Chapter three - Endure
He has screamed his throat raw. Blurry, dawn-grey shadows lie draped across the insides of the tent and the air has a bite to it, silently suggesting that it is still snowing outside.
Tick, tick, tick…
"Harry…" She is beside him, handing him his glasses.
He pulls himself to sit to the creaking complaints of the bed, and then rubs the back of his hand over his eyes before donning the glasses. The world spins into sharp lines and hard edges. The muscles in his neck feel tight and taut, and he is sore all over, as if he has been in a fight.
Worry has flooded her eyes and she is crouching at his bedside. "Are you OK? Were you dreaming again?"
When is he not?
"Yeah…" There is pain, too. In his chest. It is the old pain, dull and heavy, but with a twist: it feels more acute now as hopelessness and regret have blended with frustration. He shakes his head, trying to pull his tangled thoughts apart. Or maybe to push the bitter memories and the fear away. He shivers and wishes the blankets were twice as thick. "It was about Sirius… And when he… when he fell."
She bites her lip. "Harry… I wish you wouldn't let him in."
"Let him in? I was dreaming of Sirius."
"Yes, I know. It's just that…" She glances down, maybe afraid of meeting his gaze. "Maybe he's using that… Using Sirius to get to you… Did you ever consider that?"
He stares at her. "You think You-Know-Who is making me dream of Sirius?"
"Well… He's done it before, hasn't he? And they aren't any pleasant dreams either." She looks up, a pleading note in her voice now. "I mean, you don't dream of the good times you spent together. Of… of… you know."
That is the truth and it is futile to deny it, but Harry would rather take a thousand nightmares of Sirius' fall into the Veil over a thousand without him. That way, at least, it still feels as if his godfather is around.
"It is not You-Know-Who," he says, decisively. His fitful sleep has left him feeling like he is sitting in cold water.
"Oh, Harry, you can't be sure… What if he's… If using Sirius' death–"
"He's not dead."
She swallows, he can see it, and there is a line of tension-bordering-on-fear over her eyes.
Tick, tick, tick…
She gets to her feet. "I'll make some tea. I just… If he's using Sirius, Harry…"
The anger hits him like a curse. "He's not!" His voice cuts through the crisp air, almost seems to leave an ugly tear in it.
Tick, tick…
"He's not using Sirius!" Because Harry could not stand it if it were true. "You don't know what it's like, having to relive that day over and over again until you can never hope to forget it!" His throat is aching, but so also is his heart. "You don't know!"
Her cheeks are as white as the snow outside as she holds out her hand. He can see her speaking but he cannot quite make out the words because his own sudden anger is roaring in his ears.
Everybody keeps on dying!
Then she is up close, looking much like she wants to punch him, and everything stops.
Her voice comes drifting from a hundred miles away. "Give me the locket, Harry. You've had it all night."
He fumbles with the chain around his neck. The locket feels like a shard of ice pressed into his chest. It ticks and chirps as he lifts it off and hands it over to her, the tiny beating heart inside calling out to him. She nods and lets out a long breath. Then she puts it on. The gold glints tauntingly in the morning light before she slips it beneath her jumper.
Harry feels his shoulders sag. He is drained and he only just woke up. "I'm sorry, Hermione."
She shakes her head. "It's OK."
While she busies herself with tea and whatnot, Harry tugs the blankets around himself. He should probably be hungry, he knows, but what he really longs for is a hot bath. It seems to him not so long ago that his dreams left him filled with a purpose. He used to wake up a little bit afraid but also inspired to keep on fighting. In a way, his dreams left him stronger. These days, they mostly leave him exhausted and haunted.
"I know you miss him," she says, tentatively. She has wrapped her fingers around her mug for comfort.
Harry nods stiffly. He has nothing to say to that, really. Nothing that has not already been said.
"And I understand that…" She takes a sip of her tea and then deposits the mug on the table. "I mean, with him… gone…."
Tick, tick…
"He's not dead, Hermione," he tells her, sharply.
Something flashes in her eyes. "We don't know that!" Then she clamps her hand to her mouth and tears well up in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she mumbles, through her fingers. "I'm so sorry, Harry." She tears the locket off and tosses it onto the floor.
It lies there, glinting at them both. Tick, tick, tick….
"I hate it," she says.
She comes to sit beside him. Her lower lip is trembling. "I hate it," she whispers. Her brown eyes are so big and familiar, and they are not just shining with tears but with the anxiety that is no doubt mirrored in his own.
"Me too."
They sit for a while as the day brightens outside.
"We should move on," says Harry, at last.
Silence stretches again and it is a while before Hermione takes his hand. When he meets her gaze it is firm and steady. "We will do this," she says, quietly. "We'll defeat him, Harry, and then you can find out about Sirius."
He threads their fingers together. "I love you."
Her smile is fragile, but it's more than he has seen from her in days.
-xxx-
She still misses Ron terribly. She has mostly stopped crying and they do not talk about it but it is obvious. Harry misses Ron too even though he is still angry with him. They spend no more than two nights in a row in the same place, Apparating from hilltop to forest to field to (unfortunately) a muddy bog to the outskirts of small towns. A lot of the time they are hungry for the trips into any available shops or bakeries or barns must be accomplished in a hurry under Harry's Cloak, and Hermione always feels awful if she cannot leave at least some money behind.
Harry spends much of his time staring at the Marauder's Map. It makes him feel a bit better, watching familiar names move across the parchment. It sort of anchors him, attaches him to a world that is starting to feel very distant indeed. He watches as Ginny and Luna turn this corner or walk down that corridor. He wonders what Hogwarts is like now and if Ginny would have been safer at The Burrow. But probably not. Not if the Ministry is counting heads and keeping records, of Purebloods and Muggle-borns alike.
And he thinks about Sirius. He thinks so hard about Sirius that sometimes he wonders if his brain will simply break from it. He misses him so much that he, too, could easily spend a week crying. In fact, if it were not for this horrible mission Dumbledore saw fit to leave him with, he might be doing just that, right now. As Harry sits at the mouth of the tent, gazing out into the cold December night, he is almost ashamed that he misses Sirius more than he does Ron.
But Harry was never in love with Ron and Ron never died.
-xxx-
They were in the middle of another planning session. Hermione had come back earlier that afternoon, having spent several hours snooping around the Ministry entrance and taking notes. Now they were poring over their research in the basement kitchen, while Kreacher, draped in a pristine towel, hummed (rather tunelessly) to himself by the stove.
The silver streak of light had erupted into the air, just above their heads and made Hermione gasp. The weasel landed gracefully on top of one of Ron's hand-drawn maps and tipped his head to Harry. Mr Weasley's voice, somewhat hushed and rushed, seemed to burn itself into him.
'Stay where you are. Do nothing. Padfoot is alive. Stay where you are.'
The Patronus had disappeared almost before the last syllable had been uttered. It left them staring at the spot it had vacated and the silence that fell felt like a blow. Then all the noise in the world had invaded Harry's mind and he flew off his seat with his head ringing.
'You heard him!' He barely heard himself. 'DID YOU HEAR THAT?!'
The floor was wobbling, the walls coming down around him. Ron and Hermione were gaping at him. Harry backed away from the table with the air in his lungs clawing at him from the inside.
'You heard what he said!'
He saw Ron getting up, too, and he was saying something Harry could not make out. His blood was thundering through his veins: it was both better and worse than the pain that shot through his head every time his mind connected to Voldemort's.
'I have to see him!'
The door. He needed to get to the door. Or the fireplace. He needed to Floo somewhere… to Sirius.
'Harry!' Ron was beside him now, tearing at his arms. 'No!'
Hermione was standing up as well, looking absolutely horrified. Which was inexplicable because Sirius was alive.
He wrenched his arm free of Ron's grasp. He had his wand. He knew that because his knuckles were hurting from the grip he had on it. He needed to get out.
'HARRY!'
The light from the fire was dancing, burning upon the walls. He was nauseous and his scar prickled. Small lights flickered on the edges of his vision as strong arms wrapped around him from behind and pulled him from the fireplace. It hurt. Everything hurt.
Ron was dragging him backwards, shouting in his ear, making all that pain well up inside of Harry. His tears were scorching his cheeks, staining his glasses and Harry's throat was raw with screaming. Then it all came to an end as Hermione's Stunning Charm hit him square in the chest.
She had been crying when he came to and her endless stream of apologies nearly suffocated him.
That day, and the ones that followed, had been some of the worst days of Harry's life.
He wiggles his fingers and toes to coax some warmth into them. He still does not know how or what or why. He knows nothing as he sits and stares out into the night. If Sirius is alive – if it is true – he has made no effort to contact Harry, has sent him no sign, no nothing.
If he is still dead… If Harry manages to kill Voldemort only to come back and find out that Sirius is still dead then… Well, after everything, he is not sure he could survive that.
-xxx-
She drops her gaze to her hands in her lap. "We never talked about it…"
They have made camp on a hillside somewhere in the southwest of Scotland. There was a faint trace of the sea upon the air as they arrived mid-afternoon and since that was a bit of a change they decided to stay.
When she looks up again, she almost looks nervous. "You and me, I mean. I never asked you… what it was like or… Well, what happened, really."
They are in the same bunk bed, sharing a few biscuits Harry successfully pilfered from a small café the day before yesterday. Maybe it was the scent of the sea on the icy wind that lifted their moods enough to decide that it would do them good to leave the locket on the table for an hour or two. It lies beside the Sneakoscope now, gold, glittering and disturbingly alive.
Harry turns his eyes from it and shakes his head. "I'm not sure I know what happened," he admits. "It just did."
"But…" She is trying to choose her words very carefully. In the end, however, she apparently cannot think of a way to frame her thoughts, so she falls silent again.
He thinks back, forces his mind to go places he mostly tries to avoid. "I…" He takes a deep breath. "I just fell in love with him, Hermione."
She nods slowly. "When we went to Grimmauld Place for Christmas... You were so happy to see Sirius." She smiles, softly. "You spent so much time together. And he was really happy, too, do you remember?"
"Yeah…" Harry also finds a smile. It feels odd. "He decorated the entire house."
"He was thrilled to have you there."
His smile transforms into a wry grin. It must be ages since he grinned. "Thrilled."
"What did happen, Harry?"
He cannot help it. "Well… Considering I was fifteen, I'm sure it was illegal."
Her snort is half-laughter, half-shock, but her brown eyes are intent on him now and they narrow in suspicion. "It was you, wasn't it? It wasn't Sirius who instigated it?"
He tries to keep a straight face but fails miserably. "Perhaps…"
She gapes at him. "Harry! That must have been an awful position for Sirius to be put in. You're horrid!"
"Well, he could have said no!"
"Sirius Black denying you anything you wanted?" She raises an eyebrow. "You know he would never do that. Poor Sirius."
And suddenly they are laughing. Laughing over the biscuits and the tea and into the cool night and this awful winter.
"What was it like, then?" she finally asks, after she has wiped her eyes on her sleeve.
Harry is warmer now – from laughing, from remembering those days when everything was bright and shining. The tent seems cosier and the air softer. He runs the pad of his index finger along the length of his wand where it lies beside him on the bed. "It was… overwhelming. Amazing."
She nods. There is a rosy hue now, to her cheeks. "I never…" She glances towards Ron's empty bed and the colour in her cheeks deepens. "I mean, we never…"
"No… I figured."
They fall silent after that. Outside, far off in the distance, an owl hoots.
TBC