Chapter XI: Bygones Not Forgotten
Harry's Summer at Privet Drive had been unremarkable, thankfully so. No inflating aunts, no World Cup, no Dementors, no visitors. Besides the occasional letter from Hermione and the Order, delivered by hand thanks to Dobby, communication had been kept airtight. Hermione at first decried sending him back to his relatives, after what happened in previous years but to her surprise, Harry had no objections. It gave him plenty of time to prepare for the months to come, as well as plan his new escape route from Privet Drive.
It had taken him weeks to line up all the pieces correctly. The only thing left to do now was to wait and hope that they fall the right way. It might cost him his life, or he might even live. Next month, next week, even tomorrow was starting to feel more and more like a fantasy. His future, however long he had left, was going to be war. A war that could only end in both his and Riddle's demise. Harry would never see peace in life again. So, the idea of preserving his life, worrying about survival, when all that lay in front of him was the long night… Harry couldn't tell how he felt about that anymore. He struggled to see the point in anything beyond his death. In the end, it might be the only thing that mattered.
Maybe the isolation had taken its toll after all.
Harry packed the last of his books into his trunk as he did a mental checklist of his belongings, or rather the ones he wanted to keep. He knew he was never coming back to Privet Drive after today, so he had to be sure he had everything. His school books, his clothes, his invisibility cloak (he had gifted that item to Hermione on the train ride home - he insisted she take it, in case she should ever need it). Apart from that… nothing. Harry had never had any toys, or gadgets, or any other precious valuables. For a long time, he barely owned the clothes on his back, even this plain black attire was sporting for this evening. It was a shame, Harry thought, that there was little he could others that meant something to him, besides maybe his Firebolt and his invisibility cloak. Tributes from the dead, reminders of the legacy he had yet to live up to.
Except there was something that he held very dear, even to this day. A gift from the person that had rescued him from the Dursleys all those years ago, perhaps his very first friend. Harry glanced at his travelling case once again, rummaging within and finding the old photo album that Hagrid had given him at the end of his first year at Hogwarts. He flicked through the pages, smiling at the sight of his parents holding him, his friends laughing right beside him. There weren't many pictures beyond what Hagrid himself had included. Harry supposed that Hagrid wanted him to fill it with his own memories, his own happy moments. Maybe Colin had been able to sneak a few, whilst he wasn't looking. Was it too late to ask now? He would love to have this filled up before the end, further proof that the Boy-Who-Lived did in fact live a little… if only for so long.
The sound of a car horn from outside roused him for his thoughts. He blinked, realising that his eyes had grown wet, staring at the photographs. The book was promptly slammed shut and stuffed back into his trunk. He clasped it shut, locking it and left it on the bed for Kreacher to take to the Burrow. Hedwig had been escorted there the day before, along with all of her necessities, leaving only Harry himself, dressed in his simple jumper and jeans, and his Firebolt, leaning up against the empty wardrobe. Realising that he had only a couple of hours before the great escape, Harry strode out of his room, intent on finding out why the Dursleys had yet to vacate.
The house was practically barren now. Every little piece of furniture that the Dursleys could carry has been packed up into a cavernous moving van that Vernon had rented the week before. Each and every one of the framed photographs, china plates, cutlery, electrical appliances, chairs, lamps, lampshades and even the garden ware had been removed. All proof of habitation, spare for a few pieces of furniture too big to carry, was stripped away, leaving only the carpet and the wallpaper, probably because stripping them both would take far more time than they had left. And as Harry found his way down the stairs, into the living room, with little more than a sofa and a wine cabinet to suggest that it ever was a living room, he noted he could hardly tell the difference.
It wasn't like Dumbledore's office that radiated loss, that felt alive. Number 4, Privet Drive, looked no more or even no less homely without its proof of occupancy than it did without it. It felt deathly and plain before and it felt deathly and plain now. Even Grimmauld Place, the dark and dank and oppressive box of a house, had its legacy at least, it had a history. There was no such history. Petunia had kept the house so clean that they hadn't even left memories behind.
Only Petunia herself stood as a testament to the Dursleys ever existing in Privet Drive, staring into the pristine fireplace that looked like it had barely ever held a spark, let alone warmed a home.
Harry was about to ask how long until they could leave when Petunia spoke.
"I have lived in this house for 20 years. And now, almost overnight, I've been forced to leave."
She sounded neither morose nor angry; merely inconvenienced, as she always sounded. Slightly annoyed at the world around her. Passive-aggressive at the idea of existence itself, unless it conformed to her.
"It's for your own good," Harry replied. "They will torture you and Dudley and Vernon. They won't take pity on you just because you're muggles."
"You think I don't know what they're capable of?" Petunia glared back at him accusingly. "You didn't just lose a mother that night in Godric's Hollow, you know."
It was all he could for Harry to stare right at her, utterly perplexed. She wanted to talk to him about what they had lost that night? As if she of all people had gotten the raw end of the deal? As if she-
A bubble of rage inflated within him. Fine, Harry thought. If she wants to talk, let's talk.
"No, I didn't," Harry spat. "I lost my whole life."
Petunia glanced back at him, squinting at him as if he were a fly on the wall.
"What on Earth are you talking about?"
"Before that night I had a family. I had people who loved me, who wanted me; a warm home; a safe place; a bed; a room; a childhood; and many years left to live with all of those things. And then it was all taken away, just like that, and as if it couldn't any worse, I ended up here."
It felt so good to finally have it out, at the very end. It was such a relief to finally have no need to hold back. He would hopefully never see the Dursleys again after today. What better time than now to say all that he had wanted to say since he was a little boy.
"All these years," Petunia glared at him, bringing herself up to her full height, "from before you could even speak, we've harboured you. Does that mean nothing?"
"Considering I was living like a dirty secret for ten of them, no, not really."
His aunt tutted, preening indignantly.
"To think of all we gave you. A roof over your head, the food from your table, the clothes off our backs. It would never have been enough, would it?"
Harry simply stared back, unmoving.
"This house has four bedrooms," he pointed out. "Four. And you kept me in a cupboard. If my world hadn't knocked on your door, how long would you have had me live there? The rest of my life? Or until you could afford to get rid of me?"
"You were forced on us," Petunia scoffed. "We had no say in the matter. All of sudden, another child, another mouth to feed, yet another burden. What did you expect-"
"I don't know, maybe a hug!" Harry bellowed. "A warm word every once in a while! A proper bed! A meal beyond scraps! Something to make me feel like a person, a real person who deserved to be loved! You couldn't even do that! You want me to be grateful for that?! And the worst part is you don't even care, not really. You couldn't give a damn that you abused your own family, spat on your sister's memory-"
"How dare you use my own sister against me?"
"Oh, now she matters, does she? I thought she and my father were drunks, that they died in a car crash? You're pathetic. We might share blood, but we are not family and this has never been my home. Be glad that it took me this long to admit that, or this house wouldn't be standing."
By now, Harry was heaving, his face flushing red from barely-contained rage. His magic was radiating outwards from his body, his fists shaking. Petunia was staring wide-eyed at him, visibly shaken at his outburst. She looked like she expected him to turn her into a teacup or vaporise her on the spot. And Harry might have if he thought she was worth the effort.
He took a few calming breaths, centring himself.
"I hate you," he continued, "and your family, for everything that you've done to me. But I don't want anyone else to die, so I'm gonna give you some advice. Run. Run as fast as you can and don't stop for anything. Not until you're out of the country and far away from here. And if you ever hear my name again, even in passing, you haven't run far enough."
Petunia Dursley stared at her nephew, her mouth twitching as if trying to think of how to insult him further, to turn his suffering back on him and paint herself as the victim. Nonesuch insults came. There were no words left to say. She had tried to diminish him his entire life, and yet here was, a fighter, a soldier, telling her right to her face to go to hell. She had no power over him anymore and therefore found this conversation pointless.
She marched out of the room, not even glancing at the boy as she left the house. Harry looked on, feeling a sense of victory at last. After all these years of her saying he had no place in this house, it was he who had banished her.
The goodbyes were minimal, from Petunia and Vernon both, who by now were just ready to leave. Dudley however, was not. He lumbered out of the car, walking up to Harry in a way so unlike himself. He was fidgeting, his eyes barely meeting his, his frame hunched over. He was nervous.
"Hey," Dudley awkwardly began. Harry stared at him, wondering where on Earth this was going. Dudley took a deep breath. "I don't think you're a waste of space."
Harry blinked, thoroughly surprised. Sure, it wasn't exactly Shakespeare but coming from Dudley it was almost… poetic. He was strangely touched by the gesture.
"Right," Harry nodded. Dudley nodded back.
"I- um… I've got this for you."
From out his pocket, Dudley pulled out a small envelope, the paper yellowed and crinkled with age. Harry looked at it, half-expecting expecting it to do a trick.
"What's this?"
Dudley didn't answer, except to push it at him, prompting Harry to accept it. Harry took the envelope and turned it over, recognising the handwriting immediately. It was Dumbledore's unmistakable scrawl, addressed to him.
Harry Potter
The Cupboard Under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive,
Little Whinging
Surrey
Harry read the address, again and again, studying the long-since dried ink. The Cupboard Under the Stairs. They knew, even then. They knew what Harry had been put through, what kind of life he was being forced to live and they let it happen.
"I stole it when I was younger," he heard Dudley explain. "I suppose I couldn't handle you having something I didn't. I never opened it. I couldn't, no matter what I tried. Probably some kind of magic. I thought it was about time I gave it back. Not that you need it, but you could have it as like a souvenir." He reached out his hand, which Harry hesitantly took in a handshake. "Sorry for being a terrible cousin."
It was like something out of a fever dream. Dudley had apologised to him, he was shaking his hand, he had given Harry a parting gift. And Harry was glad for it.
Maybe there was hope for the young man after all.
"Thanks, big D," Harry offered.
Dudley smiled an awkwardly but genuine smile.
Overall, Harry was glad to see the back end of the Dursleys car turning off at the end of the street, relieved that he would never have to talk to them again. However, at the same time, something in Dudley's genuine remorse resonated with him. Why? Why leave it until the very last moment to try and repair things? If Dudley really felt this way, why couldn't they have done this earlier? Hell, why couldn't it have been like this since the beginning? He could have had a real cousin and maybe a real family. It could have been so different, so much better.
He could have had a life worth living.
A few minutes later, having stared down the street for far too long, Harry walked silently back into the house. He had work to do. Now that the Dursleys were gone, Harry could finally go about fortifying the house for later that night. There were still many, many preparations he had yet to complete, and so little time left before the Order was due to arrive.
Without a second glance, he tossed his acceptance letter onto the kitchen counter, forgetting about it as he breached the back garden. And there it lay, forgotten, unloved, alone, just like the boy it had been addressed to, all those years ago.
Two hours later, the face of Hermione Granger appeared on the corner of Privet drive, her eyes raw from crying, her body hunched from exhaustion, physical and mental.
The journey had not been pleasant. Navigating the endless suburbs of Surrey was in itself a tedious task, even knowing Harry's address like the back of her hand. She had no broom to ride on, the Knight Bus had cut its routes (most likely yet another string pulled by the puppeteers at the Ministry) and she had yet to truly master apparition. However, here she was, and in good time. The rest of the Order was set to arrive at any moment now, and the escape from Privet Drive could commence.
However, there were other reasons why the lead-up to today had been a living nightmare for Hermione. Or rather one, far greater, more sorrowful reason that eclipsed her entire world. It had only occurred the night before. She had gone to bed crying that night and had woken up crying this morning. It was like a wound freshly-ripped into her heart, bleeding even now. The very briefest of recollections was enough to send her spirits plummeting into the ground.
It had to be done, Hermione told herself. It had to be done. Even if it was the worst thing she could ever imagine, what felt like the end of her world.
Despite all the people she knew would be willing to help her, to reach out and comfort her, to try and soothe the loss, Hermione couldn't help but feel so completely alone. She had no one now, except for Harry. He was her light in this, undoubtedly, one of her darkest days. He was the reason she was still going, why she going to continue fighting, no matter what.
Even now, she was wrapped in his precious invisibility cloak, a gift from his late father, now protecting her against anyone that might do her harm. Yet another reason why she trusted Harry so completely. He was willing to give up so much for her, even risk the last remnant of his parents for her personal safety.
Now, more than ever, she truly understood the significance of that gesture.
Hermione rapped on the door to Number 4, Privet Drive three times, determined to move one before she could dissolve once again. It didn't take long for the door to open, and for her to see the one face she had desperately been missing all summer.
"Hermione-"
Before he could barely get the word out, Hermione had flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around him as tightly as her muscles would allow.
"Woah," she heard Harry chuckle from above. "It's good to see you too"
But despite his remark, she felt a pair of strong arms wrap themselves around her, bringing her closer into his surprisingly padded chest. She would have to ask him about that.
Hermione leant back, smiling as best she could for him. Harry's smile wasn't quite as radiant, but it was genuine and strangely intimate. His eyes twinkled in a way that made her toes tingle.
"I've missed you so much," he breathed. Hermione nodded desperately.
"Me too. God, it's only been two months."
"Really? It's felt like forever to me. How does it go?" Harry gazed to the ceiling as if calling upon a divine muse. "'A moments break from your gaze is an eternity past'?"
It was enough to make her groan and whack his chest affectionately, once again surprised by the resistance that met even her meagre slap.
"Honestly, Harry," Hermione sighed, trying to fight the smile threatening to erupt on her face. Not even five minutes with him and already she felt the weight of the world slipping away. God, had she missed this. "Have you been working out, by the way?"
In a moment, his previous bluster slipped away. A distinct shade of red blossomed on his cheeks, one which Hermione loved to see.
"A bit," he shrugged. "I thought I'd best start getting fit if we're really doing this. Do you not like it?"
"No," Hermione said quickly. "No, I love it- I mean, I think it's good. It's a good idea. I should probably do the same, now that I think about it."
"You'll have time at the Burrow."
"You'll teach me?"
Harry smiled.
"I'll do my best."
She took a moment to feel his arms, her thumbs slowly caressing his muscles. They weren't anything on the level of a body-building, but they were certainly more than he had last time he saw her. Or perhaps he had simply become leaner, shedding what little puppy fat he had left. Even his face seemed slimmer, more mature, more jaded.
"They have been feeding you well," she asked, slightly embarrassed by her lack of tact but she needed to know the answer, "haven't they?"
"As much as they can be bothered," he replied. "But let's just say I've been prone to stealing my fair share."
"Good. As long as you haven't been starving."
"Nope. No more starving for me. Three courses, most days."
Hermione didn't entirely like that sentiment. No more starving. The implication that he had been starved before. Then again, given Harry's stature in previous years, assuming malnourishment could hardly be considered a stretch - luckily though, ever since attending Hogwarts, Harry was allowed to embrace his full appetite, which made up for those years. Now, Harry was well on track to be one of the tallest in her year, maybe even catching up to Ron at some point. (Which was simply not fair, might she add? She always already barely cresting his chin last time she saw him and now she was lucky if she could see over his shoulders!)
"Well don't you go turning into Arnold Schwarzenegger on me!" Hermione protested, poking him in the chest, to which Harry laughed. "I'm serious! Muscle mass is all very good but it burns through calories and is almost useless in a survival scenario."
"Come on, Hermione, let me have this. I almost have abs!"
"You don't need abs, Harry."
"Maybe, but I want them."
"Boys," Hermione sighed affectionately.
Without warning, Harry's wrapped his arms around her waist and hoisted her up into the air.
"Harry!"
The boy in question merely laughed up at her, a smug smile plastered on his face.
"Hmm, looks like muscle does come in useful."
"Put me down."
"Hey, Hermione, you're taller than me! At last!"
"I swear to god-"
His grip tightened on her hips as he slowly lowered her down, crouching until her feet met the carpet.
"I can't wait to do that more often. Could you see my house from up there?"
"Har, har, you're hilarious." Hermione brushed some invisible dust off her trousers. "Speaking of which…"
She finally took her first steps into the rest of the house, making her way into the now-empty living room, which had been stripped bare of possessions, leaving only the sofa and the rather horrendous wallpaper. And the sofa looked ready to give up the ghost. If she hadn't already seen the size of Harry's uncle and cousin from her fleeting glances at Kings Cross each year, she could probably gauge an accurate guess at their weight from how the frame of the sofa sagged from repeated use.
"Trust me," Harry spoke up from the hallway, "it didn't look much better when they lived here."
"It's not exactly the Gryffindor common room, is it?"
"No. Then again, I doubt a splash of red would make much of difference."
Hermione doubted that even the most ornate piece of furniture could make a difference. This was not a loved room. This was not a loved house.
That hardly boded well for the boy that lived in it for sixteen years.
"Hermione?" she heard him call to her. He must have noticed the way her shoulders had fallen, how she had begun rubbing her shoulder anxiously, glancing around forlornly. "Are you okay?"
Hermione took a moment to collect herself, making sure to stand taller, to enhance the facade.
"Yes, I'm fine."
And of course, he wasn't convinced. Even she wasn't convinced and she had said it. Oh, how she wanted to just tell him all that had happened to her, what was really tearing at her soul, but it was too much. He already had so many worries, so many regrets. Harry didn't need hers as well to weight him down. Not on the brink of war.
Her thoughts were shattered, when she felt his fingers gingerly brush against hers, prying her hand open and slotting his digits with hers.
"You can tell me these things, you know?" he whispered, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb.
"So can you," she whispered back.
"Mine would take too long."
"We've got time."
He smiled at her. Not a happy smile, not a sad one either. It was something like pride, like an apology. A 'thank you for caring', 'thank you for trying'. But no. he was still so guarded, more closed off than ever. Treading softly on glass. This place, this house, it was never his home. His prison, maybe, but never a home.
What Hermione wouldn't give to have taken him away from this place all those years ago…
It wasn't long after that Harry abruptly left her in the kitchen to check the wards around the house. He explained that he had been studying the enchantments on the perimeter of the property, trying to deduce what Dumbledore had done to secure the place, how much abuse they could withstand. Apparently, he had been reading up on blood wards, in between his other studies and his exercise.
It was after Harry had rushed up to the first floor, up to his bedroom for he called 'final checks', that Hermione finally noticed the object sitting in the corner of the kitchen counter. Relenting to her curiosity, she leaned across the surface and snatched it up, figuring it as some old bill that the Dursleys had decided to leave behind. To her immense surprise, it was nothing so mundane.
It was an old, crinkled envelope, the paper dry and yellowed with age. Not just any letter, in fact; Hermione would recognise the red, wax seal anywhere. It was a Hogwarts letter. This must have been Harry's acceptance letter, she reasoned, suddenly feeling a hint of nostalgia. Except, it hadn't been opened. Why was that, Hermione wondered. A spare? No, why would Hogwarts send a spare letter? Why would Harry even need a spare acceptance letter?
Hermione turned it over in her hands, briefly scanning the envelope's surface. It was so similar to hers, not that that was exactly a surprise, with the same green scrawl, the same lettering, the intricate calligraphy that made up the lettering. Except instead of her address and her name neatly written onto the parchment, it was Harry's.
Harry Potter
The Cupboard Under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive,
Little Whinging
Surrey
Hermione was about to put the letter down and forget about it when her brain finally registered what she had read. And then it screeched to a halt. Her fingers gripped the paper nil she was sure they would puncture through. She read the second line over and over again, her eyes begging her not to see the words for what they meant.
The Cupboard Under the Stairs… The Cupboard Under the Stairs… They couldn't have… Please tell me they didn't…
Her eyes were inexplicably drawn to the hallway leading out of the kitchen, to the space underneath the stairs. To the door that surely marked out a cupboard. Until that point, was sure that she would never be afraid of a door, but now there were very few things more terrifying than the idea of what lay behind it.
She shouldn't look. That would be a major invasion of his privacy, a line that he would never want her to cross.
But she had to know. She would never be able to sleep again unless she knew the truth. At least if she knew, she wouldn't have to spend the rest of her life wondering, agonising over the idea o Harry being to forced to live in…
Hermione checked her surroundings, carefully listening out. Footsteps, faint but pronounced, coming from above her. Harry was still upstairs. She had time to check, to put her fears to rest.
Hermione tiptoed towards the cupboard, making sure to not make a sound against the kitchen tiles. Every step felt like torture, and every instinct in her body was telling her to turn around and never look in the direction of that cupboard again. She ignored every one of them. This was for Harry. She had to know.
Hermione finally found herself in front of the cupboard door, the one with slits on its face like tiny prison bars, feeling more nervous than she any right to be. A few more footsteps from upstairs, unhurried as far she could tell. It sounded like he was pacing his room. Now was her chance.
She quietly unhooked the latch and opened the cupboard under the stairs.
A cloud of dust wafted from inside, beckoned by the rushing air of the opened door.
She didn't know what she had expected but this… wasn't it. It was just a cupboard. A dark, dingy, cramped cupboard, full of cleaning supplies and miscellaneous rubbish that might have had a use once. Nothing like the horrors her mind had conjured. It looks almost like the one she had at home. Hermione pictured trying to get inside and found it would have been a tight squeeze for even her. If a child were to sleep in here, it wouldn't be a comfortable night's rest. Even a toddler would find this space cramped. Hermione would certainly not want to live here, not with the cobwebs and the dust and the darkness. It was extraordinarily dark. She struggled to see the far corners - far being a generous use of the word considering it was barely deep than her elbow. Maybe that was why Harry had such terrible eyesight…
No, she thought. Why was she imagining such things? There was nothing here to say that Harry lived here, not the remnants of a bed or a mattress. Not even a blanket. Maybe she had misread the envelope. Maybe she had misunderstood. Oh, how she hoped this was all one big misunderstanding. Maybe with all that she been through over the past few days, she was just delirious.
In any case, Harry's footsteps were getting closer now. She should shut the door and make her way back to the kitchen before he noticed her.
Hermione was about to close the cupboard forever when the tips of her fingers felt the slightest mark on the inside of the door frame. She paused, suddenly intrigued. She pushed her fingertip around up and around, feeling out the rest of the frame, following the groove until she recognised the shape. It was a letter, definitely a letter. An 'H'… and after that an 'A'… and, to her growing horror, an 'R'.
Hermione's heart thundered in her chest. Her stomach twisted into an anxious knot. She could barely prompt her numb, trembling digits to feel the rest and so, with all the courage she had left, she leaned down and looked inside. Peering up at the faded paint on the inside edge of the cupboard door frame, she found the rest of the letters.
She barely read the two, clumsily carved words in time before her eyes flooded with tears. Before her, as clear as the cupboard was dark, scratched into the wood and the paint:
harrys room
Her whole world came crashing down, and Hermione had to force herself not to scream.
All this time… He had been hiding this from them all this time…
And now that she knew the truth, she started to notice more things that only served to push the knife further into her heart. The stone floor, that was freezing cold, even in Summer. The exposed pipes to the boiler that any child could have easily burnt themselves on if they weren't careful. The splintered wooden stairs that provided a ceiling, that Hermione dreaded to touch. The slits on the door, which she realised could be shut off, forcing him to live in complete darkness. They had kept her Harry - her loving, sweet, kind, brave, gorgeous Harry - in this awful abode, a space that looked more like a hole than a cupboard and the furthest thing from a bedroom than she could possibly imagine.
How long had this been going on? Surely- Surely they hadn't kept him here when he was a baby? Surely they hadn't been monstrous enough to shove a baby - their own nephew - into the dark for him to be forgotten about?
Her mind was assaulted with the image of a tiny, black-haired child, locked away in this dank, dusty old cupboard, crying for his mummy and daddy. Cries that would never be answered except maybe for the closing of slits, forcing him to cry in the dark. Maybe that was why Harry rarely ever asked for help. Maybe, after a while, he learned that it never amounted to anything, that no matter how much she screamed, no matter how loudly he cried, help would never come.
It was all too much. Tears were already rolling down Hermione's cheeks, but now she was fully sobbing, barely holding onto herself. She couldn't hide it anymore, so she didn't even try. There wasn't enough fortitude in the world that could keep her brave face intact. And that was only a glimpse. Harry had to live it, for as long as he could remember.
"Okay, that should be everything." Harry's voice echoed in the storm of her mind.
His footsteps were rapidly descending the staircase as he rattled off his mental notes. Hermione made no effort to move, to hide her crime. There was nothing she could do. She could only wait for the inevitable.
"I've got my stuff ready for when the Order gets here," he continued, completely unaware of the scene in front of him. "The Blood Wards are still good, though they probably won't last past midnight. Still, should give us time to…"
He paused, his footsteps frozen at the foot of the stairs. He had finally noticed her, kneeling in the hallways, her face surely a wreck from sobbing, shaking like a leaf in the wind. But still, his voice was calm, concerned.
"Hermione, what's wrong?"
Hermione stared at him from the corner of her eye, and she was bombarded with images again. Harry's face, younger, rounder, crying, in pain. Alone.
"Harry…" she could only gasp through her tears.
His eyes panned form her distraught face to the open cupboard door and the letter in her hands. She could tell the exact moment he put the pieces together. The exact millisecond that his walls came crumbling down. The colour drained from his face and he staggered like the bones in his legs had disappeared. His head was shaking violently.
"No…"
Whatever he was going to say deteriorated into short gasps of air, his chest began heaving in and out. His eyes darted around wildly, jumping at the slightest of shadows.
Hermione's own maelstrom of emotions died away in an instant, and her basest instinct, to protect Harry, shined into gear like clockwork. She could recognise the signs of what was coming and she needed to focus.
"Harry," she beckoned softly. Hermione stood carefully, akin to if Harry was a spooked foal. "I'm so sorry."
"It's not like that. It's not…"
His shaking breathe began to speed up, slowly racing out of control.
"It's okay," she whispered slowly. She reached out her hands, but Harry jumped away from her like she was made of fire.
"I'm not… I'm not…"
Despite Hermione's best attempts to approach him, Harry flinched from her touch, as if her hands were made of hot coal ready to burn him alive. It broke her heart to see him like this, so scared of the word around, so trapped in his own head that he didn't even recognise her. Whatever was happening to him now was merely the echoes what had happened before, and yet for him, it was the now. For him, it was entirely too real.
Communication was key, now. She had to get into his head, to drive him out of his nightmare before it swallowed him whole.
"Harry," she announced, soft but firm, pleading but authoritative, "please, let me hold you."
There was a hint of recognition in his eyes for a fraction of a second. Hermione took it as her cue. Hesitantly, ready to pull away at any moment, she moved her fingers into his own. Once she was sure he wouldn't rip his hands away again, she fastened her grip.
"Breathe for me," she whispered, mimicking long, deep breathes, just like they had practised. "It's okay. It's okay. It's not your fault."
His panic soon settled into shaking on the floor, no longer the manic scramble of nerves trying to escape his own body. The dust had settled, but the storm was still rumbling by, yet to break.
"I'm not…"
He tried desperately to speak, to force his mouth to coordinate with his brain and make sounds. Hermione waited patiently, still holding his hands in hers. He knew she wasn't going anywhere. Eventually, he managed a whimper, but she found the words like they were written into her eardrums.
"I'm not weak… I'm not weak…."
"No," Hermione said resolutely, "you're not. You're the strongest person in the world, Harry. You really are."
His green eyes found hers, suddenly looking so much younger than they were before. She knew she was looking directly into his soul now, a part of him that hadn't seen the light of day for a long, long time.
"I never wanted you to know."
Hermione nodded.
"Because you thought I'd see you differently." Channelling her iron will once again, she moved so that her arms were wrapped around his shoulders, pulling his body into her grasp. One of her hands gripped the material of his jacket, the other began stroking his hair, and as she did so, she felt his muscles slowly begin to relax. "Well, I don't. You're still my Harry. My gorgeous Harry. And you always will be. This isn't your fault. They don't get to decide who you are."
Despite how strong he always seemed to be, despite the burdens that he carried every day, despite his often aloof and distant demeanour, Hermione knew that Harry was anything but invincible. In the end, behind the facade he put up so masterfully, behind the titles and daring deeds, Harry was just a boy who wanted to be loved. There was a part of him still in that cupboard under the stairs, one that had yet to escape, and it was here in her arms that she truly saw it for the first time.
The boy in her arms, the one who whose head was resting against her chest, whose limbs were curled against his body, shaking as he sobbed into her jumper… this was what all those years of Privet Drive had done to him. This was the side of him that Harry had hidden away from even himself because that was what he was taught to do. That was the mindset that was forced upon him.
Now, however, in her arms, he knew he no longer needed to hide. Hermione had seen the worst parts of him already, as well as his best. And she judged him by neither.
They sat together for a while until the worst of it had passed, and Harry was able to speak once again. It was then that Hermione moved them to the living room sofa, preferring even the worn-out cushions to the thin carpet. Despite them changing locations, Harry had yet to move away from her. He still clinging to her, refusing to let go for anything.
"I'm sorry," he eventually said.
"Don't say that," Hermione cooed. "There's nothing to be sorry for. You know that."
"I know, but I still am. I can't help it."
Hermione that feeling all too well.
"I should…" She paused, swallowing a lump in her throat. "I should have never let you come back here. I should have kidnapped you at King's Cross."
To her delight, a chuckle erupted from Harry's chest and rubbed through their bodies.
"I would've liked that," he said with a melancholy smile. He sniffed, wiping his nose and taking a deep breath. "Though I'm not sure your parents would have agreed with you bringing a boy home."
Humour was always his first defence, Hermione noted. His walls were slowly building upwards again. The Harry she knew was starting to reappear, like leaves in Spring.
"Oh, they know all about you, Harry. I told them, repeatedly, about how much you mean to me. I wish you could have met them before…"
She stopped talking suddenly. No, she couldn't tell him what she had done, not now. That was not what he needed to hear. If he knew what had happened to her parents, that he had even the slightest part in her decision, it would only cause him more pain.
"Before what?" Harry asked, with worry that mirrored her own in so many ways. You can't tell him. He doesn't need that on his conscience.
"Before all this, I mean," she quickly said. "Before the war. We could've spent the summer together, one year. It would have been so much fun."
"Yeah," he nodded, but she could there was a part of him that wasn't entirely convinced. There was something in his eyes, the way they studied her face intently. "Are they safe, Hermione? Your parents? Please tell me they're safe."
The soft, caring tone of his voice made her want to spill all of her secrets to him right there and then. It would so easy for her to break down and tell him everything that she had been throughout these past few days. Oh, how she wanted to dissolve in his arms and hide from the world, just like what he had done with her. But now was not the time. Harry was hurting like her and one of them needed to be strong.
So Hermione shoved that pain down into herself for the time being and merely smiled at him, forcing the edges of her lips to reach her cheeks.
"They are. I promise you, they are."
But Harry was still conflicted, his face was proof enough of that. His eyes still searched her face, as if trying to memorise every detail. Her heart raced in her chest as she tried to remain composed. Hermione hated having to lie to him, but in some ways, she did so every day without him knowing. Removing herself from her own deepest desires, pretending t be content with holding him at an arm's length. She was closer to Harry than perhaps anyone else in the world, but even still she felt distant, compared to she really felt.
These past few months without him had been hell. Not knowing whether he was okay, not being able to see him, to talk to him face to face, to laugh with him, to hold him; it had felt her feeling exposed, akin to missing a limb. Harry was part of her now. Losing him was not an option, by any measure.
"Hermione," Harry spoke, bringing her attention back to his face. His features had grown dark, his eyes downtrodden. He looked almost ashamed. "Hermione, I haven't been honest with you.
"What do you mean?"
"I- I lied to everyone. You know about Dumbledore's plan to get me out of here, using Polyjuice potion. He told me about it before he died. I know you're going to pretend to be me, you and bunch of other people in the Order."
Hermione nodded, taking his hands in hers.
"It's safer that way."
"No, it's not," Harry shook his head, gripping her hands tightly. His entire body language changed in an instant. His once timid frame inflated, rising in his seat towering over her. His body sat stock still and rigid, in something like anger? Worry? No, determination, Hermione realised. There was fire behind his eyes, raging, not at her but from within. "I'm not going to let you put yourself on the line to protect me. People have been doing that since the day I was born and it stops today."
The conviction in his voice left her reeling in her seat. She had rarely seen Harry this steadfast before, the only other times had been just before diving headfirst into danger. That fact did little to calm her nerves
"Harry, what are you planning to do?"
To her dismay, Harry remained in his stubborn saviour mode, resorting his signature cheek in response to her genuine concern.
"Something insane," he shrugged. "Something that's going to protect you. All of you."
Hermione knew this was an act. She could tell that this sudden newfound confidence was surface-level. A facade, scaffolding on the ruins of himself. He was turning away again, resorting to what he knew. Falling back into old habits because that was all he knew.
"And what about you?" she asked, staring him in the eye as if trying to send her thoughts into his head. Or rather one in particular: talk to me. Tell me that I shouldn't be worried about what you're going to do.
There was a moment when the wind left his sails and he was left confused as if the thought of his own safety hadn't even crossed his mind. However, before she could ask further, there was a loud knock on the front door. Before they even opened it, they both knew who was on the other side.
The Order of the Phoenix had arrived.
Harry was the first to welcome them in, saying his hello's and greetings after so long away. His ecstatic reunion with Remus, and Tonks, was almost enough to set Hermione at ease, but at the moment she felt like she was walking on eggshells. She hated to think of Harry like this; like he was a ticking time bomb waiting to go off, but in some ways he was.
He had been left alone in this house for months, letting his pain and self-hatred build up in the back of his mind. Until now… now it had reached a boiling point. It had seeped under his skin and slowly wound him, affecting him in ways that were just hidden beneath the surface. None of the Order had noticed a thing, but Hermione saw it clear as day. The way that Harry held onto a hug for just a fraction longer, the way his face would drop when he sure no one could see it. But she saw it, every time. How could she not?
Hermione knew she had to tell someone, she couldn't in good conscience keep this to herself. So, she went to the one person who might understand as well as she did.
"Ron, something's wrong."
The teenager stared at her, jolted out of his reverie by her hushed, hurried voice.
"What?"
"With Harry," she clarified, dragging him off to the side. "He's been planning something and I don't think it's going to go well."
"Like what?" he asked.
"I don't know but it's about what's happening tonight. He's been going on about how he doesn't want anyone else dying for him and how he wants to keep us all safe. And there's something else…"
Ron, to his credit, glanced around, asking are no one else was listening in.
"What is it?"
"I can't say. It's Harry's secret. I only found out by accident."
"Is it to do with the…" He clumsily pointed at his forehead, glancing out of the corner of his eye to make sure Harry hadn't seen. Luckily he was still talking to Bill and Fleur to notice.
"No. It's bad but it's not like that."
"Well, I'm not gonna go asking about it," he said decisively, to which Hermione nodded.
"Good. Just keep an eye on him. I don't think he's well."
Ron's gaze returned once again to their friend across the room, who was still caught up in talking merrily with the Order.
"He looks fine," he noted sceptically. Hermione couldn't blame him for thinking so. Harry's facade was nearly perfect. Had she not spent the last hour comforting Harry through a breakdown, she too might have assumed he had gotten through his years with the Dursleys unscathed. But the mental scars of trauma were often like crevasses; the deepest and most dangerous were rarely plain to see.
"Most do," she replied solemnly. "It's his relatives, I know it is. This house, he despises it. And we forced him to live here for two months, on his own."
"I tried convincing mum to let him stay at the Burrow," Ron reasoned, "but she refused. Apparently, there are some wards around the house that makes it the safest place for him to be outside of Hogwarts."
"Blood wards," Hermione answered, "Harry told me about them. He's been studying them over the Summer."
She heard Ron sighed wearily.
"I did try, Hermione. I really did, but no one wants to go against Dumbledore's orders."
But Dumbledore's not here, Hermione thought to herself. He's gone. Harry, however…
Hermione thoughts halted in their tracks as she realised something. What if Harry thought the exact same thing? What if this was his way of taking it all upon himself, trying to step and be the next Dumbledore? To be the new leader of the light that the world supposedly needed him to be?
As if he has anything left to prove, the rational part of her brain decried, but then again Harry wasn't thinking rationally right now. This wasn't their Harry they were talking about. This was Harry's insecurities filling him up and moving him around like a machine. Whatever he had done was not the doing of a sound mind, and Hermione couldn't simply wait to see what that was.
She needed to tell Remus, as soon as possible. If there was anyone whom Harry would listen to, it was him. She only hoped that it wasn't too late to stop whatever Harry had planned, for their sakes and his.
'Something that's going to protect you. All of you.' Oh, Harry. What have you done?
