Take Me For A Ride (Please Don't Make Me Hide)

Loving Luna with all her Loony

"I'll take the Hospital Wing, Professor," I assured. "It's really no problem; I know vividly how it looks."

"I know, I know, Harry," chuckled Professor McGonagall. "Just be careful—although Lord Voldemort has been defeated, his followers still remain."

"Remain clutching their arms and screaming in pain, preferable," butt in Hermione. Her smile turned softer, warmer. I rarely saw that smile. "Don't worry, Professor—I'll take care of him."

Professor McGonagall's frown lines only deepened. "And whom will be there to take care of you?"

"I will," I told her, "it'll be just like the old times. And, honestly, a tower compared to a Dark Lord will be no problem."

"If you manage not to fall down, that is," reprimanded Hermione. "C'mon, Harry. We'll see you later, Professor."

"Alright there, Hermione?" I grunted as I eviscoed the prior mortar, replacing quickly with a fresher coat. "You really quite pale."

(Ah, thought Hermione grimly, he's back to the stage of denial and pretending.

Unlike other times, however, she didn't bother to help with moving on. She too was stuck there.

Was Ron really gone? The sweet boy with the chocolate freckles and beautifully flaming red hair?)

I was quiet, solemn, as he walked into Grimmauld. Everyone stared at me noticeably.

"What happened, love?" Ginny whispered as soon as I got into our room. "You were gone for a week or so."

"Ron's gone." The words tasted bitter, poison infecting my tongue, as they made their way through my lips.

"H-he's dead?"

"No," I said flatly. I only barely managed to croak out, "dementors."

Ginny went pale, her lovely azure eyes dimming and brightening with unshed tears.

(Tears were dangerous things . . . sorrow in sad, little drops.)

"Have you told the others?" Ginny bit back her tears. Tears did no good.

I stayed quiet. "No, Gin. What was I supposed to say? 'Hello, Mrs. Weasley, oh, by the way, your youngest son is dead.' I couldn't do it, Gin."

"Oh, love," Ginny closed her eyes for long moment. "We know, we all know, you'd have tried your very best—"

"My best wasn't bloody enough!" I shouted in a rage. "He's dead! Gone, and nothing—NOTHING—will ever bring him back!"

Suddenly, all the life in my lively forest-green eyes seemed to vanish, die. Ron was gone. Remus was gone. I had even failed, miserably, to protect Teddy. I had given my fucking life—and that wasn't good enough. Still, he was taken. Still, he was killed. He was too young—only two.

The world wasn't what we deserved.

Yet we got it anyway.

I get out of the steaming shower, ignoring the squeals and critiques of the mirror as I change into a dark maroon robe.

(Ron hated these robes . . .)

Five minutes later, I'm in light blue robes, twitching, and waiting for Hermione and Luna to come over so we can get to Hogwarts already.

(Where the Great Hall was demolished . . .)

I swallow hard—no, no, no! That's all done now . . . all gone.

"Hullo, Harry," greets a dreamy voice, unscathed by the hardships of war. "How are you?"

I choke.

Okay?

Fine?

Horrible?

Dying?

(Suicidal . . .?)

"I'm fine," I manage, and try not to think about how Hermione was clinically labelled a insane madwoman—not that that got out to the public—just a few days ago. "And you?" It's a stupid question really, with all the deaths and the recent loss of her father, but it's common courtesy.

"As well as I can be," she tells me wonderingly. I'm starting to wonder if it's now rude to ask that. It seems as though it is—no, Harry, don't overthink it . . . (Yes, don't overthink it—that's what caused Teddy's death . . . or was it just you?)

"Right, well, do you know if Hermione is coming soon?" The sooner the worser.

"No. As far as I know, she won't be coming for a long time—unless you're the other Harry?" Luna peers at me curiously. Other Harry? I'm pretty sure I don't have a clone running around.

"No, I'm the same old. What is taking her?"

"Time, of course." Way to be more cryptic?

"Oh. I gues we can apparate by ourselves, then," I tell her, and we poof into existence—in a place that's definitely not Hogwarts.

"Why, isn't this an adventure!" Luna cheerfully proclaims.

(Ron loved those . . . look where it got him.)

". . ." I blink at her. "Into that? But—"

"Why not?" She blinks her large, innocent doe eyes at me.

I relent immediately. "Alright—let's go."

Luna takes my hand and we head off—right into the Department of Mysteries.

I really hope Hermione's coming soon.

Hermione, it appears, does apparate right after we push past the blocked entre sign.

"Thanks for waiting," she tells me sarcastically.

Girls these days.

"Look at this," Luna chirps, holding out a bright beam of brilliant blue. I have no clue what it is.

"It . . . matches your eyes?" I say hesitantly. Hermione snorts.

"Thank you, but no—azure doesn't go with cerulean."

I blink at her as she continues; "In fact, I think cerulean might suit your hair—raven, after all. Why don't you try it on? It wraps around your forearm. I haven't tried it, yet."

"Ah . . ." Hermione tried to spare me from trying on a potentially dangerous—"that'd be a great idea, Luna!" Or not.

I knew there was a reason she was declared insane.

"Luna," I try to reason, for the millionth time, "we don't know what—"

"Nonsense, Harry," dismisses Luna swiftly, looking at me with dazed amusement. "Won't you try it on? For moi? S'il vous plait?"

She shouldn't have taken French. "Fine."

As I slip on the brace—I mean, disastrous, fatal machine, I take another long look at it. It's bright blue—that itself is enough to dissuade me, but I persevere further. Le sigh.

"Well, here it is," I say blandly, waving my wrist in their faces irritably.

Luna giggles at me. "Oh, silly, wait a moment, it doesn't look quite right yet." She reaches up and tugs the bracelet forward, towards my hand.

I wince as it peels a new scab off. Great. Another thing Madam Pompfrey will—oh. Yeah. I forgot—she's dead.

My gloomy thoughts only advance as I see the blood pooling around the disastrous, fatal machine. Perfect.

"I think," I begin carefully, wary of the two pairs of eyes on me; one insane, the other slightly out of it, "that—"

I'm cut off by the disastrous, fatal machine glowing brighter, and brighter, and brighter, until I'm blinded.

With a sickening twirl of magic, I blink and try to figure out where I am.

My jaw drops.

I stare in shock—and horror—at a teenage Lord Voldemort, Albus Dumbledore, and Armando Dippet.

Hermione cackles.

Take Me For A Ride—Please Don't Make Me Hide