3

How Could You?

"A hundred days have made me older

Since the last time that I saw your pretty face

A thousand lights have made me colder

And I don't think I can look at this the same."

--Three Doors Down

I walk along, my strides purposeful but slow, keeping in mind the need for caution. The sky is clear here, with stars twinkling down innocently upon my head. My feet move deftly through the snow and the underbrush, making nary a sound. I've almost reached Hogwarts. I'm still considering just how I'll get Hermione's attention. And even if I do, what can I possibly say to her? Though my movements are confident, my brain is far from being so. My heart is beginning to pound, and with each step my courage falters a little more. Can I really do this? Should I really do this?

I reach the edge of the forest. It's just past midnight now. I'm staring out over the frozen lake towards old Gryffindor Tower. I look up at the window in which I'd seen Hermione earlier—if I think very hard I can get a picture of the layout of the tower and remember that it was the window of a girls' dormitory. The light is on. I consider walking closer and yelling up, but realize quickly just how bad an idea that is. Perhaps I can throw a rock if I get close enough. The chances are slim that my aim is that good, but the years of Quidditch have helped. I kneel down and brush away some snow, searching for any decent-sized rocks that may lay beneath. I collect about ten and stand up again, glancing around uncertainly.

This is risky. I'm jeopardizing my entire group by doing this, and for that I feel terrible. Some leader I am. But regardless of logic, regardless of responsibility, this is something I have to do. If I don't, the thought of Hermione will torment me for the rest of my days.

I step out into the open and pause. I half expect sirens to blare and dementors and Death Eaters to swoop down on me, but only silence comes. I let out a sigh and begin to advance toward the base of the tower at a quicker pace. My heart is pounding again. What if she sees me and goes straight to Voldemort? Something within me argues against that—no, she'll talk to me. Even if she turns me in afterward, she'll talk to me. I'm not sure which side of my brain I believe and that uncertainty frightens me. I've learned from my experiences never to go into something unless you're sure it isn't a trap. This isn't a pre-set trap, but I could very easily be trapping myself.

I reach the tower and stare up. It seems so much higher while standing below, but I can still see the light flickering high above. I bite my lower lip. This is my last chance to walk away. I'm teetering at the fork in the roads—the easiest path is the path back toward our base, the path that will lead me away from the traitorous Hermione Granger forever; the harder one lies in throwing the rocks and seeking her attention. And whatever path I choose, I can't go back and change my decision if it's not to my liking.

I clutch a rock in my fist and feel its smooth texture. My eyes are trained determinedly upward. I wind my arm back and throw the rock with all the force I can muster. It falls short by about two floors, but I don't hesitate to throw another. My choice was made in that instant and I have no more doubts. I hurl rock after rock, none seeming to reach. My arm begins to ache as I refuse to stop or slow. I stoop down to collect some more rocks and throw those, too. Finally, I make it. The rock goes straight into her window. I freeze, my breath catching in my throat; now is the moment of truth. Did I make the right decision?

Hermione

I sit on my bed, staring at the wall in front of me. I've hardly moved all day. Since I saw Harry, I've been in an odd type of stupor. The walls I've built around my emotions and memories have fallen and I have spent the day lost in their depths. It took me several minutes to accept that it was actually him I had seen. For a moment I'd assumed I was hallucinating. Then I'd seen Ron run out to Harry and I realized that I was imagining nothing.

Seeing them was like a slap in the face, a bucket of ice water being poured over my head—my two best friends who hate me. I knew they had a right to hate me, of course—I hate myself, after all. I harbor no bad feelings toward them for what they feel for me. However, I still miss them something awful, and it's a source of infinite pain to know that they loathe me so. It's hard to remember that what I did was in their best interest. I haven't managed to see the good side of it all yet. Certainly, they are alive, but their way of life doesn't appear to be much better than mine. And keeping someone alive to live this kind of torture is not kindness—it's cruelty.

Ron's face when he saw me is indelibly etched in my mind. His expression of pure anger was enough to send shivers down my spine. Harry did not appear angry, simply startled and horrified and—unless I'm much mistaken—hurt. His expression was far more painful than Ron's. Once they'd retreated, I had collapsed on my bed, crying.

I had not intended to live to see this hour of the day. Had Harry not appeared when he had, I'd be dead now. Death is still painfully tempting, as if I'm a dog with a steak being dangled in front of it. But now this dog is chained once more, with the steak just out of reach. I do not intend to retrieve the knife. Perhaps it's my own way of punishing myself for what I have done, or perhaps I still hope that one day all this will end. I'm not sure why, nor do I care. Seeing them has changed everything. It's some kind of an omen. Good or bad, I cannot say. I just have a feeling that something new is coming, that something grand and huge has been set into motion and I must be here to see it through.

And as I sit here contemplating these things, a rock soars through my window.

It lands at the foot of my bed. I stare at it dumbly for a few moments, unmoving. All is silent and still. Finally, I snap out of my reverie. I stand and walk over to it, bending to pick it up. It's small and round, so cold against my skin that it may as well have been ice. Detached though I am, I still know that rocks don't fly up seven stories on their own. Someone has thrown it in here. Who?

I walk over to my window and look down, but I see only a dark abyss. I look toward the ground, though I cannot imagine anyone managing to throw a rock from that far. I squint my eyes through the blackness and manage to see a vague, distant figure standing below. Not for the first time, I pine for my wand. The Death Eaters confiscate it from me except for classes; I'm not trusted. I have no way of casting down a light.

The person below seems to be thinking along the same lines. In an instant, I go from being unable to see due to lack of light to being blinded by the brightness. A moment later, the concentrated beam of light moves so that I'm not staring directly into it. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust and when they do, my heart stands still. It's Harry.

Harry

I stare up at her. I can see her clearly, though it takes her a moment to see me. I know when she does, because her mouth falls open and an expression of surprise comes over her face. I motion for her to come down. She doesn't seem to get the idea at first; I have to motion it several times before understanding dawns on her face. She disappears from the window and I feel mistrust and doubt tighten my stomach. Is she coming down or going to betray me?

She's out of sight for at least a minute, and then she reappears, startling me. I assumed she'd left. She throws something down at me and I back up instinctively. I don't hear whatever it is land for a long time, so I assume that it's not something that would make sound on impact. I stoop down, using my wandlight to search the ground. A few feet away, a piece of paper is lying in the snow. My fingers are numb as I fumble to unfold it.

Harry,

I will try to come down, but I can't guarantee anything.

I could very well be stopped on my way, and

should I be, I will be led away for punishment. Give me fif-

teen minutes. If I don't arrive by then, I will

not arrive at all. Leave should this deadline pass.

--Hermione

I stare at the note for several moments. Fifteen minutes . . . that would be plenty of time for her to set the Death Eaters on me. I look back up and she's gone. It's a horribly strange sensation, holding the note, knowing that she had written it moments before and that I will soon be coming face to face with her for the first time in years—if she does not betray me, that is.

I back into the shadows and crouch down, keeping my back to the stone and watching the shadows alterly. I consider what I will say to her. What is there to say to someone who has done this much damage to you? I'll have to do my best to keep myself under control. I don't want to lose my head. I want understand everything that's happened, and going wild on her will not help my chances of that.

I wait for at least ten minutes before I see any movement. Then, there it is—a figure moving silently from the front doors. I tense and prepare to move. Whether or not I'm facing an attack is a mystery, which spawns fear in me and sends my adrenaline rushing.

A moment later, I recognize the figure to be Hermione appearing very clearly alone. I stand and walk cautiously toward her. My eyes comb the landscape around us ceaselessly, and my wand is clutched firmly in my fist, pointed at her. I don't trust her enough to lower it to my side.

She raises her hands when she sees me with my wand. She stops. I can't see her face. Lighting my wand, I step nearer, struggling to keep myself unreadable. Looking closer, I can see that she's shaking. Her face and eyes are dead and hollow looking, much like Sirius's right after he got out of Azkaban. They're no longer the brilliant cinnamon brown they once were—instead they've taken on a dull grayish color. Her hair is shorter, cut to frame her face, stopping half an inch below her ears. She dons green-lined Slytherin robes and appears frightened.

"Nice robes," I comment bitterly. I'm unable to stop myself.

She ignores this, lowering her eyes. "You can put your wand down, Harry," she sighs. Her voice is full of sadness. "I don't have mine."

"I don't believe you," I inform her bluntly. "Why would you come out here unarmed to face me? Just toss it down. Unlike you, I'm honorable—I won't attack you unless you attack me, no matter how tempting the idea may be."

She flinches at my harsh words and makes no attempt to defend herself. "I don't have my wand except for classes. They don't let me keep it."

I snort. "Right. A loyal Death Eater like yourself deprived of your wand? I doubt it. However, if you want to keep it, go ahead. I won't lower mine." I glare at her. "Before we say anything more, I want to make a few points. First, I'm not here to give you any type of a second chance. You're the greatest traitor the Light side has ever seen and I will never forgive you for everything you've done to hurt us all. Secondly, I don't trust you. If you intend to attack me, or betray me, I suggest you tell me now. I will kill you if you betray us a second time. I promise you that I will hunt you down until you are dead if you betray anything we say here tonight to one of your Death Eater pals." I'm trying very hard to keep my voice low and controlled, but I can feel the red heat in my face. I'm losing the composure I promised myself I'd keep.

Hermione is staring at the ground. She looks close to tears and says nothing.

"Well?" I demand. "Isn't there anything you'd like to say? Come on, defend yourself, I know you're dying to." My words are harsh and bitter and I know from her expression that I'm hurting her more with every word. Perhaps the worst part is that I'm glad. That I want to hurt her. Don't I have that right? After all she's done to us, a little verbal torture isn't out of the question. And why should this hurt her anyway? She's a Death Eater, and a traitor. It's her own fault I have these things to throw at her.

"Please, stop," she begs, her eyes meeting mine. I can see the pain in them. "I know what I did was horrible and wrong. I know I've done unspeakable things. I don't expect your forgiveness or trust . . . I could never expect that after all I've done. But you don't understand everything . . ."

"Well that's why I'm here tonight, Hermione!" I cry, laughing bitterly and spreading my arms wide. "To understand. So why don't you help me with that?"

Hermione groans and looks down, shaking her head. "Harry, I can't. I can't tell you certain things . . . many things. What they'd do to me if they ever found out . . . what they'll do to me just for being here tonight . . ." She shivers and for a moment I wonder just what it is they would do to her. Then I put the thought from my mind. She's going for sympathy; t's all an act. Besides, what do I care if the other Death Eaters hurt her? She deserves what she gets. She's put herself where she is now—she's put everyone where they are now. But still, in the back of my mind, I wonder . . .

I let out another humorless laugh. "Of course you can't. Can't betray your people, can you? Of course, it was so easy for you to betray Ron and I—the two people who were your friends beyond condition, who would have sacrificed their lives for you. The three of us went that deep, you know, even if you never felt it. I'd have stepped in front of any curse for you. Ron would have done the same. We assumed you'd do the same for us. Then you did the exact opposite—you ruined our lives." My anger is beyond control now. "You know who you're like, don't you? You're just the same as Wormtail, going against his friends and betraying my parents—getting them killed. You've done just the same to Ron and I!" I spit.

I can see Hermione flinching at my every word. "Harry, please . . . I know what I did. But you don't understand everything."

"Then tell me!" I cry. My anger vanishes in a heartbeat, and I'm filled now with desperation. My mind is begging her to give me some excuse, some reason to justify what she's done. I know I will not believe it, but I want to put my mind to rest somehow, even if it is with lies. It's so hard to imagine her as the traitor she is, even after all the time that's passed. "Hermione, I want to know. If you didn't do what it seems you did, then justify yourself."

She just shakes her head. "I can't . . ." she whispers.

And as quickly as my anger left me, it returns. My voice rises as adrenaline and hatred flow unchecked through my boiling veins. "Well, then why don't I explain some things to you?" I snap. "You want to know the effects of this mess you've put us in? I'll give you the more personal ones. Molly, Arthur, and Percy Weasley? Guess what—they're all dead! Bill and Charlie are stuck in another county! Ron and Ginny and Fred and George have been hurt beyond belief. You have no idea what this has done to them! If you think I hate you, you should see what Ron would do if he saw you. He wouldn't give you the chance to escape—he'd kill you without hesitation, and I can't say that he wouldn't be justified in doing that. But maybe Ron's family isn't enough to satisfy your bloodlust. Let me add to your body count. Professor McGonagall? Flitwick? Madam Pomfrey? How's that? What about Ernie Macmillan? Susan Bones? Colin Creevy? Seamus?"

Hermione is sobbing openly now and begging me quietly to stop. Somewhere deep within me, I can hear my reasonable side call out to me to do as she asks. It's telling me that I've hurt her enough—that I don't have to keep this up. But my anger has too firm a hold on me now. I have one last ball to throw at her, the most painful, and I cannot help but hurl it at full speed.

"By the way, have you thought much about your parents?" I ask bitterly. She bites her lip and I know I have her. I'm taking some warped pleasure in her pain. "You want to know something about them? Voldemort killed them himself. You probably already knew that, though, right? But did you know that he tortured them to death? I'm not sure why myself, as you did him such a great victory, but he did. You didn't try to stop him, Hermione? Did you even care about them?"

I was right in thinking that she didn't know this. Hermione collapses to her knees in the snow and covers her mouth with her hands. Her eyes are large and glassy. She is positively trembling. Her sobs are the only sound echoing into the night as I try to reign my anger in. I'm beginning to regret using such a harsh tone. Not all the pain she appears to be in is an act.

"I think it's time I leave," I say after a long moment, my voice calm and emotionless once more. "I hope you have a nice life. You sacrificed an awful lot to get it." I turn and begin to walk away into the night, intending to leave her there without looking back, just as she left Ron and I without a second glance. But her call stops me.

"Harry!"

Against my better judgement, I turn around. The pain on her face is almost unbearable to me. Much as I may deny it, I still have some emotional ties to her—enough for me to care whether she is alive or dead, hurt or well. I had not been lying when I'd told her I was once willing to die for her. A bond that deep takes a long time to fully break.

"What?" I ask coldly.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly, looking away. She's still sobbing. "You have no idea how sorry I am."

"Then you'd do something," I say, not angry, but sad. "You wouldn't have allowed all this to go on as long as it has."

"I'm scared!" she cries. "Every day I live in terror. You can't understand the way it feels."

"I think I can," I say in a low voice. "I live in terror, too. I never know whether or not Voldemort will come after us each day. We live in constant fear."

"It's different," she protests. "You're frightened of the possibility and the hardship. My fear is a lot more solid. Do you know what everyone here thinks of me? You assume they hold me in such high regard, but they don't—you'd understand why if you knew everything that had really happened. Any chance they get, they'll hurt me." Her eyes are haunted and tortured as she continues. "Do you know what punishments consist of here for me? Unbearable physical pain, twisted mental torture . . . Harry, what they've done to me in the past, what they'll inevitably do to me in the future . . . if you'd lived through it, too, you'd know what I was talking about. It's really hard to gather the courage to do anything here, knowing that if it fails then your life will plummet even farther down the trail of misery in unimaginable ways."

I grow confused as I listen to her. I feel myself beginning to believe her, beginning to imagine her as a prisoner rather than an enemy. But of course that's what she'd want; she could simply be trying to manipulate my emotions, draw me in again. But the look in her eyes … that haunted, scarred look … such a thing couldn't be faked by the most talented actor.

As I begin to fidget awkwardly, off-put by my confusion, she continues. "Then, this morning I finally managed to take the step necessary to try and end all this. And then . . ." She looks at me. "I saw you. And now nothing's changed . . . again." Still shaking, she pushes herself to her feet and brushes the snow from her clothing. "Goodbye, Harry. And know that I really am sorry for so many things. I hope you have the strength to change the things I'm too cowardly to try to alter."

She turns and walks away. I don't call after her, momentarily stunned by the power and sincerity in her words. Is it possible that everything she's said tonight is the truth? Or am I still just hungering desperately for some last shred of goodness left in her?

She disappears back into the castle and I stand frozen for a moment. Finally, I sigh and turn, intending to walk away. My foot plummets into a hole in the snow bank I'm standing on and I sink down. I claw at the snow and after a few moments of struggle, manage to pull myself back up. Once I'm standing on solid ground again, I glance down and see something glittering in the moonlight; it must have been dislodged from the snow. I reach down and grab it, holding it up so that I can examine it. It's a knife—a dagger, really. This must be what Hermione dropped this morning.

Suddenly, I consider what she last said to me: "Then, this morning I finally managed to take the step necessary to try and end all this . . ."

My eyes widen as I realize the full meaning of what she'd said—she had intended to kill herself. My legs grow weak beneath me. All the things I said to her, about her parents and the teachers and Ron . . . if she'd managed to find the strength to avoid killing herself before, I doubt she will hold out now.

And for the first time in a long time, I actually care.