THE PROPHECY OF FIRE
Chapter Three: Resurfaced Memories
Written by Kouri no Ryuu
There isn't a whole lot of point to this chapter, but oh well. Mostly just the Hermione stuff about Krum and the visit to Diagon Alley. (You'll see later why it's important.) You can also find this fic at or at its website: . Feel free to e-mail me at kouri_no_ryuu@direcway.com.
* * * * *
Hermione knocked on the front door to the Burrow, looking pale, tired--one could almost say she looked weary; that is to say, world-weary: the look of one who had seen it all, and didn't much like it.
The door opened. "Oh, my dear, you're finally here," said Mrs. Weasley with a kindly smile. "I thought you'd be here a day or two ago." She hustled Hermione inside, ordering the twins to carry her trunk and Ginny to help make Hermione comfortable.
Hermione looked around the living room of the Burrow. It hadn't much changed. In fact, it was exactly the same as she remembered it, wall hangings, no-heat fire and everything. It was comfortable.
After much fussing and making comfortable, Hermione finally sat down in a green armchair and watched Mrs. Weasley bustle around the kitchen for a few moments. "Well, I had some troubles with travel arrangements from Bulgaria, you know," she confided.
Mrs. Weasley busied herself with making iced tea. "My dear, whatever were you doing in Bulgaria?" she inquired. "Here, have some lemonade, girls; it'll cool you down." She handed Hermione a fresh glass. Then, without waiting for an answer to her question, Mrs. Weasley swooped outside to reprimand Fred for setting off several of Dr. Filibuster's Wet-Start, No-Heat Fabulous Fireworks in the front yard. He'd been trying to scare off the gnomes so he wouldn't have to do so much work.
Ginny and Hermione exchanged identical sighs of relief. Hermione hadn't been sure if Mrs. Weasley would still accept her, especially if she told her she was visiting a boyfriend in Bulgaria.
"Did you really go and visit Krum in Bulgaria?" asked Ginny in a hushed whisper, looking around them furtively. She, too, had accepted a tall glass of lemonade and now sat on the couch to Hermione's right.
Nodding, Hermione replied, "Yeah. He had an amazing estate: a Quiddtich field, of course, and even stuff for Muggle sports. And his house--or rather his mansion! Fifty bedrooms or more. Finally figured out what all of those were for." Ginny tried to ask what, but Hermione hurried on. "And it was enchanted, too, so that every morning you'd wake up and the house had rearranged itself. Not enough to make you get lost on your way to the breakfast table, of course, but it made each morning a little bit different." She smiled at the memory. "It was supposed to be for two weeks, right up until school started, but there you go." Hermione's voice held the slenderest thread of bitterness.
"What happened?" Ginny asked, her eyes wide.
Hermione sighed. "I was really very stupid. As it turns out, Viktor invites about a dozen girls over every summer,"--Ginny gasped--"and I even saw some Ravenclaw that I didn't know there. Turns out the Witch Weekly does a piece on it every summer. Anyway, he said that every year there's one girl there that he really likes. This year he said it was me. Hooray." Hermione smiled wryly despite herself. "Actually, he came to talk to me after I had called a taxi out. By the way, I found all this out when I saw him making out with a flake named Rose Ytterby, who'm I'd met before and thought was his sister or cousin or something ... Anyway, he asked me why I was leaving, and he actually told me that he 'loffed' me." Ginny laughed rather nastily at Hermione's imitation.
"So I told him," Hermione continued, "that if he loved me, as he said he did, I would be the only girl he wanted." She sighed again, and under the facade of uncaring, Ginny saw something like hurt shining in Hermione's cinnamon-brown eyes.
"I'm really sorry," Ginny offered.
But Hermione shook her head angrily. "Don't be."
But Ginny saw through the anger. "You really liked him, didn't you?" Hermione didn't even have to respond for Ginny to know the answer. "Are you going to be okay?" Ginny asked, concerned.
"Yeah, I'll be fine," assured Hermoine. "Don't worry about me." Jumping up, Hermione excused herself. "I should probably go and unpack my trunk now."
* * * * *
Hearing Hermione march up the stairs above him, George rocked back and forth from his heels to his toes. Geez, he thought. Heavy stuff going on. Always thought Krum was an okay guy ...
He rather felt sorry for Hermione. Poor girl, to have her heart broken by a celebrity like that. And how she found out! Noticed them snogging in the bushes! How awful. He bit his lip thoughtfully.
George had three possible plans of action.
Option One. He could be absurdly nice and kindly toward Hermione, show her that he was "there for her," try and comfort her in her "darkest hour."
Not oddly, this option possessed no appeal for George. It simply wasn't his nature. He knew exactly what would happen if he tried that, like a very long, bright, clear photograph--perhaps a "movie"--playing in his mind. Hermione would notice that it simply wasn't his nature. Hermione would question him about his odd behavior. She would grill him about how he found out about her and Krum's break-up. Ultimately he would end up spilling the beans about his eavesdropping habits. And George knew for a fact that Hermione did not like sneaky, underhanded acts such as "accidently" overhearing. George did not particularly desire to face Hermione's wrath.
Well, there was always Option Two. Ah, good old standby, Option Two. Poke fun, laugh a lot, hope she cheered up a bit. Although both twins usually relied on Option Two: Making Ridiculous Jokes for any problem, George felt his conscience squirm. Stupid bloody conscience, he thought, mentally narrowing his eyes at the unfamiliar feeling. Had to appear now, did you? Just thought you'd make a house call and stop for tea and jam after your long absence, did you? At exactly the wrong moment? Jokes and humor, George knew better than Fred, would not help Hermione's current negative mood. She woudl just get even more sad--and quite angry--and the humor would certainly not assist time in healing all wounds. Besides, he woudln't be able to stand the hurt he would probably see on Hermione's face as he cracked rude jokes.
George couldn't stand to see anyone hurting. Perhaps that was why he made such an effort to banish it.
With a sigh, George settled for Option Three: Pretending the Eavesdropping Never Happened and Continue with Life as Normal, While Waiting for Exactly the Correct Moment to Insert a Somewhat Sympathetic Comment and Hope She Didn't Question It.
George generally didn't opt for this choice, owing to its lack of a nickname.
Funny thing was, George mused, was that he couldn't bring himself to be angry with Krum. How odd. Perhaps the years of idolization prevented it; or perhaps he was too glad that Ginny would have a proper companion for the summer to wish that Hermione had stayed in Bulgaria. Whatever it was, he didn't mind.
George set out to occupy himself with his fourth helping of toast and marmalade.
* * * * *
Harry chewed on the end of his last sugar quill--Ron had sent him a package of two dozen a few weeks before--while trying to figure out what to write to Hermione.
Hi, Hermione, guess what? Ron and a lady named Arabella came to the Dursleys' house and rescued me with a really complicated escape plan that involved gardening!
There had to be a better way to state it. There just had to be.
Hi, Hermione-- Harry paused, then finally decided to just be as blunt as possible. I'm at Hogwarts for the rest of the summer, he wrote, and looked over it again. That didn't start off too badly. Ron and a woman named Arabella Figg came to the Dursleys' and tricked Aunt Petunia into letting them take me. It was really neat--and funny. Has anything interesting happened in Bulgaria lately? Oh, and send your owl to Hogwarts now--not the Dursleys. Likely they'll shoot and kill him or cage him or something.
Write back soon,
Harry
Harry sealed it in a leftover envelope from his trunk, and unlocked Hedwig's cage. "Here, take this to Hermione," Harry said as he stuffed the letter in the owl's beak. "You know where she is." Hedwig tried to hoot in understanding, but all that came out was a muffled squeak. Harry pushed up the window and watched Hedwig spread her wings and fly away until she was a speck in the distance.
* * * * *
Cho Chang stuffed her hands in her robe pockets as she turned the corner and noticed the Ravenclaw common room at the end of the corridor, which was rather short.
Her steps were jerky and short as she completed the distance and recited the password in a flat voice. The portrait, one of a stuffy old man in a suit named Gregory Challance, swung open ("You young upstarts are entirely too demanding!") and Cho stepped inside. No one else was present.
Why did I come at all? It's pointless, she thought, the contours of her face hardening into a stony frown. Oh, yes: Mother. I should remember to thank her for this ride to hell, Cho thought sarcastically, striding across the common room and to the stairs to the girls' dormitory.
I can't believe she threatened to burn all of my pictures of Cedric, was her bitter thought as she recalled the incident. . . .
* * * * *
"Cho, you need to go to Hogwarts," her mother insisted firmly, taking her daughter by the shoulders and looking her in the eye. Cho glanced away, both sad and angry.
"I'm not going," Cho said stubbornly. Xian shook her head, rippling her long, dark hair.
"You will go!" Xian stated, letting go of Cho. Cho's mother picked up a framed photo of Cedric, which was lying flat, face-up on Cho's nightstand.
Xian held the picture up to the level of Cho's face. "I will burn your pictures of Cedric if you don't!"
She can't mean that, Cho thought, horrified. She wouldn't do that! She couldn't!
Xian correctly interpreted the terrified expression on her daughter's face. She held the framed photograph on opposite sides and faked snapping the frame in half. "Oh, yes I would," said Cho's mother grimly.
Cho's hands clenched at her sides. "Fine. I'll go," she grated out.
* * * * *
Tears of humiliation burned in Cho's eyes as she recalled the incident. As her mother had left the room, Cho had distinctly heard Xian mutter, "Something has to snap her out of her depression."
What if I don't want to snap out of my depression? she replied mentally, wishing she was psychic so that her mother would hear her. But I couldn't let her burn my photographs. They're all I have left of him.
Having reached the dormitory door, Cho opened it and stepped inside the room. Sitting down on her designated bed, her fingers caressed the mahogony wood of the same frame of the picture Cho's mother had threatened to destroy. She ran her index finger over the photo Cedric's jawline, and he grinned up at her. Cho felt a pang in her heart.
"I can't live without you," she whispered to the photograph, who gazed back at her sadly. "I can't go on."
Can't go on . . . The phrase echoed in her head.
That's it, Cho realized. The only way to escape this is for me to kill myself. The prospect frightened her, as much as she didn't like to admit it.
Isn't that a bit extreme? a very small voice in the back of her head asked.
* * * * *
The next day.
Ron trudged around the corridors. Absolute boredom, he thought. Even the Burrow'd be better than this ... Immediately he squashed that thought.
"Hey, Ron!" came the bright voice of Justin Finch-Fletchey. "I didn't know you were a prefect." Justin grinned.
"I'm not," said Ron morosely. "I'm just staying here for the rest of the summer. And I'm bored out of my mind ..."
"Yeah, well, you know how it is. I heard we'll be going to Diagon Alley soon, to get stuff. Have you met Professor Blackstone yet?" queried Justin.
"Yeah, met her when I arrived. Potions professor, that's wild. Snape finally realized his absolute goal in life: to snag the DADA job. Wouldn't have seen that coming in a million years." Ron started to perk up a little.
"What fun that'll be," commented Justin with cheerful sarcasm. "Learning about evil from the evilest of them all ... Well, I guess I'll see you later, then."
Ron continued down the hallway, ignoring Peeves's cackling comments of "Had too many moldy peanuts, Weasley?" and "Miss Norris got your arse?"
Several minutes later, Ron heard the screech of sneaker skidding on stone. "Watch it, please!" hollered an unfamiliar voice.
His head jerked up just in time to see a girl he didn't know glare at him defiantly, her brown eyes flashing.
"Excuse me," said the girl in a tone of voice not unlike Professor McGonagall. "Next time, watch where you're going when you turn 'round a corner, please."
Her accent sounded odd--American, perhaps? How strange.
Ron shook himself and recovered from his shock. "Sorry about that," he apologized, stuffing his hands in his pockets and grinning sheepishly. "It's just so boring around here. I was going to the library and I almost fell asleep walking."
The girl cracked a smile. '"I know the feeling," she admitted. "But I haven't found my way around the castle yet. Kind of embarrassing, that is. Anyway, I was looking for the library, too. Can you tell me where it is?"
"Sure," Ron replied, and they set off.
"So, anyway, my name's Nerissa Warbeck. You?"
He hestitated just for a moment. "I'm Ron Weasley."
"Ron Weasley, huh?" she asked with great interest. "You're friends with Harry Potter, aren't you?"
"Er, yeah ..." Ron desperately wanted to find something else to talk about. "So, play any Quidditch?"
She stared at him in disbelief. "Quidditch? Absolutely not. Quodpot all the way."
"That's the American sport, right?" inquired Ron. "The one with exploding Quaffles--Quods, I mean?"
"Yes," she said firmly, "and it's the best, I can assure you."
"You know, I don't think I've ever met you before," said Ron, slowing down a little. "I thought I knew pretty well everyone here ..."
"You wouldn't know me," said Nerissa absently, biting her nail. "I'm a transfer student. Sixth year, got Sorted privately last week."
"Really? A transfer student?" His voice sounded interested. "Why did you transfer? And from where?" Nerissa glanced at him.
"The Salem Witches' Institute. It's in America. The state of Oregon. Also known as the state of nothingness. Except for all of those witch-burning museums Muggles have put up. Those are amusing." So that's why her accent sounds so odd, noted Ron. But as she said that, her eyes flicked away in a familiar gesture--one he recognized from himself as someone who is unskilled at lying but does it anyway.
It was only much later that Ron would realize that she also hadn't answered the first question.
* * * * *
Three days later.
Professor Blackstone had arranged an outing to Diagon Alley to replenish the students' school supplies and called a short meeting beforehand. It was in the Potions dungeon.
It's hard to be in here and remember that Snape isn't going to teach in here anymore, Ron thought, gazing around at the unwelcomingly dark and damp room.
All of the students would take their trips in three independent groups: first the fifth years, then the sixth years, then the Heads. Ron would go with the fifth years.
"How many of you have enough money on hand to buy the supplies that you need?" she asked Ron, all the prefects, and Heads. Only a few hands were raised, including Draco's.
Blackstone nodded. "Then we'll have to stop by Gringotts' first," she said, almost to herself.
"Professor Blackstone? May I ask you something?" asked shy Susan Bones.
Blackstone looked up at the dark-haired girl. "Yes, of course, Miss Bones."
"How will we get there?" Susan asked softly, a frown creasing her forehead. "Flying carpets are illegal, it's much to far to walk, and not all of us are old enough to Apparate."
The Potions professor smiled. "I'm glad you asked. I'll be right back with our mode of transportation," she replied lightly and left.
Five minutes later, Professor Blackstone returned with many brooms suspended in front of her and her wand held out in front of her. Blackstone let the brooms fall gently to the ground before kneeling down in front of the stack, putting her wand in her robe pocket.
Morag MacDougal reached for the nearest broom and Blackstone waved him off. "Not yet, Mr. MacDougal," the professor said. Then she began addressing the entire group. "These are the newest line of Nimbus Brooms--the Nimbus 2002; just came out this summer," she explained, waving a hand at the elegant brooms before her.
"We'll ride them to Diagon Alley--it'll take a while, but it's the best we've got right now," Blackstone continued. "We would take the Hogwarts Express, but its fuel supplier has been late in delivering its shipment." With that, she said, "Mr. Malfoy."
"What?" Draco said in a bored voice, though Hermione could tell that he was eyeing the stack of brooms in interest.
The professor handed him the broom on the top of the stack. "MacDougal." And the rough Slytherin soon held a broom as well.
And she went on through all the names of the fifth-years.
Ron took the Nimbus broom with great curiosity as his name was called. Its ash-wood handle felt smooth under her fingers, and he liked the way it felt. Blackstone continued calling all the names of the fifth-years.
"Now, I don't want any of you Quidditch players getting ideas," warned Blackstone. "These are rented brooms, Hogwarts doesn't own them, and they're not going to be the school brooms." A sigh of disappointment rose from the assembled group.
Finally Blackstone finished handing out the brooms; there was only one left, and she picked it up for herself. "I'm going to cast an attention-averting spell on us so the Muggles don't notice us," Blackstone said, retrieving her wand from her pocket. "I believe you learned that spell in Charms in your third year. If you've forgotten it, I'll explain the theory of it. An attention-averting charm diverts any notice of the charm's bearer. If anyone sees us, the spell will force them to look away and forget us."
Several of the students looked impressed. Blackstone commenced casting the spell. There was a slight shimmer in the air surrounding them, the kind that you see when heat rises off concrete in the summer. It made everyone appear slightly blurred and wavy. Ron rubbed his eyes, and when he glanced up again, everything looked normal.
"Mount your brooms," Blackstone said quietly. Everyone did. "Now, push off the ground."
Ron was delighted with flying this broom. It was a very sensitive broomstick, responding to his movements with a certain easy smoothness. The group skimmed over the treetops, and absently Ron noticed that he and Draco were in the lead.
True enough, after about an hour of fast flying, a Muggle woman holding a baby on her hip noticed them, then immediately looked away.
The entire trip took about two and a half hours. It would have taken less, but Seamus Finnegan and Morag MacDougal had started a mid-air fight, and it took twenty minutes for Blackstone to placate them both.
As soon as they reached Diagon Alley, Blackstone revoked the charm that surrounded the group. They first visited Gringotts, and then the group split up to buy personal supplies, with the agreement to meet back at a specific restaraunt for lunch at two. As Ron was about to enter Flourish and Blotts, he noticed a sign on the window. It said that Flourish and Blotts had started selling magazines and newspapers as well as just books. Ron saw two magazines in the window: Magi Monthly and Witch Weekly. Both featured headlines such as "A Time-Turner Thief Among Us?" and "Top-Ten Charms to Keep Your Hot Warlock's Eyes on Only You!"
* * * * *
George sat down next to Hermione, who was curled up on the couch, staring at the heatless fire, her eyes glassy. He watched her face.
It didn't change.
Feeling a bit irked, George said, "Hey, Hermione," and waved a hand in front of her face.
Her eyes snapped into focus, and she turned to look at him. "Oh, hey, George. What's up?"
George leaned back. "Not much. I made a new trick candy today, just got back from shagging Alicia--and hey, I think I'll take over the world tomorrow."
Her index finger traced meaningless patterns onto the fabric of the couch. "That's great."
George chuckled. "What's wrong, Hermione?"
"Wrong? Nothing's wrong."
He gave her his best you-haven't-fooled-me look. "Please, Hermione. I may have only gotten five O.W.L.'s, but that doesn't make me stupid."
"Of course you're not, George."
"Then talk to me." He looked at her with what could only be described as a gentle expression.
"I don't want to."
"Too bad." Apparently, this was the wrong thing to say, because Hermione fairly exploded.
"You have no idea what I'm going through!" she raged.
"No, I don't. Tell me about it."
"It's horrible. I liked him. I really did. And then he goes and snogs that selfish brat, and--"
By this point, George knew that Hermione wasn't talking to him anymore. In her mind, she was speaking to Krum, and he was sitting in front of her.
"--it's so hurtful, and heartless. It's embarrassing, degrading, humiliating, hideously so--but if he came to me again, I don't think I could say no! It was so great--to find someone that didn't care what I looked like or what I wore--I liked him so much--but now--" Her face crumpled.
George put an awkward arm around her shoulders, alarmed. "Hermione--I mean--don't cry. . . . He's not worth it. . . ."
"That's just it. He still is a great guy. No matter what he did to me . . . he's still sweet--and friendly--" she sobbed.
"That's just your feelings talking," said George. "Where's the Hermione I know? The one that would quote divorce statistics and tell me about all those failed celebrity marriages? Come on, Hermione. Use your brain." He tapped her head. "You've got more than the rest of us, you know."
She smiled, but the tears still came, and her eyes were still sad. "Thanks, George."
"Hey, no problem. You know what will really make you feel better?"
She raised her eyebrows, a little of her good humor returning. "Do I want to know?"
"We could bash Krum," he suggested. "Spill out all of his dirty secrets. Boxers or briefs? Cute little ducky socks? Come on, there's gotta be something."
"He kisses like a toad," Hermione admitted, using the back of her hand to wipe away a few of the tears.
George sat up a little straighter. "Are you serious?"
She smiled. "No. But it's making me feel better, anyways."
"Darn," said George, snapping his fingers in mock-disappointment. "I was looking for blackmail material, here."
Hermione laughed: a little, sad laugh, but a laugh all the same. "Thanks."
"No problem, like I said," he said, grinning.
The tear tracks glistened on her cheeks. "No, really. I mean it. Thanks."
George shrugged, the epitome of fake modesty. "Oh, it's fine. Besides," he added, his eyes twinkling, "there's not many times during life you get to see the high-and-mighty Hermione Granger taken off her pedestal and looking like a regular person. It's refreshing."
She smacked him with a pillow, laughing. "Oh, whatever."