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.

...

8: Burning on a Pyre

When I woke up I was clutching the woollen hat and realised it was not a dream. I had danced on my bed in the dark and could not wash the smile off my face no matter how hard I tried.

But now that I am here, much too early, standing at the wide-open mouth of the Entrance Hall, I feel the churning of my gut and quake in my shoes, clutching my book bag for support. It takes me five minutes to stop worrying about how much I swing my arms or how stupid it was to wear nice clothes on a winter Sunday and peek around the corner. He is not there.

I breathe deep and sit at the table. I fidget. I never fidget. I pull out my Transfiguration text and try to read but take nothing in. Gloomy, barely awake students stumble in and stumble out and I am still sitting at the table, staring up at the sky. It is snowing, hard.

I can feel a pair of eyes on me and look up. Dumbledore, staring with his blue eyes enigmatic, nods to me and shakes his head and the smile that had been shadowing my face all morning turns into a frown. I bite my lip and look to my tightly clasped hands.

What if?

At half-eight the sun has fully risen behind the dark sky and I have been sitting at the table for one and a half hours without taking a bite, my lost mind turning hazy. Late risers stumble through the doors to take the last breakfast offerings, including Harry and Ron. They take one look at my fallen countenance and that is all I give them before I shoot up from my seat and tell them I am going to Hagrid's.

'Do your homework,' I snap as I pass, throwing a glance over my shoulder and catching my eye on Dumbledore, still watching me. His eyes are apologetic and it helps. There must be an explanation, I tell myself. There must.

Later, I plough through the snow to Hagrid's hut, bundled in all of my winter clothes and still shivering with the chill from the cold and the small breeze that brings with it a sense of foreboding. The ominous gust reminds me that Crookshanks kept jumping onto the bathroom bench when I was trying to tame my unruly bed-head hair. He was yowling and I had pet him and he did not stop, as if a warning of danger. He has always been my protector and who am I to doubt a kneazle? I had disregarded him as jealous, but now I am not so sure. Doubts spin in my mind.

Resolutely, I force my thoughts to why I am here: to save Hagrid from his ignorance. I lift my hand and knock as hard as I can on the frosty door with my gloved hand. They are so cold that every time my hand hits the wood, the force travels through the entirety of my stiff body and curls my frozen toes from the pain. But knock I must and knock I do.

I am awarded with silence. I knock until I can knock no more, scowl and sit down to read.

Soon I am so frozen my fingers can hardly unwrap themselves from clutching the covers to turn the page and I get up to walk but then the book is to heavy and I am sloshing around in snow sludge. Subconsciously, I know I want to be cold, as if for some sort of punishment. My school shoes are wet and clouds of white are my breath. My teeth chatter, my cheeks lose their rosy red with cold. I am blending into the snow.

Then I pull my wand from my cloak pocket and cast a warming charm with practiced ease over me. I am left with nothing but dread. I left the Hall with this feeling of dread. I sit down, shut my eyes and rub my forehead. My stomach is churning terribly and I cannot seem to stop frowning.

Something is wrong. Something is amiss.

I begin to read again, hoping to find a low-danger Beast more interesting than a Flobberworm in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Clabberts seem to hold the most promise as they detect danger but are not dangerous themselves – maybe they will sense Umbridge and allow us some warning. Maybe they will tell me what is happening to me. As I sigh and begin to prepare an argument about the benefits of such a Beast in the lesson, I have the strange feeling of being watched. I frown. I look up.

I turn my head too late.

My shriek is shrill and angry and I drop my book to the snow when icy snow sloshes down my back. Cold air whooshes through my bones and I jump around in the sludge, splashing my legs with water and clawing at my back. Fred and George howl with unrestrained laughter in the background, boisterous and rumbling from their chests in true amusement that brings tears to their eyes.

'Not now,' I snap. I open my book again, casting a drying charm that sprouts stream from the pages and cover, and begin to read without reading.

They stand silently for a minute, then one asks, 'What's wrong?'

I sigh, still staring at the book, and clutch its pages, biting my lip. 'He didn't come,.'

Their expressions immediately begin to cloud with their glowering, as if last night's news had broken once more. 'Bloody git,' they mumble under their breaths, and there is a subtle note of secret I think I can hear in their tone. Foreboding is in the sudden gust of wind. I do not want to be right.

I cross my arms and shiver, my teeth chattering excessively. 'You know something.'

They sit on either side of me, taking my hands and rubbing at each to warm them. 'You're looking lovely today.'

'Something you've done with your hair?'

I wretch their hands away and stand up to face them. 'Stop trying to distract me. What's going on? What was that look for?' They are silent, only able to glance hopelessly at each other or the snow on their boots rather than me. 'Well?'

'You're not going to like it—'

'Fred—'

'You don't need to know—'

'George—'

'Git's such a broad term—'

Desperately, I pull my wand from my cloak and point it at their stunned, anxious faces. 'Tell me!' I cry, and it is not my murderous glare that does it but the panic and sheer terror underlying its threatening promise. They know I know.

'Wood's gone.'

The words slicing the air are like a knife to my stomach: quick, sharp and painful. They hang, immobile, and drip with my blood. 'When?'

'Way before dawn.'

'Maybe Professor Umbridge—'

'No.'

I shake my head and lower my wand with the force of my trembles. I forget the cold and Hogwarts behind me. My head continues shaking rapidly as if it has a mind of its own. 'I was going to tell him I... Was it me? Did I send him away?

Instantly, the twins shoot up to envelop me in their arms, shaking their heads so the wool balls on the end of their beanies sway with each swing. 'Of course not,' they say.

I push them away again, hugging myself with my arms. 'But—'

'It's not, all right, you didn't. He's an idiot to leave you high and dry like that. Said he's got training, he was in a lot of trouble for something and he really had to go.'

'Well that's—'

'He's lying. Angelina told us he was no where near excited or pumped as he is supposed to be: she knew he was telling porkies.'

My hand flies to cover my mouth and I scramble further and further away from them until I begin to trip in the deep snow. I stare at the white ground, breathing short breaths, my whisper one of disbelief. 'What? How—'

'He's a coward who's done a runner.'

I have to avoid their eyes. I know if I look at them I will cry.

'Yeah, and after all the help we gave you too. We've never been wrong before.'

But I am unable to hold in a sob at Fred's words and George slaps his head. They approach me cautiously and he says, 'We'll gladly kill him for you Hermione. Zonko's've got a product that'll work.'

'No!'

'Hermi—'

'I said no!'

We stand, silent.

'Hagrid's here,' I mutter and hide behind my curtain of hair. My nod toward the gamekeeper is curt and diplomatic because I have thrown myself into the safe cocoon of working. If I cannot save myself I will save Hagrid. He waves as he comes out of the Forbidden Forest, his hair caked with snow. The twins stay silent, staring and worried, both reaching for me and protesting when I pull back. I pick up my book and bag and walk away.

The only thing I feel is ice.

-x-x-x-

'He really was at a game.'

'That's stupid,' Fred snaps, shaking his head. 'I can't believe you're going to meet him again.'

'He's a git. He is. You just wait.' George stabs his toast with his knife, flicking jam onto his cloak.

I shake my head, tucking loose hairs behind my ears. 'It was a misunderstanding.'

'Tosser.'

'Bloody jock.'

'For the love of— Look, he owled and said there was an emergency. It's a one off.'

The twins shake their heads again and stare glumly at their breakfasts. Harry peers at me across the table. 'I know you believe in second chances, Hermione. I do, too.'

I smile gratefully toward him. 'Thank you, Harry.'

'Just watch out for Ron. You know how he is.'

I can only nod.

-x-x-x-

The Three Broomsticks is busy as I sit down in the only available table, off to the side and facing the door. The chair scrape is lost in the chattering crowd.

I pull off my coat and brush my hair away from my face then clasp my hands and stare at the door. I fidget again and the déjà vu sends doubts into my head, reminding me of second chances and empathy that has not faded with the teenage angst that plagues so many. I try not to think of Harry yelling, of the twins' glowering and Ginny's and Ron's arguments. I try not to think of Oliver running to be a Gryffindor and the feel of him being much too close.

He is late. I pull at the three-quarter sleeves of my woollen polo-neck jumper and smooth down the winter skirt with my again shaking hands.

When Madam Rosmerta leaves, an owl flies in the open window and navigates through the crowd to sit at the seat where he should be. I look up and stare at it. My bottom lip begins to tremble because it is the same tawny that came before and this is not good news. My heart beats hard in my chest as he drops the letter from his beak onto the space where a second cup of tea should be.

I close my eyes while I open it, not wanting to see the truth. My tears fall from behind the closed eyes and I bring the letter to my mouth just before I drop the horrible words. My tears hit the parchment that he had touched, that he had wrote in to break my heart and crush my hopes again.

The ink wavers and smears and I cannot bear to touch the letter for more than a second. I fold it back up and hand it back to the bird without a written reply. It rubs its head against my shaking fist before launching into the air and disappearing from sight.

Madam Rosmerta watches me leave and sighs.

-x-x-x-

My imagination:

Oliver is coming from the field and filing into the locker room where a tawny owl waits for him with a letter in its beak. He grins to himself and rushes forward to snatch it from it, earning himself a hard bite that makes him swear and shoo the bird away. He opens up the letter and is confused when it is the same that he sent, no words of reply.

But words are not needed. His heart sinks and his hands shake. The boisterous joking behind him fades into obscurity. There are tearstains over sorry, a smudge of red lipstick kissing love and a crease across his name.

Oliver sits on the bench and ignores his new friend calling his name. He rubs his hand down his sweaty face and the heat from his aching muscles feels like the weight of her grief. His chance with her is gone for a career.

Will you meet me again?

He stares at the words he wrote and hates himself and his choices. He stares at her answer metaphorically screaming from every smear and sees himself set for a lonely future.

No. Goodbye.

-x-x-x-

'Hermione? Hermione!'

'What? I didn't mean— Blimey, she's barmy that one, absolutely barmy.'

'You bloody git. And we were actually going to call you brother. Don't worry, Harry, we'll get her.'

'Right— Ron, come back!'

'Git? Git?! You're the gits! He's a git! The git of gits!'

'Ron, just leave it, all right?'

…

'Hermione? We're sitting down.'

'N-No.'

'We're here anyway. You can't run from us now.'

'Ye—'

'No, you can't. We're sitting on your cloak.'

'In your hurry, you left your wand too.'

'Let me go!''

'Hermione, come on.'

'Fred, George. No.'

'Yes. Now—'

'—Let me go!'

'No. We're holding you captive on this very small boulder until you cry.'

'What?'

'You haven't cried since… you know. It's unnatural: girls always do. You're heartbroken.'

'Those buffoons back there are just too ignorant to know that you, amazingly, are a girl and that you're upset.'

'Harry's catching on though, George. Don't forget him. What's-her-name's constant crying might be an eye opener.'

'Cho.'

'There we go. Know everything don't you, except this: you have to let it out. Cry – do it, you know you want to.'

'But—'

'Hey, you, look at us. You can't keep burying yourself in your books like this: you'll be torn apart.'

'Your philosophy is foolish and illogical. I'll be fine! I am fine!'

'Do you actually expect us to believe that?'

'Your eyes must be burning by now.'

'Don't talk to me about burning!'

'See?'

'But... I'm fine.'

'Fine? Fine. If Wood won't make you sob your heart out, then maybe our piece of news will.'

'What is it?'

'We're, well, going away.'

'A-away?'

'Away. You can't tell anyone, but we wanted to see to it you would be okay before we left.'

'I'll- Where are you going?'

'We can't tell you. You'll find out soon enough.'

'W-why?'

'Same answer.'

'Don't look at us like that.'

'…Does Lee know?'

'No.'

'But… but why tell me?'

'Must we repeat…?'

'I— I— O-oh. George, Fred! You—'

'Good. That's better, that's right, let it out.'

'I'm s-sorry.'

'Don't worry, no one can see you. And we do so like our shirts wet.'

'W-why'd he—?'

'He's a git.'

'An idiot.'

'An absolute moron.'

'I—I don't know—'

'You don't have to, love. We've had our fair share of relationships, haven't we, George?'

'We certainly have, Fred, and if there's one thing in common between them it's that no one ever knows what's going on. It's all a guessing game. You don't know why you care, only that you do.'

'But it wasn't… it was… just—'

'Was. The past. Just let it out. Shh…'

'Let it all out.'

I wake with a lump in my throat. Once more, it is not the cold that causes me to tremble, nor the shock of warm tears that stream unbidden down my cheeks. My legs are again tangled in the blankets and I claw at them fruitlessly in an effort to escape.

Soon, I stumble blindly down the spiralling staircase and open the door to the common room with my hands shaking and the door creaking. The fire is lit and a small group sit in its warmth with blankets upon blankets wrapped around their shoulders and knees and their bodies close, as if conversing quietly about something secretive with each other. Once more, their heads shoot to me and their eyes plead me to stay.

Harry, Ron, Fred and George are silent, their hands suddenly fisted in the blankets. My plain, bleak shadow falls across the floor and reaches out to them, but I stay back with my tear stained cheeks and wild hair, afraid of my weakness, of how open and willing they are. I am supposed to be strong and independent, I know. Three red heads and one of raven black nod toward me, a call for me to let go.

A sob escapes my lips.

Will I run? Cowards always run.

And I do run.

I step softly, then heavily, then run to collapse into their combined embrace and I am immediately pulled closer. Someone strokes my hair as best they can, someone squeezes my shoulder. It must be the twins who kiss the inside of my wrists. I am lying against someone's chest, drowning my tears in blankets and smelling the scent of males that cannot be described in words. I am letting everything pour out like I have not since the twins' intervention.

I cling to them. They stayed, I remind myself joyously. They are consistent, they are reliable, and now I will never let them go because they are my boys, my loves and my life. Most of all, they are mine.

My possessions are not all here, though. The fifth, pseudo protector is making me cry. He is missing. Brown hair and woodland eyes are missing.

I cry harder into four boys: four out of five.

-x-x-x-

Comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading.

-AA-