Fallen Saint
Written By: Logical Nonsense
Chapter: Three "Bought Your Name"
Summary: Hermione was brutally murdered in her fifth year of Hogwarts, but now someone has brought her back. Why? How? Everything will be just like it always was, right? No. Hermione doesn't remember her past life or anyone from it. How are the Terrific Trio supposed to act now? And without the prejudices Hermione lived with before, how much will she change?
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: HP and the SS, HP and the CS, HP and the PoA, HP and the GoF
Disclaimer:
This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Additional Disclaimer: Possible references/themes from Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Authors Note: ______ If you have any questions, comments, criticism (or praise) please leave a review! The next chapter should be up by ______ --- If you leave an email address, I will email you when I post the next chapter.
Thanks to … for the reviews of chapter two:
mmm.Remus: Why do you think Harley's a bitch? I'm just curious, but could you possibly give me some examples? Please? And she will be Hermione again, but not right away. She isn't going to wake up one morning and be like "Hey! I remember everything! I'm Hermione: the bookish, frizzy haired, best friend of Ron and Harry!" It's not going to be like that. Red1: Thank you sooo much, Spike's Girl, Pokey, Lady Lupin: interesting in a good or bad way?, fei: thanks! It's kind of strange to write, since I've never died - but I try!!! Cassieworks523, Maryanne, Stephalopolis, Lilygurl88: Thanks! More about Hermione's death will be explained in later chapters, but if you leave an email address I can send you a summary of her death (so it's more understandable).
Please review! I live off reviews! I know it's undignified to beg, but PLEASE!?!
*
"Millions of people
loved what you did
but when it hit ya'
you ran and hid
from money and muscle
the rules of the game
they bought your face boy
they bought your name"
Title: Goodbye
Album: The Harsh Light of Day (Fastball)
*
"Just act normal. He doesn't know you are Hermione, and right now, we don't want him to know," Remus Lupin, my Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, instructed while leading me to the room Harry was being held.
"I don't see the point of this, though. How am I supposed to help him? He won't even recognize me," I questioned, not understanding the purpose of my appearance.
"We don't know, but we're getting desperate. Ron has tried, I've tried, Sirius has tried. Nothing will pull him out of this. Just sit with him, talk to him, just be there. You never know, it might help," he shrugged, looking suddenly older and very tired. He stopped at a wall size mural. It was of a huge castle, similar to Hogwarts, but with more of a medieval style. He brought up his hand and knocked three times on the painted door, and the entire mural morphed into a thick, oak door. He unlatched the lock, opened the door, and gestured me in.
"Do you want me to stay here?" Professor Lupin asked, standing in the doorway waiting for my answer. I looked around the room and spotted Harry sitting in a chair at a table in the corner of the room. He was rocking back and forth, mumbling nothings over and over.
"I'll be fine," I replied, and Professor Lupin nodded. He closed the door softly behind him, and the room plunged into a creepy, shadowed light without the candlelight from the hallways flooding into the room, illuminating it. I fetched a candle and brought it to the table beside Harry. I pulled out a chair, settled myself in it, and used another, already lit candle to light my new one. Immediately, the intoxicating aroma of cinnamon permeated through the air.
"So, um, Harry," I nibbled on my lip, trying to think of something to say. "I'm Harley."
No answer.
"I'm in Ravenclaw – sixth year. You're in Gryffindor, right?" I didn't wait for his answer because I knew he wasn't going to give one. "My favorite class is Potions, although the professor isn't very fair. What do you think? Most Gryffindors don't seem to like him. I was talking to Ron earlier. He really misses you," I skipped from topic to topic, just continuously talking, making sounds, "Everyone is worried about you, but Dumbledore told them you were sick. Are you sick, Harry? No, I didn't think so. You're just lost, right? I was lost for awhile, but then someone brought me back. We don't know why, but I'm here. Everything will be all right, Harry. Are you coming back, Harry?" I felt like a small child talking to him – like he was my imaginary friend. I answered for him, I asked questions for him. It was definitely one of the less normal things I've done in the last two weeks.
"Can you find your way? I'd help you, but I don't know how. Is it dark where you are? It was very dark where I was. It was warm, though. Dark and warm – kind of strange, if you think about it. Light gives off warmth, and darkness is usually cold. But I was dark and warm.
"Do you have light with you? I had a light. It was a person, but I don't remember who. I'm still trying to find him. I remember tidbits about him, it was definitely a him, but I just don't remember who he was. I sort of miss him," I didn't even know what I was saying, but I didn't stop. It felt good to just talk, so openly, without interruptions or judgement. It didn't make a difference for Harry, though. I don't think he even heard me. He just kept whispering things over and over. I leaned closer to him, trying to decipher his words.
"… sorry… forgive me… Hermione… sorry… sorry…"
"You're sorry? What about Hermione?" I leaned in close, eager to learn more about Hermione, the person I am supposed to be.
"…my fault… sorry… come back…my fault… gone…" he whispered.
"Are you saying it's your fault?" I asked, trying to decipher his incessant whispers. He didn't answer, just kept whispering.
"Um, nod your head if the answer is yes," I directed, unsure of how to get him to answer. I had never dealt with a catatonic person before. Slowly, ever so slowly, his head began to bob up and down.
"It's your fault?" I repeated, wondering if someone had left out this bit of information when telling me about my past. Was Harry really to blame for Hermione's, or my, death? No, someone would definitely have said something. Unless he blamed himself…
He continued rocking back and forth, and I leaned back in my chair, studying him. His hair was mussed and his face pale – the contrast was shocking. He almost looked like a corpse – except for his eyes. They were emerald green, bright, but clouded. They fluttered around the room, and, for a moment, locked with my own.
"Harry," I whispered, trying to make him listen. I wasn't here to judge him; only to bring him back.
"Harry…" He didn't answer, but his eyes got a bit more focused, so I continued, "Harry, please say something. Everybody's worried about you. Ron is alone now, without you or Hermione. Sirius is beside himself, as well as Remus. Harry, don't you understand? Everyone looks to you as their savior, their only hope against Voldemort. I mean, I'm not saying that that is right or true, but it is what it is. If they find out you've gone crazy –" I bit my tongue, wishing to take back the words. Great way to help someone – tell them they're crazy.
Over the past two weeks since I had returned, I had quickly figured out the majority's views on Harry and Voldemort (that evil wizard). Ron filled me in on the past six years since he met Harry and Hermione (before I had made my announcement, at least), and Blaise mentioned Voldemort every so often, usually after some raid or attack or something.
Most of the Ravenclaws steered clear of that topic. They are kind of like Switzerland – completely neutral. Apparently, they had stayed fairly neutral at Hogwarts throughout Voldemort's first reign. When Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs decided it was time for a good Slytherin-bashing, Ravenclaws usually fled to the library.
On the contrary, Slytherins, especially Blaise, were very opinionated when it came to him, I soon found out. Most Slytherins (but not all) were for Voldemort and this new world he wanted, but Blaise wasn't 'most Slytherins'. According to her, Voldemort was a hypocrite – claiming only pure-bloods should live, but being a half-blood himself. Plus, she called him a stupid idiot (only with more, er, strong language) because he was being so loud and blunt with his fight. She felt it would be a lot more effective if it was a slow, discreet procession. She did have a point, although I really couldn't care any less about bloodlines. They didn't concern me (or so I thought). I was like most Ravenclaws: neutral. (Looking back, I realize I was young and foolish, but at the time… well, I was young and foolish.)
"… Harry, you need to come back. It wasn't your fault Hermione died. I'm sure she wouldn't blame you. You shouldn't blame yourself, either – no one else seems to," I waited for him to do something, anything. After a moment of silence other than his incessant mumbling, I stood up.
"Fine. You're a coward Harry, you know that? You're taking the easy way out. I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave," I sneered, angry not at Harry, but myself. I was taking the easy way out, and I knew it. I just didn't want to deal with it.
I stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind me.
*
The moment I left the dark room I regretted the words. I contemplated returning and apologizing to Harry, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I was still angry and confused.
I began my walk to the Ravenclaw common room, my new house, contemplating, all the while, my entire stay at Hogwarts. It had been exactly two weeks, to the day, since I had turned up at, I now know as, Hagrid's hut.
I had stayed a week in the Hospital Wing, readapting to life. They had asked me tons of questions, tried to spark my memory by both magical and muggle means, and mostly just prepare the school for my arrival.
The Hogwarts staff and students, excluding Ron and Professors Lupin, McGonagall, and Dumbledore, had been told I was a transfer from a school in Canada whose parents had moved to London for work.
In order to keep people from realizing I was Hermione (sort of), Dumbledore had cast a glamour over my features. My eyes had remained the same, a chocolatey brown, but my facial features had changed drastically. My nose was smaller, more rounded – sort of mousy, even. My smile had changed, too, as well as my teeth. Hermione had had sharper teeth, but mine were more blunt, curved. Overall, the effect was a cute, 'next door neighbor' look. No one had noticed my resemblance to Hermione, though.
It's said the first day makes you or breaks you – I was on the lucky side. Most everyone accepted me, and none of the other houses have real qualms with Ravenclaw, so I was okay in that department. The Ravenclaws seemed a bit stiff at first, but turned out to be warm and inviting. I was taken under the wing of Cho Chang, a seventh year, but had somewhat left her guidance after the first day. She had introduced me to everyone in Ravenclaw in their sixth year, but it was up to me to make friends.
Ron hadn't spoken to me since I had told him I wasn't Hermione, that I wouldn't be Hermione, that I couldn't be Hermione. He had steadfastly ignored me in Transfiguration, and every time I saw him in the halls, he would walk the other way – no matter if it was the opposite direction he was heading. It had become a rather childish game – who could avoid the other the longest.
But I was busy enough with my classes, so I managed to put him out of my mind. I had only 'transferred' three days before, but, it being a Friday when I 'arrived', I had started classes today - Monday. Already I had gone to Potions, Transfiguration, and Charms. Luckily, it wasn't too hard to catch up to the class, but still, I was loaded with work. It kept my mind off Ron, at least.
I was jarred from my thoughts when I reached the trap door that leads to the Ravenclaw common room. The trap door was on the ceiling, too high to reach, but when one spoke the password it would drop down and become a flight of stairs. A quite ingenious invention, in my humble opinion.
"Jabberwocky," I said aloud, waiting for the door to open. A moment later stairs popped into existence, and I bounded up them quickly. Alynn, an outspoken Ravenclaw fifth year, had explained the significance of the poem Jabberwocky and it's creator.
Apparently, Lewis Carroll had actually been a wizard who had trapped himself inside a looking glass (which he wrote about in Through The Looking Glass). He had been a Gryffindor, an arrogant one at that, and it had taken his sister, a Ravenclaw, to get himself out of the mess with the mirror. Supposedly, it was a reminder to the Ravenclaws that, although Gryffindors are known for bravery (and fame), Ravenclaws are truly indispensable. How one could get all that from one word is beyond me, but who am I to judge their passwords?
I tip-toed through the common room, careful not to disturb anyone studying. Ravenclaws definitely lived up to their reputation of being studious, but they did know how to have fun. They had a great sense of humor and an incredible wit.
"Hey," I mumbled to Lisa who was sitting on the floor, indian-style, surrounded by three tall piles of books. She said her greeting absently.
"What are you up to?" I asked, sitting down beside her. I picked up the nearest book, "Animagi Rules and Regulations: The Complete Guide to Animagi," I read off the cover. "What's this for?"
"Extra credit project for McGonagall," Lisa replied, scribbling something from another book onto a loose piece of parchment that sat in her lap atop, still, another book, "Incredibly boring, but it'll be useful if I plan to become an animagi after I graduate."
"Why don't you become one now?" I asked, curious as to why she would wait another two years before attempting.
"What?" she scoffed, "It's dangerous, not to mention illegal," she looked at me strangely, and I felt the need to argue my point.
"I'm sure I've heard of some people who have become animagi before graduating," I paused, trying to wrench the memory forward.
"Where did you hear that?" she replied, brushing a curly strand of dark brown, nearly black hair that had slipped out of her loose ponytail behind her ear.
"I must have read it somewhere," I shrugged when I couldn't remember and nibbled on my bottom lip. I watched Lisa work for a few minutes more, growing more bored every second, before she got sick of my impatient sighs and snapped the book shut, pushing the papers into a dark green binder.
"Fine, I'm done," she stood up, brushing her robes straight. She feigned annoyance, but her eyes lit up amusedly. "What was it you wanted?"
"Dinner – us – now." I spoke gutturally, reminding myself of a caveman – although, I don't remember ever hearing what one spoke like, I just sort of knew.
"Fine, let's go, Neanderthal," Lisa smirked, tossing her quill onto her bed and offering me her hand. I grabbed it, and she pulled me up and out the door.
The moment we walked in the door, I knew something was wrong. Everyone was subdued, and Professor Dumbledore was at the front of the room, speaking loudly but somberly.
We quietly approached the Ravenclaw table as Dumbledore finished his speech and returned to his dinner. Whispers erupted around us, and I found myself catching glimpses of the conversations.
"What's going on?" Lisa asked, and, after several attempts, someone finally stopped their yacking to explain.
"Something happened, Dumbledore won't say what, and now Harry Potter's gone psychotic or what not. Apparently, the 'illness,'" she held two fingers up and curled them over to indicate quotation marks, "he's had for the past week was all a lie. Harry Potter's been crazy for over a week. Do you realize what will happen when this gets out?" a short girl, probably second year, explained quickly, bouncing in her seat with ill-contained excitement. I forgot her name, but her face was familiar. She was a talkative girl, lots of friends, - one of the "Swans".
The first and second year girls had formed a sort of hierarchy. All the kin of the well-known families were "Swans", where the muggle-borns, half-bloods, and anyone not wealthy were known as "Crows". Even here, it seemed prejudices abound – although, I don't remember my prejudices from before, I'm positive there must have been some.
It's strange, my memory. I remember nothing of the people or magical places from my previous life, but I know everything about the muggles and people from the past. I retained my memory of magical information (once it was sparked by Dumbledore's explanation), everything I had apparently learned was still there, but there seemed to be a mental block where it came to magical people and places. Strange thing, my mind.
"…talked to her yesterday…. She hasn't seen him since he first got 'sick.'" the "Swan" continued, doing the quotation marks gesture again on the word sick.
"Who?" I interrupted, ignoring the food that had appeared on the table and leaning over to hear the "Swan's" story.
"Ginny Weasley," she nodded, fluttering about the answers, "Very worried, she was. Can't imagine she's much better, now, after finding out her boyfriend has gone bonkers," she talked with an air of importance and understanding, but she seemed incredibly devoid of any genuine emotion.
"Who's Ginny Weasley?" I interrupted her again, and she threw me a nasty look for someone so young before answering.
"The youngest Weasley – over in Gryffindor, she is. Fifth year – her older brother is Ron Weasley – you know, Harry Potter's best mate. Just look over there, they all have got that flaming hair!" she pointed, rather rudely in my opinion, to the Gryffindor table and straight to Ron – but no, she wasn't pointing at Ron. She was pointing at the orange-haired, freckle-faced, fifteen year old next to him, who was pushing food around on her plate.
I nodded and left the subject alone. I served myself quickly, stuffed it in my mouth, and hurried out of the hall, hoping to catch Ginny Weasley as she was coming out of the Great Hall.
I ended up sitting out in the hall until the end of dinner, but finally I saw the person attached to the shocking flash of orange stand up and leave the table. She was headed my way, and I moved to greet her, but then realized I had nothing to say. What was the point of talking with her? She knew as much as I did. Dumbledore hadn't told anyone what caused this bout of catatonia or how long he expected it to last.
I retreated quickly, slinking into the shadows until she passed. I hurried down the opposite hall, hoping no one perceived me as a stalker. That would be ever so grand – note the sarcasm.
I wandered through the halls, wasting time before curfew and looking for something (anything) to do. Halloween was in three days (not counting today), on Thursday, but they were letting all the sixth and seventh years out early for a special party. I had already picked out a costume from Cho's extensive wardrobe. She had lent me one of her old ones (or one she had come across, but hadn't worn yet – I wasn't sure) so I wouldn't have to go buy one on such short notice.
The party wasn't anything too special, just a dinner in the Great Hall with a bit of music. First through fifth years were having dinner in their common rooms (and a mini-party), so the faculty had time to prepare and decorate. Dumbledore had insisted on some sort of event – a small pick-me-up for everyone because of the depressing days ahead (and behind).
Still, everyone old enough to attend was looking forward to it. Apparently, it was the big social event of the year. My thoughts led me straight to the mural of the castle. Cautiously, I lifted my hand to the painted door, rapping on it three times. As I expected, it morphed into a door and before I knew what I was doing, I was inside the dark room.
Harry was humming to himself, but today he was curled up on the couch, not at the table like before. I walked over to him silently and sat beside him. He didn't do anything to acknowledge my presence, but I spoke to him anyway.
"I'm sorry about last time. I was scared… and confused," I shrugged, "I was angry with Ron and sick of myself. Hermione was so great, and I'm not her. How can I fill the shoes of a person who left such a big imprint on everyone and everything? People don't talk about her often, but when they do – it's unbelievable how many people she impacted in one way or another," I paused, "She was a great friend, wasn't she?"
The room remained silent, except for the steady ticks of the clock on the opposite wall. The dying embers of a fire provided warmth, but there were no crackling flames to give light. How could Harry stand it here, in this world of darkness?
"She was perfect."
I looked up, startled. I hadn't said that – Harry had. He made no move, he gave no sign, but he had said it. I know he had.
"So they say," I laughed bitterly, but then guilt overrode my jealousy. Why in the world would I be jealous of a dead person? Myself, even? It was ludicrous, but that's me for you.
"Harry," I began carefully, "was she really that great?"
"She was perfect," he repeated, "Her and Ron deserved so much more than me. I was 'The Boy Who Lived' – and they were 'The Boy Who Lived's Friends'. But they weren't – they were always so much better than me. I'm famous because I lived and that's just- just – stupid," he hesitated for a moment, "She would still be here if I had just died that night."
I didn't say anything, too lost in my thoughts to notice Harry had stopped speaking. Finally, coming to a conclusion, I brought my head up and looked straight at him.
"Harry, everyone thinks you're so great, right? Because you lived," I asked, working my way to my point. He didn't answer, but I knew he heard me. "And you don't think it's fair, right?" a pause for an answer that never came, "So why should everyone think Hermione is so great just because she died?"
This time he did look up. He reacted, and I wanted to jump and shout and cheer. I didn't remember him from before, but I still loved him like a brother. My memories might have fled, but my feelings had remained – and seeing him as he was before … it was heart-wrenching.
"I'm not good at explaining this," I apologized, "but why should we shout to the heavens about Hermione just for dying?" I realized how rude I must have sounded, and tried to atone for my bluntness, "Jeez, I'm not saying this right. I mean," I stuttered and snapped my mouth shut, accepting the fact that I was less than skilled with words.
"I suppose you're right," he conceded. After a pause, he added, "She was a bit bossy. And a bit, er, eccentric when it came to school."
"See, Harry," I said, "she wasn't perfect, but that doesn't mean you should care about her any less. She was human – just like me or you."
I leaned back on the couch, relaxing and letting my eyes close for a moment. The beginnings of a headache were brewing near my temples, and I gently massaged them. Harry had gone quiet, but his eyes were alert – at least he wasn't catatonic.
After a moment's rest, I asked, "So, are you ready to go be a hero, again?"