch slightly and was distracted from Harry's calming touch. Ron was different than Harry; he had an urgency in his aura, something more impulsive which made her slightly nervous. Now sitting next to her, he clumsily poked her shoulder. Where Harry's touch had been natural, this was a tad forced. "Fess up, Miss Granger."

"Can't."

"Hermione." Harry again. Patient, careful, gentle. "Tell us."

"Please." It wasn't all too often that you heard such pleading from Ron Weasley. Not in a voice like this. Hermione looked up, surprised to find genuine concern in the green eyes just above her. No more clumsiness was to be found there. Just concern, and forthright protectiveness that made the faint echo of a blush creep back into her cheeks.

Two pairs of green eyes looked at her, and both were unknowingly trying to outmatch the other in terms of anxiety.

"Promise you won't laugh?" she asked, her voice suddenly small.

And when both boys had nodded their heads and she was certain they would hold true to their word, she began.

It took a while to find the right words for the horrible things she had seen in her nightmare, for the feelings she hardly ever named. How hard it had been to suddenly accept that there was a place where she couldn't succeed with knowledge, where there was only irrationality and feelings.

A few times, she faintly heard the sound of Ron's knuckles cracking. His breathing was rather laboured, but he kept his hand on her arm, just where he had placed it when she had begun, and its warmth gave her the strength to go on.

Hermione finally trailed off, shaky, feeling horribly spent and tired. This had been like a confession. Like turning her insides out for both Harry and Ron to look at. She had opened herself completely, had told them things she had never even admitted to herself. This would have been the perfect ammunition for anyone who wanted to hurt her. But she didn't feel any regret. Her secrets were safe with those two. Safer than in Gringott's.

Her eyelids were beginning to droop, but she was fighting sleep with all her might, afraid of what would happen should she fall asleep again.

Over her head, she felt Ron and Harry exchange a few quick glances. Then Harry rose from his crouched position in front of the couch and sat down next to her.

Ron rose as well and Hermione's stomach dropped. That was it? He was just leaving, without another word? He had been so helpful since she had woken up, and now he was returning to his old ogre-ly self? The thought hurt, and she was just about to force her eyes open to see where he had gone to when she felt him lift her head carefully, slide onto the couch, placing a pillow onto his lap and resting her head back onto it. Hermione tensed up and her eyes flew open, her whole body going rigid. But then his hand was on her shoulder again, drawing patterns on it in its lazy travel over her arm. The fireplace in front of them only added to the warmth climbing into her cheeks. It was a few moments until she could relax enough to ease her cramped limbs. Just then, Harry reached for her feet, pulled them onto his lap and spread the blanket over her. His hand, too, moved soothingly over her calf. She marvelled at his natural touch. The dark-haired boy who had never really received the love of parents was so much at ease at giving something very comforting and parental to her. She relaxed finally, going limp in their combined shelter.

"No more bad dreams tonight," Harry declared and gave her leg a little squeeze. "We may not be Sir Cardogan --" Despite the comfortable situation, Hermione couldn't help but snort at the mentioning of the picture-knight and Ron promptly swatted her on the arm (Oi, he's really not that bad, just … insane). "But I think we can chase away bad dreams. Are you up to it, brave Weasley?"

In a flurry of motion, she saw Ron's hand indicating a flourish from the corner of her eye. "I live but to serve."

Harry snorted with disbelief. Hermione stifled a laugh at the insulted "harrumph" from Ron. But she could feel his chuckle shaking his body. "You're not supposed to insult your knights," he said indignantly, waggling a long freckled finger in front of her face.

"I wouldn't dare." There was not a trace of teasing in her voice. A slight pause, then: "Thank you."

There was nothing more to say. Those two words were lame and not nearly enough for the gratefulness she felt. They hung in the air awkwardly, too big and too small at the same time. But they were enough for the moment.

Harry looked at her for a long while, then averted his eyes when she saw him scrutinising her. Or rather, them. Hermione blushed furiously when she saw a small smile playing around Harry's mouth.

Ron she couldn't see from her position on the couch. But she felt his hand drawing her closer to his warmth, until she could feel the back of her head resting against his hipbone. She basked in this new warmth and closed her eyes.

Well, this position would make sure that at least she would wake from his rumbling stomach in the morning. There was nothing awkward at all in the thought of spending the night like this. They were together, all three of them. The queen and her brave knights. A smile crept over her features when Ron's hand returned to her arm just as Harry's hand returned to her calf, both touches gentle yet different like night and day.

And right there, in that very moment, she knew that she had never before felt safer. Comfortably resting in the warmth of both of her best friends, she felt whole. And together. Connected, somehow.

Anything.

But no longer alone.

finis