A/n: Sorry this took so long, everyone, but I had a really busy month and a lot on my plate. I was actually pretty stressed out for a while there, but then I had some free time and I wrote this chapter with everyone in mind and how you've all been so patient with me. Hope you like it.
Disclaimer: If I own Harry Potter and its characters, then I am Mrs. Rupert Grint. Ah, the giddiness of it all...
NSH Chapter 6: MarkedIt was sudden and unexpected, and it made Hermione's heart stop beating.
They had been playing a game of chess, and it was turning out to be an event that Hermione was fully planning to forever remember. And as she had smiled at her best friend across the chessboard, she had felt content with what the talk had accomplished: a sense of recognition of what she was to do. She had been overcome with emotion at the way he hadn't pushed her away at a prospect of such a conversation. It had been a nice moment between two friends.
And then he collapsed, and she couldn't think.
Everything went blurry for her, except Harry's unconscious form on the floor, his glasses askew and face screwed up in pain. She drank in his hands clasping his scar and the way he had shaken uncontrollably before he had been still. And the scream that came out of her mouth seemed distant, because she herself was frozen in terror and worry and despair.
Ron.
That registered her into more of a thinking mode. She could figure this out with Ron. They could make this better. Harry would be all right.
He would be all right.
Brusquely wiping her eyes to rid them of the tears that had blurred her vision, she turned away from Harry and dashed out of her room, her sole purpose being to find Ron and help Harry.
Nothing could have frightened her more than this had. The last time Harry had collapsed like this had been at the History of Magic O.W.L.s, and then, like now, she had felt her blood freeze. But it had only been momentary, because a couple of minutes later Harry had been striding out, his hand faintly rubbing his forehead. And she had been worried, but seeing him conscious and aware of himself had helped diminish the worry. But now...it was so terrible. The mere thought of seeing him lying idly on the floor sent more panic to shoot through her veins and rid her of any rational thought.
Finding her way to Ron's room seemed impossible, like the small hallways created a labyrinth that was engulfing her and preventing her from helping Harry. Where was the damn room? Tears sprang into her eyes again as she rammed into room after room...why couldn't she find her way through this house, her own house?
Think, Hermione, calm down!
Her fist hit the wall as she felt a few tears slide down her cheeks. She leaned her head against the wall, hearing the sound of her own ragged breathing...breathing, was Harry still breathing? Please let Harry still be breathing.
Breathe, Hermione, breathe.
She turned and resolutely walked forward. She opened a door to her right without hesitation, and when she caught sight of his red hair through her tears she felt her eyes water even more.
Ron turned, caught by surprise at her sudden entrance. He hastily put on the sleeveless shirt he was holding, his ears tingeing at having her walk in on him shirtless. But she didn't care about that, and he noticed promptly. He let her walk into his arms when he saw she was crying.
"Hermione, what happened?" he asked, his tone full of concern.
She couldn't speak. She just shook her head. Harry! Her mind was screaming out what had happened, but she couldn't make a sound. Talk!! But she was overcome with fear and she couldn't do more than shake her head into Ron's chest and feel her eyes welling up steadily.
"Calm down, and tell me what's wrong," Ron said, and his tone was soft but firm.
"H-Harry," Hermione choked. "He—collapsed."
Ron's grip on her slackened. She looked up at him and saw his face grow pale and his eyes darken. His hands remained on her arms and she felt him shaking, although just by looking at him it was impossible to notice. But he was shaking and he looked scared.
"Let's go," he said, and she wiped her eyes and nodded and led the way.
She walked almost automatically, more like her legs were leading and not her mind. Her mind was elsewhere. Her mind still clung to Harry, and the eye of her mind showed him lying still. Were his hands on his scar still? She couldn't remember, she couldn't see...
And then they were there and Ron swore and he turned away for a moment. She saw him looking at the floor (she had to watch him...she could not bear to watch Harry) as if gathering his thoughts. Then he turned back and looked at Harry, and she saw him cringe, as if seeing him there was causing him a sharp pain.
He bent down and looked closely at Harry. Hermione still stood, watching him feel Harry's wrist for a pulse, muttering, "There's a pulse, he's okay..." Hermione's eyes wandered to Harry's face, pale and wincing. You're not just going to stand here, are you? She took a deep breath and knelt down next to Ron. She took Harry's glasses from where they were resting at the end of his nose and placed them on her bedside table.
Ron had his hands over his mouth. He was still looking at Harry.
"What happened?"
Only when he spoke did Hermione realize she had stopped crying. At least she was calm. Her voice was still shaking slightly, though, when she said, "We were talking...just finished a game of chess...and then all of a sudden he grabbed his scar and fell. And he shook a little, for a moment, but then he was still. That's when I went to find you."
Ron nodded, his face solemn. He looked at Harry for another few seconds (he muttered under his breath, "What happened, mate?") and then said, "Come on. Let's just get him on the bed. He'll come to."
The resolution in his voice reassured her, and she nodded. Together, they lifted Harry off the floor and carried him over to her bed. Hermione put him down carefully, as if he would break if set down too hard. Then she felt Ron's hand on her shoulder and turned to see him looking at her in concern.
"He'll be okay," he said. She gave him a shaky smile and nodded. His expression remained solemn, however, as he walked away from her and sat on the small table beside the window. He put his head in his hands and said, "Are you okay?"
Hermione considered this for a minute. Then she said, "Yes. I was just a little...shaken. I mean, it reminded me too much of that Thursday in June. You know how he collapsed during the History of Magic O.W.L.? I'm just worried about what it could be. Voldemort could be hurting him somehow, because last time he recovered quickly, but now..." Her voice trailed off.
Ron nodded. "To tell you the truth, you scared the hell out of me."
Hermione felt a pang of guilt. She'd probably made it seem to him like something seriously terrible had happened. "I'm sorry, I just—"
"No, it's all right, I know why you came in like that. You were just a little...hysterical." He looked up at her. She knew she looked tense. He sighed. "Sorry. I'm not really helping, am I?"
Hermione shrugged faintly and looked back at Harry. He was as still as ever. Some color seemed to be slowly rising up his neck. She tried to ignore the beads of sweat that were forming on his forehead. "There's nothing we can do?"
Ron was looking out the window. "No, I don't think so."
"We'll just wait, then," she said, walking slowly away from the bed and sinking into the chair across from him. It was snowing lightly outside, the snow slowly piling onto the yard, where the little snow that was left was already turning a dirty shade of gray. By the afternoon it would be just like Hogsmeade at Christmas.
"I guess that sort of ruins our day, huh?" Ron said distractedly.
"No. Probably not. It's still only morning," she answered, noticing tension between them. He seemed to be avoiding her gaze, looking steadily out the window, only not really seeing anything because his eyes were unfocused.
And they both sat in silence, wondering what could be occurring in the depths of Harry's mind, or, maybe, what was no longer Harry's mind but Voldemort's.
It was always this room, with the fireplace and the shadows and the cold, cold air, the air that made his breath catch in his throat even though he wasn't really there. But then, he was there, but he wasn't himself anymore. He didn't have that high-pitched voice, more snakelike than the snake at his feet. He didn't have those long, pale fingers, twirling a long wand. He didn't have that pale face, bone white, that made his scar be licked by invisible flames. But here he did, in this room he did.
And tonight, when his scar had burned to the point where he couldn't stand being conscious anymore and so had fainted so he wouldn't have to feel it—but then he felt it still—, he had arrived at this room, into the tall body with the bone white face and the terrible red eyes. Before him stood two Death Eaters that would have made his real self be overcome with anger, but not here; here, the sight of the two gave him pleasure and pride and disgust.
"Bella." He felt a voice come out of his mouth, but why? Damn this, it wasn't his voice! And then a laugh, and it came from him, but it certainly wasn't his own—although it was directed to him.
The witch standing before him smirked and looked him straight in the eye. More pain shot into his scar as her dark eyes glittered in malice. She knew he was looking at her; she knew she made him more hostile than anything else could. More laughter, this time from him and her, Bellatrix.
"Lucius and I would be honored," she drawled, gesturing toward the man beside her with a pale hand. His sharp features were half in shadow, but the malevolence in his demeanor could not be hidden. He, too, looked triumphant at knowing who partially resided within the Dark Lord at that moment.
"Certainly. And imagine, Potter knowing there will be an attack, but not knowing where," Malfoy said in his cold voice, all too much like his son's. He smirked and exchanged wickedly gleeful glances with Bellatrix.
"Poor baby Potter, still not over his little godfather's death, that filthy piece of shit who stained the name of my family—he deserved to die," Bellatrix said, in the same cold, mocking voice she had used in the Department of Mysteries. "Little baby Potter won't know how to deal with what's coming."
"We're coming," Harry's high-pitched voice said. "Sweet dreams, Potter."
And then they dissolved.
Yes, the pain was already subsiding. He was searching for the light that would mean open eyes, the real world, not this nightmare. But then, it wasn't a nightmare, it was Voldemort's mind, Voldemort's life, but that in itself was a nightmare...swirling colors, but no light...where was Hermione? Ron?
And then he was standing in front of Hogwarts. But it was not Hogwarts as it should be. This Hogwarts was silhouetted against a dark sky, with the moon to the right and a red star beside it. The lake was illuminated by different flashes of lights, some green and some red, and some different shades of purple and gold. And not only on the lake's surface, but around him lights flew in multiple directions, the magic of many spells traveling across the Hogwarts grounds. There were dark lumps on the grass, groans emitting from some.
Who was he? Glancing down at his hands told him he was himself again, holding his own wand in his lightly bloodstained fingers. He looked towards the Forbidden Forest. Death Eaters were dueling with robed figures—his heart sank, for some reason, at the sight of more than one head of red hair among them.
Then he heard the cold laughter behind him, and he feared he was still in the nightmare. But he spun around and saw that Voldemort was behind him. He was immobile, but cackling and watching Harry with loathing and triumph in his eyes. It was odd, because he looked to be bound by invisible chains; something was locking him down, preventing him from moving. Harry felt the blood in his veins quicken. Why was Voldemort incapacitated but still laughing?
What the hell was this?
"He won't do it, Potter!" Voldemort was yelling in his high voice, and then laughing even more. "He can't do it!"
"Harry..." He heard a soft, panicked voice from behind him, and he turned to find Neville standing quite still before him. His wand was held out, pointed at Harry, and his face was pale. His hand was shaking uncontrollably.
Then something came over him, and although he could not understand what he was saying, he said it nonetheless.
"Just do it, Neville," he said, his voice quiet but still ringing out above the din of explosions around him and Voldemort's mad laughter. "Do it. It'll all be over."
"I c-can't," Neville was saying, his mouth barely moving, his hand shaking even more.
"You have to," Harry said, nodding.
"He won't do it, Potter," Voldemort hissed from behind him. "You're all powerless, insignificant specks. He won't do it."
Harry closed his eyes. He had to ignore Voldemort. His heart was pounding in his chest, his ears were ringing, his scar was burning. He felt overwhelmed by every feeling possible; he was angry, he was scared, he was hopeful, he was sad...it was too much at one time, and his heart beat ever faster.
"Do it, Neville, don't make me say it again," he said, opening his eyes and finding them blurred by tears. Resignation. That feeling rose above all. The tears made his vision opaque but it was better this way. He did not want to look at Ron or Hermione. This was the way it was supposed to be.
"Harry, no, please," Neville was saying, his voice choking on sobs. He was shaking his head—Harry could indistinctly see him—and muttering, "No, no, please, no."
"Do it."
"I—no!"
"Neville, please, just do it already!"
"Give up, Potter, I've already won." Voldemort's voice flooded his ears.
Ignore it. "Do it."
Sobs from Neville.
"Do it!"
Laughter from Voldemort.
"DO IT!"
And they were gone, and he was conscious once more.
Many miles away, Neville sat up, waking from the strangest dream he had ever had.
He had been at Hogwarts, with duels around him, many duels, of Death Eaters and people he knew. Ron was there and Hermione was there. He had seen him, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, he had been behind Harry...
And Harry had been standing between him and the Dark Lord.
Neville put his head in his hands, feeling sweat lining his forehead, his breathing sharp and fast. He rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of that image that still lurked in his vision.
He'd been pointing his wand at Harry. There was something he had to do, but he couldn't do it, he didn't want to do it. He was weak, and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named sensed it, and it pleased him. Neville remembered seeing his own arm extended, wand pointed at Harry. He had been choking within, strangled by the task that was put on him...Harry was telling him to do it, just do it...
"Do what?" he murmured. "Do what?"
He rubbed his head. He shouldn't let his imagination run away with him.
While images and thoughts invaded Harry's mind, his best friends were still sitting awash in silence heavy with the tension of not knowing what was wrong with him. They sat gazing at the snow falling slowly outside the window, and they did not acknowledge each other's presence.
Thus Ron was startled when Hermione spoke; her voice sounded choked and out of place in the aura of the room.
"Do they hurt?"
He looked at her, tearing his eyes away from the window, and saw that she was looking at the scars on his arms with great interest. He mentally cursed himself; he had been in such a hurry to get to Harry that he had put on this sleeveless shirt and not thought about the fact that it left the ugly markings on his arms exposed. He hated them, those scars. He didn't want them when he saw them, and wanted them even less when he felt them. There were times where he could forget that they were there, when they were out of sight under his school robes. He could go about normally without glancing at them and wondering how hideous people must think they were. But when his arms were left bare, like they were now, he became all too aware of them.
He'd studied them often during the summer, locked up alone in his room. Every time he looked at them, they made him feel stupid. It was his own fault he had them; who was stupid enough to Summon a brain without knowing what it could do to you? He faintly recalled seeing himself giggling and pointing his wand at the brain, then seeing it soar out of the green tank with the thoughts trailing after it like the tail of a kite. And then, when the tentacles had wrapped around his arms—how normal they had been before then—he'd felt searing pain where they touched him, but even more in his mind. He'd been inundated with thoughts and feelings and fears that didn't belong to him, and it had been overwhelming. He couldn't think at all, he couldn't sort out the brain's thoughts from his own, and all he knew was that he wanted it to stop.
Then that day in the hospital wing when the bandages had been taken away came, and he had almost cried out in disappointment. The pale skin of his arms was now lined with ugly red marks, with jarring patterns and hideous scarring. When he found himself looking at them, he wished they could just be willed away. He couldn't stop looking at them, no matter how unbearable it was for him—he was entranced by something horrible that he found made his appearance unusual, unappealing. And sometimes he felt them...and that was what hurt the most, the invasion into his thoughts, like a prying hand opening different compartments of his mind.
"Sometimes," he mumbled, unconsciously brushing his left hand over the scars on his right arm. "Only when I think about them." He felt the slight tingling sensation in his arms and bit down the curses he wanted to utter.
"What do you mean?"
He looked at her. She was watching with curious eyes, without a trace of intentions to hurt his feelings. She wanted to know what the scars did to him. He appreciated her concern, but he didn't want to talk about it.
So he shrugged. "You know...I start thinking all these weird thoughts that aren't mine. Sometimes I'm looking at memories with people I don't know. And they don't go away if I think about something else, 'cause I can't think about anything else...the thoughts and memories only go away when they want to. It's frustrating."
"So you only see someone else's thoughts?" She looked from his eyes to the scars, and back to his eyes again. His heart leapt unexpectedly and he looked away for a moment. She knew him too well.
"No." He didn't want to elaborate, and that made him keep his gaze down. He knew if he looked up and saw her brown eyes full of questions he would answer without hesitation. He liked talking to her, and he liked having her listen.
"Oh?"
Damn it, Hermione. "If—sometimes, when I touch one of the lines, I'll get a momentary flash of something. Like—like one time I put my entire hand on top of a group of scars and...I was watching a series of duels and I saw Harry and Y—Voldemort."
She was thinking about what he had said. He could practically see the wheels in her head turning. Another jerk at his heart—seriously, she would end up killing him one of these days if this kept up.
"What do you think that means?" she asked gently.
"I dunno. I reckon it's some sort of thought on...possibilities, of sorts. You know, things that I think could happen. Like the one of Harry and Voldemort...maybe in my minds eye I see it coming down to them..." His voice trailed off.
"That's a good point." She was silent for a moment, biting her lip softly. Don't stare, stupid, she'll notice. Then she said, "What happens when someone else touches them?"
He raised his eyebrows slightly. "Er...I can't say. Madam Pomfrey is the only other person who ever got really close to them but she never put her fingers on them or anything."
Hermione kept chewing on her bottom lip. Stomach somersault—you are too vulnerable, Weasley, you should be ashamed of yourself. Slowly, she said, "Can I?"
Again, he raised his eyebrows. "Bloody hell." She gave him a mildly stern look and he bit back a smile. "Uhh...what if it does something to you?"
"It won't. I just want to know if anything different goes on in your mind when it's someone else touching the scars."
"Uh huh," Ron muttered. If it were his choice, she would not be getting her fingers anywhere near his upper arms. He still wasn't past the blushing stage—it would be highly embarrassing. Look away, she'll convince you if you don't look away...
"Please?"
Great, you git, too late now. Ron sighed, "Yeah, okay."
Hermione gave him a small smile. She chewed on her lower lip once more. Then she moved her chair so it was next to him. His stomach gave an odd churn when their knees touched. He realized he really hadn't been this close to Hermione in a while, probably not since they'd left Hogwarts. They'd been too distracted, with Lennie and everything else. He felt his ears begin to warm up as her leg became pressed against his. She was really close now. Vulnerable, I'm telling you...
"If it starts hurting, tell me and I'll take my hand away," she said softly, and a little hoarsely for some reason. He saw her take a deep breath and swiftly reach up to his arm and press two fingers against a scar on his bicep.
It happened so fast in his mind that he almost missed it, but it was so strange—and so wonderful—that he saw it vividly. It came and went, maybe because he jumped when he saw it and she took her hand away. But it was so interesting to him that he could still picture it in his mind, it looked so real.
"Ron?" she said, her eyebrows furrowed. "Are you okay?"
He nodded and swallowed. "I, uh, saw something."
"What?"
But of course, there was no chance he could tell her what he'd seen. No way. Unless he wanted his face and ears to be permanently a scarlet color, he could not tell her. For in the instant when she touched him, his mind and the thought scar showed him one clear image: he had seen himself standing in a dark alcove, and his mouth had been pressed tightly against someone else's.
And, consequently, it was Hermione's.
So, naturally, there was no way he could burst out with something like, "I saw myself snogging the living daylights out of you, Hermione." Although that was a bit of an exaggeration...you wish you'd seen some snogging, Weasley, but I assure you it was plain kissing.
"Ron?" Her voice startled him, and he whipped his head to the side to look at her. "What did you see?" she asked.
"Er..."
It actually had looked quite nice. He had been holding her face gently, and she had her arms draped around his neck. They were just standing there, in the dark little corner, kissing, and it had looked so inviting to Ron that he could not stop thinking about it.
"I—I—"
The way she was looking at him right now...why did she have to have those eyes? Why couldn't she have normal eyes, like Harry's? Harry's eyes didn't have that deep sparkle that showed ambition and caring. Harry's eyes were just eyes, period. Hermione's eyes seemed to hold the universe in them, and every time Ron looked into them, his knees went weak and he lost all common sense.
If I was kissing her, her eyes would be closed.
Then maybe that's what he should do...
Yeah, right, you're too much of a coward to do something like that.
He could very well do it...he doubted she would mind...and even if she did, he was sure he wouldn't mind...
Hermione was watching him with raised eyebrows, and Ron almost felt like she could tell what he was thinking. He looked at her. Her skin color was lighter than it was in the summertime, and the few freckles she had dotting her nose were clearly visible. Her lips were pink and they looked soft. And her eyes, well, what could not be said about them?
Ron felt himself leaning towards her, and he saw a flash in her eyes, as if she realized what he was doing. He didn't care, that image was still fresh in his mind, he was so close to making it real...
And when he was close enough to see the edge of her nose almost touching his, he heard Harry scream, "DO IT!"
He almost forgot that Harry had been lying in a bed unconscious for almost 20 minutes. He almost forgot that Harry had no idea what was going on.
Almost.
But he realized that Harry was not egging him on; his voice sounded desperate, choked, full of despair. And so when his best friend sat up and screamed those two words, he jumped away from Hermione and leaped out of his chair. He knew his cheeks were flushed and was uncomfortably aware of Hermione boring a stare into the back of his head, but he kept his eyes firmly planted on Harry.
"Harry, mate, are you all right?" he said, and he cursed mentally when he heard his voice shaking slightly. Hermione was still staring at him.
Harry was shaking his head, wiping the sweat from his forehead, taking his glasses from the bedside table and roughly putting them on again. He looked shaken and his hands were trembling.
That's when Hermione stopped looking at Ron (relief washed over him) and walked over to Harry. Ron tried to ignore what had been happening just moments earlier so he could focus on Harry.
Hermione placed a hand on her friend's back. "Harry, are you all right? Do you need anything?"
He was speechless, his mouth hanging open slightly. Ron and Hermione watched him silently, neither moving, waiting for him to regain some strength so he could speak.
"He—he's planned a—a new attack," he said hoarsely, his face losing the little color it had regained.
"Voldemort?" Hermione murmured. Harry nodded.
"Shit," Ron muttered, turning towards the window and running his hands through his hair. "That son of a bitch."
"Ron," Hermione said sternly.
"Malfoy and Bellatrix are arranging it," Harry continued, anger evident in his voice. Ron picked a few choice names for them that made Hermione groan in exasperation. Harry didn't seem to be listening to him, just trying to find a way to explain what he had seen. "Bellatrix...she was mocking me, about Sirius and—and about how I don't know where they're going to attack."
"What do you mean, you don't know where? If Voldemort was planning it while you were there—"
"No, it was like they were expecting me to drop in on them and they conveniently left out the part about who they're attacking!" Harry said, putting his head in his hands.
"Harry, we have to tell the Order, they'll—"Hermione began, but Harry interrupted.
"We can't!"
Hermione looked to be taken aback by this, and Ron saw her eyes fill up with hurt and confusion. "Harry, please, we could help keep someone from getting hurt—"
"Like we tried to do last time?" Harry snarled. Ron looked in incredulity from him to Hermione, who was now biting her lip to prevent tears from falling.
"Someone's going to get hurt, we have to try to prevent it!"
Harry shook his head, and Ron saw that his eyes were red rimmed. "If we tell anyone from the Order, they'll just take us away and lock us up in that damn house." His voice broke. "I don't want to go back there. Please."
Hermione let a few tears fall, and she threw her arms around Harry. "All right, Harry," she murmured. "We won't say anything."
Harry buried his head into her shoulder. "I'm sorry, it's just...Sirius...I can't..."
"It's all right, mate," Ron said, hearing his voice quivering even more than before. "We're here together. We'll be okay."
A/n: Okay, that's chapter six for you...I need some of these things in here because this story isn't all happy romance fluff (although there's certainly nothing wrong with that). But there won't be much more mention of Voldemort till later. To come: snow, arguments, and Christmas presents. Now...please review, thank you kindly! 8)