Animus: Quest for a Brave Heart

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling earns her credit. This is hers, scene manipulation is mine.

'The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise.' -- Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra.

...

7: Renewal

Ginny finds me in the library half an hour later staring at the photo of my love. I quickly hide it. She asks what is wrong and I will not tell her, but I think she knows, so I know it does not matter. Then her eyes light up and she cries, 'Ron's back. Guess who he was with, go on: guess.'

I simply shrug.

'Luna! I found Ron with Luna!'

Another couple. Harry and Cho. Ron and Luna. Hermione and no one. I know she is trying to cheer me up so I smile and listen to her gossip of how she found Ron in the change rooms with his hands lost in Luna's light, long hair. She left them together alone, she says, a twinkle in her eye. We leave for the common room.

I look out at the distant Quidditch Pitch as we walk down one of the silent, deserted corridors before the staircases. The window frames a dot that is someone flying around the Pitch in fast figure-eights that would have them cold to their bones. I feel a pang of guilt, that same pang like a rock in my stomach, the air rushing passed as I break away from Ginny, leaving her hollering my name, and run down, down, down toward the base of the castle. Running close to the Whomping Willow, I stop to look up. I watch his loops. I know he is angry and trying to channel it the way men do. He knows, he returns my affections. I know I should not have been scared. I know I should have been brave. I know my actions were entirely irrational.

He does not see me.

I slide down to kneel on the wet ground with my legs bent at odd angles and beginning to prickle. I remember his breath on my cheek, the warmth he brought. I remember the brazen whisper and my warm, sudden desire from his kiss. I feel so frozen now. I feel like the ice on the ground has broken into my bloodstream and turned me cold. I tug my hair, once, twice, a desperate third, but it is still not the same.

Only when my head falls into my hands do I cry.

-x-x-x-

Fred comes for me later. He had started searching when Ginny came back without me, her mission of retrieval failed. He does not sit down beside me or allow me to hide my tears. He offers his hand until I take it and immediately pulls me up and then my frozen body is hauled into his arms like a child and I cry onto his shoulder while he carries me back to the castle and through shadowy corridors.

'I feel like I'm in Third Year,' I sob. 'What's wrong with me?'

'Nothing wrong with you, nothing at all. We'll make a plan, Hermione,' he promises, trying to rub warmth into my arms. 'Don't worry. We'll set off some Wheezebangs in your honour.'

I whisper, 'I'm sorry, Fred.'

'I'm George.'

'Oh.'

He jostles me. 'I'm Fred! Really, Hermione!' and I have to laugh because they play this trick so much and it never gets old. He grins too, but it fades when he says, 'George isn't back yet, neither is Harry.'

'Are you worried?' I ask, worried about him as well. I breathe in. He still smells of sweat, and then I ache.

'Yeah. But it's McGonagall, innit?' he says as we reach the second floor. 'She's all right.'

'Are you sure?'

'No.'

I sigh. 'Fred, let me down. Please.'

'I can still carry you.'

'I'm brave enough to walk.'

Fred nods and lets me drop. My scarf trails across the ground as we trudge up the stairs.

I remember my earlier thoughts. No one can bear not knowing. For some, it is knowing they cannot bear.

-x-x-x-

Much later in the evening, after Harry and Ron have disappeared to bed, I sit by the fire, a blanket on my legs with parchment on my knee and my quill in my hand. It remains blank and empty, like a white, featureless mask of failure. The Snitch Harry caught is still flying around the room and I try to follow it with my eyes but keep losing sight.

I hear a creak and look to see the door to the boys' dormitory opens and the twins shuffle in. I do not know what to say, so I say nothing as they lift up the blanket, put it over them equally as much as it will go and slump down on either side of me. Their heavy heads fall onto my shoulders and I close my eyes in anguish when their breathing becomes shaky. I hold their hands in mine and rub them with the back of my thumb while their tears drip onto my neck. Their grasp is the desperation of men who are drowning. Nothing has ever frightened me so much as seeing, feeling and hearing the Weasley twins cry and not laugh or smile or joke. Their sobbing pulls at my heartstrings and suddenly my own breath is shaky and hot tears prick at my eyes until I am crying too. Our shoulders shake together and mine heave with them in disjointed symphony. Our eyes are squeezed shut in a vain attempt to stop crying so the others might too and the parchment is soaked with tears when I begin to whisper, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Fred and George.'

Fred nods while George squeezes my hand and both wrap their arm around my midsection in a hug that I should be giving them, so I cry harder still because I feel so awfully useless. They sit up and reach to wipe away my tears while I do the same to them.

I blearily stare at two boys in my arms with me in their arms too. 'What are we doing?'

'We're laughing on the wrong side of our face.'

Then they both stop and begin to laugh the laughter on the right side of their faces, though it seems somehow an in-between sort of side. Their laugh is different to what it usually is: much more broken and quiet, and it is a laugh that makes me question how well they are handling this.

Their bodies are warm and their laughing is contagious so soon I am smiling too and hugging them both as they hug me. Then George sits up and gets out his wand, waving and whispering a spell until, on the coffee table, appear three bottles of Butterbeer and three small chocolate cakes.

'You're paying us back with your intellectual services,' Fred whispers, not quite grinning.

'We wanted to go to Honeydukes like we usually do, but flying's too obvious, the passage too cold.' George's smile slips slowly from his face. 'Honeydukes' closed early, anyway. They like to drink in the cellar.'

I reach to place my hands on their trembling shoulders and their expressions brighten too quickly for me to believe their glee is genuine. Fred shrugs. 'Smuggled these from Jaala at the Kitchens, right from under Umbridge's nose early this morning. They're his best and a part of our daring feat in preparation for your little bargain.'

I flick my eyes to each brother, frowning as the trademark grins fade again. 'What are we celebrating?'

'Well it's definitely not the ban, is it?' mutters Fred, nodding to George's cut lip. Dark falls over their expressions, their glowering back. I squeeze their shoulders. I know their impassive expressions to be masks, like the parchment now stained with grief. 'Quidditch is our attachment here… and she took that away…' Fred heaves a shuddering breath and I reach around with my arm along the back of the couch in a half hug to stroke the hair on the back of his neck, running my fingertips through it, attempting to offer understanding and comfort. Fred leans his face into the crook of my neck.

'I wanted to hurt her,' I say. I turn slightly and see nothing revealed on George's face. I hold his hand, letting him hold it firmly. 'We, Harry, Ron and I, went to Hagrid's cabin and she came, arriving on his doorstep like she thinks she's royalty. He doesn't understand how easily she can remove him from the school. But more than that, neither the two of you nor Harry deserved that ban. And for life!' I spit, bitterness fuelling rage that bubbles within me. Fred lifts his head and looks into my burning eyes.

'It's all right, Hermione. We never wanted to play Quidditch… for life, I mean, did we George?' George shakes his head and leans against my shoulder. 'No. We're bloody angry that she's cut our time short, and Harry's, but now we can focus on setting up our business and the DA.'

'And we still won, right? Even if it doesn't feel like it,' George says as Fred moves and reaches over to the drinks to hand the bottles around. We shuffle under the blanket, sitting close and upright. 'That's reason enough, I think.'

I take the lid off mine and tell them, 'There's something you've forgotten.'

'What's that?'

'You're not in it alone. All of us are behind you, the team, your entire family, Lee, Oliver, the whole of Gryffindor even.' I reach over and kiss both of their salty cheeks, holding a hand on their shoulders for support, their warmth flowing into my skin. I smile. 'Me. You can be brave enough to take it yourselves, but you don't have to.'

For the first time this night, their grins are true. 'We'll drink to that,' George says.

I smile broadly and, fighting the lumps in our throats, we hold up our bottles by their necks. 'Cheers, Hermione,' they chorus.

'Cheers, Fred and George,' I say. 'Here's to you.'

-x-x-x-

The photo – the reminder of the time my love was first born – is under my pillow and I dream.

It is night, much like tonight. I hold my wand aloft and my Prefect badge flashes in its light: this is me, patrolling the doors to the outside. Portraits snore and groan and my feet are tired from the excitement of the day, the running, the heartache, the slow burn of desire and regret.

Then a side door creaks as it opens and I whirl on the intruder, slamming into them, hearing a muffled, 'Hi, sorry.' I almost dock the points automatically before I stop and realise that points lost will be because of idiocy rather than a student. Oliver is not a student.

I am too young to feel such excitement pooling in my belly, but I do and it feels illicit. He looks like he only just came in from the snow. Frozen in time, his cloak is scattered with flakes, his lips are blue and his eyes clouded. His skin is both pale and flushed. He blinks and the world resumes.

'Hermione,' he breathes, stepping back outside. I take a step back too, staring at him from the shadows. His brown eyes are now clear and too alert for this time of night.

'Oliver.'

'I'm sorry,' we say together, pause uncertainly and laugh. I lower my wand and our faces disappear so I am talking to only sound and hiding my quickly flushing face. 'You go first.' Both of our voices are hushed. They tremble at the same rate.

Oliver reaches forward and places a hand on the door frame, near to my shoulder. 'About before…'

'It's my fault,' I say, ducking my head so I will not look at his blue mouth. 'I should have… Do you want to come inside, already?' I reach over and grasp his hand, hissing at the touch. 'God, you're as cold as ice.'

He allows me to tug him further into the castle, his face a mess of expression that I cannot begin to comprehend. His hand is still cold and I unconsciously rub my finger over it until he interlaces our fingers and I realise with a start what I was doing. We trudge on.

'Where are we going?' he asks softly.

I watch the bobbing wand light. 'My shift's over. Somewhere where it's warmer.'

'My room,' he says. I stop and he barrels into me, then curses under his breath. 'That sounded better in my head.'

'It's okay.'

He shakes his head and lights his own wand. 'You're something else,' is all he says and tugs me with him, our hands still joined.

We close doors quietly and walk up flights of changing staircases. The portraits we pass groan in their sleep in the wand light and I can hardly care less. He is holding my hand. Now his hand is warm in mine, calloused fingers locked with my ink-stained pointers and every slipping movement sending tingles through my nerves.

I almost bump into him when we arrive at a portrait I have passed before, somewhere on the fifth floor, of an elderly wizard dressed in burgundy and wearing horn-rimmed glasses reading a thin book. The wizard looks up and says, 'No visitors, boy, especially this late at night.'

'Well, goodbye,' I mumble and I start to turn away when he refuses to drop my hand and pulls me back. I almost tread on his feet in my surprised stumble. 'What is it?'

Oliver fishes through his coat pockets one-handed until he produces a little knitted house-elf hat I had made a few days ago. 'I think you might have dropped this. Kind of cute,' he says, grinning.

I blush to the roots of my hair, smiling all the same, and snatch it back, holding it in my hand for a lucky charm. 'Thanks.'

'Breakfast tomorrow?' he asks suddenly. He pauses, frowns and looks at me again. 'With me, I mean… if you want.'

I smile a giddy, stupid grin that blooms across my face in an instant at his words. 'Yes. I would like that.' He smiles too and taps his chin, pointing at me.

'You're something else,' he says again. He rubs his thumb across my skin.

I swallow and stare at him through my lashes, my intellectualism screaming about the hypocrisy of the instinctive action. 'Is that a good thing?'

'You've got no idea.'

'I don't.' He steps closer and my voice drops to a whisper. 'I really don't.'

'Trust me. It's a good thing.' God, he's so close I can hardly think straight. 'Bloody fantastic.'

He kisses me softly on the cheek, a slight graze from stubble scratching my blushing skin. I close my eyes and love how he lingers and open them when he lets go of my hand to find him disappearing. Before the portrait closes he turns, his face troubled and earnest. 'I'll be there,' he promises.

I nod. My cheek is burning and I watch him from cloud nine. 'And I'll be waiting.'

Then in the dark I decide I am finished thinking on the one thought that flies through my head:

Our love is reborn.

-x-x-x-

Comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading.

-AA-