Chapter 10

Twenty minutes later, Harry stood in the doorway of his bedroom watching Hermione pack. The news was as bad as he'd expected when he saw the Grangers' car in the drive: her grandmother had passed away.

Mrs. Granger insisted her passing was swift and easy, that just the day before they'd thought she was getting better, that up until an hour before the end she was drinking tea, telling old stories and enjoying having her children around her. "We would have called for you at once if we'd known she was so bad, love," she had assured Hermione, hugging her daughter close. "I'm so sorry you didn't get to see her."

Aunt Petunia, remarkably, had risen beautifully to the occasion. She offered the Grangers tea in the parlor and talked quietly with Mrs. Granger about the burial arrangements, the travel headaches for far-away family, and all of the little details that accompanied a death. Dudley was still out with his friends; Harry wasn't in any hurry for his cousin to come home and start rubbing it in that Quinn was now with Piers, if that had been the logical end of the scene he'd witnessed outside the ice cream shop. Fortunately, Uncle Vernon was also at work, so the Grangers didn't have anyone watching them suspiciously to see if they were wizards in disguise.

Harry couldn't think of anything remotely helpful to say as Hermione carefully stacked clothes and books inside her suitcase. "I imagine we'll just go straight to London for my school things once this is over," she announced, in the curiously tight voice she'd been using ever since her mother broke the news. "Mum and Dad probably won't mind my going on to the Burrow, if that's what you're still planning to do. They'll have to get back to work, you know, so I should get on with school."

Nodding, he crossed to the bed and lifted the heavy suitcase for her. "Okay. When Hedwig gets back I'll send a post to Ron, let them know what's happened."

"That'd be brilliant, thanks." She smiled oddly, standing awkwardly to the side as if he were a polite stranger. "I'm sorry I won't be here on your birthday."

"Don't worry about it." Harry tried to smile normally, but her strange mood seemed to be catching. He gritted his teeth in frustration. This was Hermione, for pity's sake! Why didn't he just hug her, tell her how much the world sucked sometimes, and let her cry it out on his shoulder?

She started around him, and he knew, somehow, that he had one chance to do this right. Dropping the suitcase back on the bed, he said, "Hermione," very quietly, but it was enough.

She turned and fell into his arms. He clung to her as she clung to him; he could have cried himself, and he'd never met her grandmother. She sobbed and sobbed, hot tears scalding his shoulder, while he smoothed her hair and whispered comforts he was hardly aware of saying aloud. He supposed her parents and Aunt Petunia could hear them, but no one came up the stairs, and he was thankful for the privacy for both their sakes.

Finally, Hermione released him. She swiped at her tears with the hem of her tank-top and smiled rather shyly. "Sorry about that. I didn't mean to go to pieces – "

"Don't." He cupped her chin gently and kissed her, not meaning it to be lustful, and it wasn't – it was sweet and tender, for both of them. Against her hair, he murmured, "I'll write to you, everyday if you like. It's going to be all right, Hermione."

"I know. I know." She repeated it solemnly, as if reminding herself would lessen the hurt. He admired her brave smile as she stepped back and scraped her hair off her wet cheeks. One thing about Hermione, she didn't lack courage. "She was really ill for quite a while, and I know it's better for her this way. But…"

"But you'll still miss her. I get it." Harry picked her suitcase up and draped a comforting arm around her shoulders. "Listen, if you need me, just call, or send an owl. Even if you just want to talk."

They had reached the bottom of the stairs. Harry heard the Grangers saying their good-byes to Aunt Petunia, thanking her for her hospitality to their daughter. He leaned down and quickly kissed Hermione.

"You're really great, Harry, you know that?" She smiled into his eyes. "And listen, the thing with Ron – we'll sort it out."

"Absolutely. Everything will be perfect."

In spite of himself, he almost believed that. His heart gave a funny jump as he imagined showing up at Hogwarts with Hermione as his girlfriend – holding hands in Hogsmeade, whispering together in the common room, flirting quietly across the table in the Great Hall. He wondered, suddenly, if this was how his dad felt when Lily Evans, one day to be Lily Potter, finally gave in and realized she loved him back.

Harry stood in the doorway waving until the Grangers' car was out of sight. Then, torn between the heaviness of Hermione's departure and his elation over being her boyfriend, he turned and went back up to his room. He wasn't in the mood for dealing with Aunt Petunia, despite her recent displays of kindness, or with Dudley when he came in – he wanted to be alone with his daydreams of Hermione.

And I don't want to hear Dudley's snide comments about Quinn and Piers, he grudgingly admitted to himself, stretching out on his bed. He was so tired from swimming he could almost drift off…

And he must have, because when he awoke in his darkened bedroom a few hours later, with a vague sense of unease that always seemed to accompany nightmares he couldn't entirely remember, an owl was hooting at his window. Half-asleep, Harry opened the sash and took the letter from the owl's leg; it perched on the window ledge, apparently waiting to see if he wanted to send a reply.

Harry flipped on his bedroom light and read:

Harry –

Hedwig showed up this morning at my cabin. Didn't have any injuries but she is sick. Maybe something she ate? She didn't have any letter with her.

If you need anything, send me a note with Hermes. He's the most reliable owl at Hogwarts.

I'll take care of Hedwig and send her back when she's well. Might be a few days.

- Hagrid

In spite of the evening's warmth, Harry felt chilled. Hedwig had appeared at Hogwarts sick and without his letter for Dumbledore? That didn't track – Hedwig was more likely to turn into a swan than not deliver a letter. Had someone intercepted her? Had someone poisoned her?

Sighing, he took out a piece of parchment and drafted a quick response:

Hagrid,

Hedwig was carrying a letter for Dumbledore. It's probably nothing, but my scar has been hurting more than usual. I think Voldemort's tie with me is getting stronger. He seems to be able to invade my mind more.

Could you give Dumbledore that message for me? Oh, and could you send an owl to the Weasleys to let them know that Hermione's gran passed away?

And thanks for taking care of Hedwig. I don't know what could have happened. She was fine when she left.

Harry

Well, that would have to do, he supposed. He wished Hermione were still here; she would probably have a better idea for how to get his message to Dumbledore.

Thinking of Hermione made him smile despite his concern for Hedwig. He tied the letter to Hermes' leg, carried him over to take a sip from Hedwig's water dish, and then watched him soar out into the night.

And if this owl doesn't make it there? Or if it shows up without my letter? How will I know whether Dumbledore got my message or not?

A knot of tension formed in Harry's stomach. He understood that Privet Drive was the safest place for him in the summers; he understood that returning once a year to his mother's sister's house kept the protection charm Dumbledore had worked on him strong. Too strong for Voldemort to break. Nonetheless, he couldn't help being frustrated at how cut off from everything and everyone he was here in Little Whinging.

It's like being in another world, he thought glumly, resting his chin on his hands and staring into the darkness. And with Hedwig gone, I can't even write to Hermione…

Well, she would understand. At least, he hoped she would. Maybe he could write her a letter a day and show them to her once they got to the Burrow –

Yeah, 'cause that wouldn't be pathetic or anything…

Harry grinned ruefully. Okay, so he was head-over-heels for Hermione. What was wrong with that? If it would make her happy, he could stand to make a bit of a fool out of himself.

Still smiling, he started to turn away from the window when a flash of light down the street caught his attention. He watched, feeling rather like a spy, as a large black Mercedes-Benz pulled into the driveway of Number Six, Privet Drive. Quinn's mother and step-dad, he realized, and hastily shut the window, not sure why he didn't want to be seen watching them but certain, in any case, that he didn't.

The next several days passed surprisingly quickly. Harry, as he'd predicted, had difficulty falling asleep at night by himself; he would wake up off and on throughout the night and reach for Hermione, jolting fully awake with a cold, metallic taste of fear in his mouth before he remembered she wasn't supposed to be there anymore. His dreams didn't help. No matter how mad his conscious mind was for Hermione, apparently his subconscious hadn't gotten the message – he dreamed regularly of Quinn, and sometimes of both she and Hermione. He always woke up slightly embarrassed and irritated with himself for being unfaithful to Hermione, even in his dreams, but as the day wore on he would almost forget the dreams until night descended.

Dudley, to his surprise, didn't mention talking to Quinn. Nor did he make a big production over Hermione's absence. In fact, Harry thought Dudley was acting rather strangely; he took to spending more and more time in the house and less and less time with his friends. Aunt Petunia looked grimmer than usual as she watched him trudge back up to his bedroom everyday, where the noise of the television and his video games could be heard until lunch time, when he appeared to eat and then returned to his room until supper. Even Uncle Vernon commented rather gruffly that his Big Boy didn't seem quite himself, but Dudley just shrugged and said he was "tired of his stupid friends" and wanted to watch his programs.

Harry, for one, spent as little time as possible at the Dursleys'. Apparently Uncle Vernon was relieved that his nephew would be returning to "that school," regardless of the danger to Harry's life, because his bad mood lightened considerably as the end of summer approached. Aunt Petunia, however, more than made up for his change of temper by falling into a blacker mood than Harry ever remembered seeing her in; she shouted over fingerprints on her countertops, cried when her rosebushes withered under the July drought, and twice refused to cook supper because Uncle Vernon was late coming home from work and hadn't called. All in all, Number Four wasn't a comfortable place to be, so Harry took to wandering the shopping district and reading books in the park until late in the evening, when his aunt and uncle were usually in bed.

He half-expected to bump into Quinn on his excursions. He couldn't decide if he was anticipating or dreading the encounter; part of him wanted to get back to Hogwarts without any more awkward meetings between them, but another part of him – and the part that usually won out – worried about her. The big black Mercedes only stayed in the driveway that one night and half the next day; when Harry came home for lunch, it was gone. He wondered if Quinn had decided to accompany her mother and step-father on whatever trip they'd taken this time since he didn't see her out at all.

Yet despite the closed blinds and locked doors of Number Six, he somehow sensed she was still there, all alone and miserable.

The day before his sixteenth birthday, Harry woke up with a curious sense of expectation tickling his gut. He had no more than dressed when, to his pleasant surprise, Hedwig soared into view. He welcomed her home with a treat and a kiss on the beak – she hooted contentedly and nipped at his finger, looking no worse the wear for her illness – before reading the letter tied to her leg.

Harry (he read) –

He's your owl back. Never did figure out what caused her to be sick, but she got better on her own.

Hope to see you back at school soon. Oh, and happy birthday!

- Hagrid

Not even the enormous box of Chocolate Frogs Hagrid had included as his birthday present could quiet the nerves dancing in Harry's stomach. Nothing – not one single word – about Hermione's grandmother dying or about his message for Dumbledore. Had Hermes never returned to Hogwarts, or had his letter simply not been attached?

Feeling rather frustrated (and a tiny bit frightened), Harry sat down to write his third message to Dumbledore. What was wrong with Hagrid anyway, he silently fumed as he scrolled away. Didn't he think it odd that Harry wasn't in the least bit concerned for Hedwig, that he wouldn't have at least acknowledged receipt of the note from Hermes? Didn't he find it odd that Hedwig would show up at Hogwarts, quite more than a hop, skip and a jump from Privet Drive, without a letter to deliver?

Calm down. Hagrid's not to blame. Maybe he thought Hedwig got sick while she was delivering a letter somewhere else and just came to him for help – that'd make sense, I'm sure that's what she would do in that case.

But Hermes? How did Hagrid explain the other owl coming back letter-less?

Well, admittedly that was perplexing. Harry searched his mind for a plausible explanation and couldn't come up with one. If Hermes hadn't returned to Hogwarts, Hagrid would have known something was wrong and at the very least sent another owl to Harry – at the very most, and Harry suspected this was more likely, he would have gone to Dumbledore. If Hermes had returned without any letter, he was sure Hagrid would have found that odd as well, and certainly wouldn't have been so normal and friendly in this letter that had come back with Hedwig.

So what am I saying? That the only way Hagrid wouldn't be concerned is if he got a letter from me?

But then why doesn't he mention my message to Dumbledore? Why doesn't he say he hopes I'm feeling better? Why doesn't he mention Hermione's grandmother, maybe ask how she's doing or if I've heard from her? That's just not like Hagrid…

Hedwig had settled in for a nap in her cage. Harry looked at the note in his hand – yet another warning about the pain in his scar – and reluctantly stuck it inside his desk drawer. Hedwig had been sick, after all, and she'd been his friend for almost six years now. He didn't want to hurt her by exhausting her further. And, if he was perfectly honest with himself, he was a little afraid to send her out with another letter, in case someone was intercepting his messages. Maybe this time they wouldn't settle for just taking the letter – they might hurt her.

I won't be responsible for someone else I love dying.

The thought came so swiftly that Harry had to blink back a sudden rush of tears. His birthday tomorrow – he'd be all alone, as alone as he'd been before he even knew Hogwarts existed…

He sat down on his bed while the scalding, salty tears pricked at his eyes. Ron would send a present, of course, and probably his mum and dad, too; they were all looking forward to seeing him soon, just as he was anxious to see them, but it wasn't the same – they weren't here. Hermione, of course, was most likely far more miserable than he was, burying her gran. If she didn't send a card or present he certainly wasn't going to hold it against her. But he missed her, more than he was sure was sensible to, and he desperately wished she would call on the phone, to tell him how she was and, maybe, to see how he was doing, too.

If she's not furious that I haven't written, that is, he thought darkly, and suddenly wished very hard that Viktor Krum's letters were all getting lost, too.

But despite all of that, Harry recognized that his real problem wasn't spending another birthday alone – he had managed to survive it for sixteen years, hadn't he? No, the real problem was that no cards or presents would be coming this year from Sirius. Not this birthday; not the next; not ever again.

He thought with a flood of regret about his lost Firebolt, the first gift Sirius had ever sent him. Who could have asked for a better godfather?

If I hadn't been so stupid…If I hadn't believed that ridiculous vision…If I hadn't gone off half-cocked to the Department of Mysteries…How different would this birthday be if I hadn't gotten Sirius killed?

Abruptly, Harry wished he could go talk to Quinn. He knew it wasn't rational; more than that, he knew it wasn't fair. He had cheated on her, betrayed her trust, broke her heart. Okay, perhaps that was a bit conceited, but at the very least he hadn't acted in any way that gave him the right to go pour his sorrows out to her.

He got up, moving almost without thinking, walked to the window and looked down the street at her house. The blinds were still closed – not a single sign of life came from the house. Again, though, the pervasive sense of her, inexplicable yet undeniable, flooded him. He could almost see her standing at her own bedroom window, just behind the curtains, her face turned toward Number Four, her eyes closed (as his suddenly were) while she pictured him.

Stop it, he commanded himself roughly, shaking off the fantasy. You're with Hermione now. You will NOT be that kind of an asshole who changes girlfriends every week – that kind of jerk who can't make up his mind between two girls who both deserve better than to be treated like that!

Since Hedwig was still sleeping and sitting in his room was promising to drive him mad, Harry skipped breakfast and spent the day in the park. He'd never considered himself much of a bookworm, but he still had a lot of homework to do before term started. He'd figured out that he could hide his spell books by slipping them inside paperback jackets of other books – Dudley's second bedroom, where he slept, was crammed with books Dudley had never and probably would never read. Harry rather liked sitting out in the fresh air to do his schoolwork instead of hiding upstairs in his bedroom; his brain worked better in the sunshine, he decided, because the lessons came a lot easier than they had at the beginning of the summer.

Or maybe it's because I'm not distracted by wanting to kiss Hermione…

Whatever the reason, he was speeding through his lessons. He sat on the swing set in the shade, occasionally crossing the street to buy a lemon ice from the vendor who kept shop there, and read until dusk came on. He was so absorbed that he even forgot his concerns about Hedwig and Dumbledore and his grief for Sirius until the light began to fade and the words started to blur.

He had just closed his Transfiguration book (hidden inside a Lord of the Rings cover) and stood to go when a voice said quietly behind him, "Good book?"

Quinn.

Although he had rehearsed what he might say to her, and what she might say to him, a dozen times over the last week, Harry nevertheless felt unprepared to face her. He turned slowly, caught off-guard by how pretty she looked in a simple white sundress – not as pretty as Hermione, dammit! – and managed a self-conscious grin.

"It's okay," he answered. "Uh…how are you?"

She shrugged. He noticed she avoided his eyes as she took a seat on the swings. Remembering the first night they met here in the park with a painful lurch in the region of his heart, Harry hovered awkwardly off to one side.

He was also acutely aware that he was sweaty and sunburned and probably a bit smelly from sitting outside all day, while Quinn, as always, looked and smelled wonderful.

"Where's Hermione?"

"Oh. Uh, her grandmother passed away. She's with her parents." An uncomfortable pause followed, so he added, "She left about a week ago."

"I'm sorry."

Quinn pushed her hair behind her ears. With a shock of surprise, Harry recalled Hermione doing just that when she was nervous – were they really so much alike, or was that a girl thing in general?

"Tell her I'm sorry – Well, actually, don't. It probably wouldn't mean much coming from me."

Harry felt a wave of pity for this beautiful girl. She could have been bitter; she could have wished both he and Hermione nothing but trouble for the rest of their lives. Instead, she was still the same kind, compassionate Quinn he had fallen so hard for.

Dangerous waters, Potter. Tread carefully…

"I'll tell her," he said firmly. Quinn glanced up at him; he held her gaze. "She'll appreciate it. So do I."

She shrugged again and left him to languish in silence while she swung slowly back and forth. He wanted to say something else – what, he wasn't sure, but he sensed that more needed to be said.

Hesitantly, he began, "I saw your mother's car – "

"It's Aaron's. Everything we have is Aaron's."

The bitterness was undisguised then, but Harry knew it wasn't meant for him. She stared at the ground and said quickly, as if to cover her outburst, "Yeah, they were home for, like, a day. Mom was royally pissed that I didn't want to go back to Florida with them for a few days. I was like, Why? To see everybody I can't have in my life anymore and have to say good-bye to them all over again? She said I was being 'petulant.' That's her favorite word these days."

Harry almost smiled at her. Realizing just in time that she probably didn't want his smiles, or his company, he said instead, "Well, uh, I should probably get going."

"Okay." She stared back down at the ground. "So what are you doing for your birthday?"

Bloody hell, she remembered…

Blushing – he couldn't help thinking this would be easier if she would simply be a bitch to him, like he deserved – Harry replied lamely, "Not much, you know. The Dursleys don't exactly break out the champagne to celebrate my being born."

Quinn giggled, then clamped a hand over her mouth, looking horrified. "Oh, Harry, I'm sorry! That's not funny. I'm sorry."

But her laughter had released the tension coiled in his stomach, the tension that had settled there upon Hedwig's return. Unable to keep the smile off his face, he rejoined, "It is funny. A little. I mean, it's funny that they think I give a shit whether they celebrate my birthday or not."

He sat down in the swing beside her, emboldened by the smile spreading slowly across her face. He was suddenly determined to bring the sparkle back to her emerald eyes. "At least they've quit giving me presents. Do you know, one year they gave me a pair of my uncle's socks?"

Quinn wrinkled her nose. "No way! Gross!"

"Oh, it gets better. I once got a tissue for Christmas."

"A tissue? You mean, just a tissue?"

"Yup. At least it wasn't used."

That brought forth a real, belly-deep laugh from her. Harry joined in, more pleased than he supposed he should have been to see her happy again.

What would Hermione think?

Oh, hush up, his inner voice – the one that seemed to take precedence whenever Quinn was involved – snarled back. Quinn is a sweet person, and it sucks that she has to be sad so much of the time. If Hermione can't take me being nice to someone, then…

Yes? Then what?

Then nothing, he decided. He was speculating about something that hadn't even happened. Hermione deserved more credit than his assumption that she'd fly into a jealous rage because he'd spoken to Quinn.

"Well, it doesn't sound like much of a birthday."

He came back to himself as Quinn spoke. She smiled sideways at him, looking a little sad again.

"I guess not," he agreed.

"Well, uh, maybe we could…do something? Just as friends," she added hastily, seeing the instant uncertainty in his eyes. Scarlet tinged her cheeks. She looked so becoming at that moment Harry nearly forgot himself and kissed her. "I mean, if Hermione wouldn't like it, that's okay, I get it, but…It seems a shame to be all alone on your sixteenth birthday, Harry."

Run. Run away now, and never look back.

No matter how he would rationalize it to himself later that night, lying in his bed wide-awake with nervous excitement filling his stomach, Harry knew he should have said no. He should have told her that he was with Hermione, and whether his girlfriend would care or not, he knew it wasn't right to go out with Quinn, not when he could still so easily imagine kissing her.

But he was lonely. And he didn't want to hurt Quinn anymore than he already had. And if he spent tomorrow alone, he would spend it missing Sirius; frankly, Harry just wasn't certain he could handle that.

So he nodded. "Okay," he agreed, speaking over the small voice inside that was shouting in protest. "Just as friends."

"Great." Quinn stood up. "We'll keep it simple. I'll make you a cake, and I'll sing to you, and I'll even have a gift for you to unwrap. I promise not socks. Why don't you come over, oh, about eight tomorrow night?"

Come over? Eight o'clock? Whoa, wait a minute, back up the train – alone, in Quinn's house? Together?

Wishing mightily that he'd suggested meeting at the diner or the cinema, anyplace with people and lights where he couldn't possibly be temped to cheat on the girlfriend he was falling very much in love with and didn't want to lose for anything in the world, Harry found himself unable to think of any credible reason not to accept her invitation.

It's a birthday party, you bloody sod, not an invitation to make out, his inner voice piped up. If you're so in love with Hermione, then what are you worried about?

Nothing, he decided, because he knew he couldn't live with any other answer. Nothing. It'll be fine. I can end the summer as friends with Quinn and then go to the Burrow and be with Hermione, who I AM falling in love with.

So he smiled brightly and agreed, "Eight o'clock tomorrow. No socks."

As she turned and left the park, smiling to herself, Harry realized he'd done what he set out to do: He'd brought the sparkle back to Quinn's eyes.