Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, unless it's an original from one of my other stories, does not belong to me.
A/N: To Ravenclaw's heir: I don't know if it's obvious or if you really are Ravenclaw's heir, because your theory was correct! I'm going to keep the details a mystery for now... evil grin. I hope you guys like this chapter, and I'm going to have to make the next few a little longer than the previous ones, so if it takes me more than a couple of days to update, please bear with me!
Summary:"Hello, Hermione," he said from the shadows. He watched the colour drain from her face. "No…" she whispered. He was a living nightmare… And that broke his heart.
Kiss of the Traitor
Chapter Three: Not Negotiable
The water bubbled in the little kettle on the stove, gently at first, and then fiercer and fiercer as the water grew hotter. Harry sometimes felt that boiling water was like his anger used to be. It had been a long time since he'd felt truly angry, so angry that he wanted to kill someone or something. He was angry now. He wanted to smash his head against a wall, and hear the sickening crunch of his worthless skull bones shattering. He wanted to strangle Hermione for disappearing and not coming to any of them for help. He wanted to kill Voldemort… again… for it was Voldemort who had done all this. He had brought them here, to this point of madness.
Hermione was dying. The words didn't make sense to Harry as he took the kettle off the fire and began to make cocoa. The words rang in his mind, but it refused to sink in. How could Hermione be dying? It wasn't fair… it wasn't happening. It couldn't happen. How many times had he seen her on the brink of death and nearly collapsed himself to see her that way.
Only this time, there was to be no more light-headed relief and joy when he found out that she was all right. She wasn't all right.
She was dying.
"It doesn't make sense," Harry groaned to himself, trying to assimilate it. How could this be? This was Hermione they were talking about – their Hermione, his Hermione. She couldn't die. She was a witch who was supposed to live well over two hundred years like the rest of them. She wasn't supposed to die.
He replayed their conversation upstairs in her room, when she had said those mind-numbing, horrible words. "No," he'd said flatly, denying it without second thought, "You can't be dying. What are you talking about? What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I say," she had said tiredly, bunching the quilts between her hands and hugging them to her as if searching for comfort. "I'm dying, Harry. I'm going to be dead – really dead – soon."
He tried to ignore the 'really dead' part and the way she'd glanced at him when she said it, almost frightened, but it stuck in his head. He couldn't believe this was happening. It was as if the entire conversation had changed from her nightmare… to his. All these years, they had been apart – she had been here, in the cold and the desolate, alone and friendless except for some grocery store owner – and they had never known… she had never tried to contact them or let them find her… and now, when he had, he had been met with this knowledge.
"I don't believe it."
"Suit yourself," she had said slightly bitterly, still not looking at him, "Traitors' words don't smack of truth, do they? Oh, I suppose it doesn't matter. I wasn't really expecting you to be here on my deathbed or anything."
He had stood up, his mind a whirl, and he managed to say: "I'm going to go make some cocoa or something, all right? I'll make you a cup too."
And he'd left the room and come downstairs, trying so hard to wake up from the nightmare.
He didn't.
Harry made two mugs of cocoa and stood inside the cold kitchen with his, drinking it. Its warmth against his hands and tongue – almost too warm – made absolutely no difference to the cold creeping inside him and spreading into every corner. It was like the opposite of drinking Butterbeer, this feeling inside him. Only it was much, much worse than he could have imagined.
"Please," he begged softly, hardly aware that the words were slipping out, "Please don't die. I can't go another four years like these… I can't do this without you. I can't lose you again, knowing that it was my fault you left in the first place. I can't. Please…"
He had never felt so impotent or hopeless in his entire life.
He drained the cup of cocoa, the last residue leaving a strangely appropriate bitter taste in his mouth, and he picked the other mug up. Swallowing and steeling himself, he went back upstairs to Hermione's bedroom. When in pain, he had always tried to understand, he had always asked the questions to which he needed the answers – even if the answers sometimes made it worse. Now, he needed to know.
Hermione was under the quilts again when he returned, covered almost to her neck by the volumes of bedclothes so that she looked almost normal. Only he could see the state of her all too clearly – he saw her eyes, worst of all, the empty pain inside them. He walked towards her and handed her the mug of cocoa. She thanked him in a detached voice, as if he was nothing more Madam Pomfrey giving her some kind of sedative to keep her from getting upset. That hurt, but he knew he deserved it. What neither he nor she deserved was for her to keep suffering the way she obviously was now. He couldn't bear to see her so sick and fragile – not when memories of the vibrant, obnoxiously clever and stubborn teenage girl flashed into his mind. He couldn't bear to see her in pain.
"Tell me what happened," he said in a clear, calm voice. He had to stay calm and controlled, for both their sakes. Only then could he work something out.
Hermione took a long sip of cocoa, and he hoped she felt warmer. She looked at him, and for a moment, she said nothing. Then, clearly needing no elaboration as to what he meant about what happened, she spoke: "I'm very ill. It gets worse every day, and going out into the cold or doing anything too strenuous speeds it up. I suppose the closest description I can give it is something like leukaemia for magical folk."
"Did you get it because of the cold here? Not eating enough?" He knew he sounded accusing, but he was angry. He thought her life meant more to her than that! A sinking feeling struck him… if her life meant nothing to her, it was because of what they – what he – had done.
"No," she said coldly, looking away, "Although the weather made it worse. This was… Harry, does it matter?"
"Yes."
"This was… induced… by magic."
He stiffened and felt his blood run cold. "What do mean – magic?"
"Look, Harry, do you remember Dolohov? The Death Eater? He was one of the few we – you – never rounded up, caught, or killed. He's still out there, along with a couple of others like Macnair and Alecto. He's the one who – "
"Attacked you in the Department of Mysteries, yeah, I remember him very well," Harry said through gritted teeth.
Hermione glanced at him, and took another slow sip of cocoa. "Well, I'm guessing he always bore a sort of grudge against me for escaping that curse and making him pay later on. Not to mention because it was through some of my… actions… that Voldemort met you in his fatal conflict. He, ironically enough, sees me as a filthy traitor and even filthier Mudblood. He tracked me down."
Harry was silent, waiting. The blood was roaring in his ears.
"He didn't attack me directly – he knew, I suppose, that he was no match for me," Hermione observed dispassionately. "Instead, he snuck into the house when I wasn't around and slipped a magical spell into a loaf of bread. I ate the bread. The spell was a very powerful and dangerous sickness spell. It kills you, through what appears to be natural illness."
It felt like someone had hit Harry with a sledgehammer. His reflexive reaction was fury, but all his anger at her had died… and there was also a wave of horror. Dolohov knew of Hermione's existence because of Harry. He hated Hermione because of what she had done on Harry's behalf. He had been able to attack her, unprotected, and poison her food because she wasn't with the rest of them… because of Harry. This was his fault, and Hermione was paying for it with the price of her life. He couldn't speak. He could see the toll the illness was taking on her. It didn't look like a pleasant way to die. A slow, painful death… it was exactly the kind of thing a twisted Death Eater would think of.
"I'll kill him," he spat.
"How noble of you," Hermione said a little disdainfully, "A little late for chivalry, isn't it, Harry?"
He knew that all too well, and it nearly killed him.
"I'm so sorry," he said in a voice that was so hoarse it was nearly unrecognizable. "This is all my – I never should have let – oh, Hermione – "
"Regret isn't going to bring the dead back to life, Harry," she told him pitilessly.
He looked at her, her pale face as if carved in the stone of icy dignity, her voice and eyes hard and merciless. What had happened to the ready compassion and kind sympathy (overborne only by the stubbornness of her intelligence) that he remembered? He had done this to her. He had made her this person without mercy or pity for him. And he deserved none.
She was right. Regret wasn't going to make much of a difference to anything. But there was something he could do that maybe could make a difference.
"Let me take you to St. Mungo's, Hermione, maybe there's something they can do."
Her expression was half-amused, half-scornful. "Do you think Dolohov would have made it that easy, Harry? When I cast the spell over the bread container to find out what spell he had used on its eaten contents, I found a message he had left for me. No ordinary means – magical or Muggle – can cure this illness. It's degenerative, and will only get worse if any healer tries to do a spell on me."
"But there must be something – there's always a solution!"
"If there is," she said absently, "I don't know it because I have no access to books and things here. If I could get to a good stock of old books, maybe I could find something… but I don't have the will or the energy to go travelling and searching about the place… and I'm not sure I care anymore…"
"Don't say that!" he said fiercely. "Don't you ever tell me you don't care about saving your own life! Because even if you don't, I do, and I'm not about to let you die here!"
She smiled at him a little bitterly. "You were willing to put me to death once."
"You know I would never have done it. I didn't do it."
"You're right – you didn't."
"Glad we've settled that," he said forbiddingly, feeling slightly like he used to when forced into an argument with Hermione. "Now, I suggest you tell me where your clothes are and what things you want me to pack."
"What are you talking about?"
"You didn't think I was going to leave you here, did I? And although I'd brave anything for you, Hermione, I'm afraid I'm not going to let you continue living here in this frozen pit. You're coming with me. I assume you don't have enough strength to Apparate, so I'm going to take you Side-Along back home where you'll have access to the best books in the magical world and a whole host of people to search them with you. I'm going to keep you alive if it's the last thing I do."
He moved towards the cupboard as he spoke. Hermione put her empty mug of cocoa down with a resounding thunk and her eyes flashed furiously at him – one of the few signs of life she had shown since his arrival.
"I'm not going anywhere with you!"
He tried not to flinch, and turned instead to the task to picking out clothes to take with them. "It's not up for negotiation," he said firmly, keeping his voice cool so that she didn't think he was going to be a pushover in this instance. "Do you want to die? Do you think any of us want to die?"
"Leave my underwear alone!" she nearly shrieked, jolting forward as he opened her underwear drawer to take some.
He rolled his eyes, but hurried towards her to ease her back before she killed herself. He bit back a choked cry at the sight of her, searching for breath with the mere exertion of trying to leap off her bed. "Calm down," he said sternly, pushing her back gently and looking down into her eyes. "You need underwear, don't you? Besides, I've already seen your underwear, and not seen it."
She actually blushed.
"Hermione," his voice gentled, "I know how afraid you must be of going back and facing everything and everyone… but you have to understand… every one of us wants you back. You have no idea how sorry we are, how much they want to see you."
She turned her head away, and a tear snaked its way down her cheek. She looked so lost and alone that he had to physically get up and move back to the cupboard to keep from holding her tightly. He knew she would reject his touch if he tried, and he didn't want to hurt her or feel the pain of being rejected. Closing his eyes to blink away his own tears, he took ten more minutes getting her clothes together and a few more things, including her wand, she rather shakily asked for – having tiredly given up the argument in favour of just going somewhere warmer. Slinging the large Muggle's duffel bag over one shoulder, he went back and pulled back her quilts and gently scooped her up into his arms. He had outgrown his midget's stature as a younger teenager, although he retained his wiry frame, but he was much stronger and she was little more than a lightweight now. He could feel the rigidity in her muscles at his touch, and he could feel her fear.
He bent his head, and his mouth brushed against her forehead and hair. He could smell her – that strange, Hermione smell that was so distinctive, in spite of the illness. "It'll be okay," he promised her softly.
Her eyes lifted to his, and they were filled with a bitter anger at him for all that he had done. "Oh, Harry… it'll never be okay."
"Just close your eyes," he said hoarsely, swallowing.
He concentrated… destination, deliberation, determination or whatever that rubbish was (he never paid too much attention to it anyway)… and they were being sucked into that void between places and times, being pulled through the land towards London. And then, with a rush of cool air, they were standing outside Number 12, Grimmauld Place. And a distant clock struck one.
Harry lowered Hermione to the ground. She looked around her as if trying to drink in surroundings she hadn't seen in so long, while he fished out his magical house key. She seemed determined to walk on her own, although she stumbled a little, and he had to hold her hand. He unlocked the door and they slipped inside.
"I don't want to – " she protested angrily.
He smiled faintly. "There won't be anyone here to worry about. Ron lives here, but he's probably asleep at this hour, especially since I'm not home. Either that, or he has Luna with him in his room. I don't think anyone else is staying over, except maybe Lupin because he rather likes it here now that the broodiness has been removed and Sirius's portrait laughs and smiles quite a bit."
"Where's Mrs. Black?" she inquired, as they passed the hallway and entered the warmly lit kitchen. Harry lit a fire quickly, so as to warm the room up, and he heard Hermione sigh audibly in relief and sudden unexpected joy.
He grinned. "I gave her a bogey problem, so she rarely shows her face – or voice."
"You – you've brightened this place up wonderfully."
"Thanks."
There was an awkward pause. He went on a little lamely: "Look, I think there's some of Mrs. Weasley's casserole left over from my birthday thingy… so I think you should eat something, and I could heat in up in a second…"
She said nothing, which he took as acquiescence that she was reluctant to give him.
They remained in silence for a long time, Hermione clearly not speaking to him unless she had to, and he didn't know what to say. Nearly seven years of being best friends and almost a year of being more, and he didn't know what to say to her. He went about fetching the casserole from the fridge – he had retained many legacies of his upbringing as a Muggle – and heated it with a wave of his wand. Sometimes, it still felt odd to be able to use magic for something as simple and commonplace as this, to be legally allowed to do so outside school.
"Harry – tell me about the others."
He put the casserole on the table and spooned some out for her, but he stopped at her words and looked at her, startled. He was overjoyed that she was thawing enough to show how much she still cared – even if he felt a twinge of old jealousy that her interest was in the others and not in him – but he hadn't expected her to react so quickly.
Handing her a fork and the plate, he sat down opposite her, and said: "What do you want to know?"
"How they are, what they've been doing…"
"I'll tell you everything," he promised, "But it could take a while, so I think you should eat that and then get some sleep. We'll have time for this later."
"Will we?" she asked quietly.
He swallowed. "I'm sorry – that's tactless. I'll tell you tomorrow. Ron will help."
"Can you tell me if anyone's – dead?"
He hesitated, and then said: "Sturgis Podmore and Professor Trelawney were killed after you left. They were the only ones who died in the battle that you wouldn't know about… since then, everyone's fine. McGonagall is still Headmistress at Hogwarts. Snape, believe it or not, has been teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts for the past three and a half years. Ginny's married to Terry now; Tonks is three months pregnant; and Bill and Fleur have a three-year-old daughter named Aurelia." He smiled. "And Ron and Luna might be getting engaged sometime in the near future, assuming Ron ever works up the courage to do it."
"I'm so happy for all of them," Hermione whispered, and it sounded like she had never felt something more strongly than at that moment. "They all deserve to be happy. They've been through so much."
"Don't you deserve to be happy, Hermione?"
"I'm not sure I do," she said softly, looking at her plate and taking the last bite.
He hesitated, and then asked: "And what about me?"
"Yes," she said after a pause, and she met his eyes for a brief, heart-rending moment. "I think you should find someone to be happy with. I think after all you've suffered and all you've done for everyone, you deserve happiness more than anybody else. That's the truth." She swallowed. "But I'm glad you've left me behind you. That's one road that would never have led to happiness."
He stood up, unable to bear it any longer. Her plate was empty anyway. "Let me show you to your room. It's the same one you had in our summer after fourth year, next to mine. It looks pretty nice. Ginny decorated it."
She said nothing, but allowed him to lead her upstairs, although the effort seemed to cost her what little remained of her energy. He saw her to her bed, and tucked her in like a small child. In her drowsy, exhausted haze, the smile she gave him as he reached out to turn off the bed-lamp, was one of gratitude and relief… almost as if she was saying, 'thanks for being here'. He gulped down the lump in his throat. He then spoke.
"Oh… I'm sorry, Hermione, I forgot… Winky – Winky died, too. She was hit by a spell meant for Dobby. He's never properly gotten over that."
"That's horrible," Hermione whispered, her eyes shining with tears.
As Harry turned out the light, bid her a soft goodnight, and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him, he felt a little guilty that he had used Winky's death to gauge how much compassion was left in Hermione. As Sirius had always said, you could gain the true measure of a man (or woman) by looking at how they felt about their inferiors, not their equals. He realized that underneath the shell she had built around herself, she hadn't changed a bit. He was suddenly desperate to save her… in more ways than one.
…