Chapter XXXVI: To the Cold

Harry woke the final morning a troubled boy. The thrill and potion induced drowsiness had worn off to leave a dull ache and sullen sadness full of apprehension. It was the day they were due to board the Hogwarts Express back to London. The train back to… what exactly? He had, on Hermione's advice, asked McGonagall about accommodations but got nothing more than "I will look into it."

She had yet to get back to him, and time was very rapidly running out, so he rose good and early to track her down as she made her way to breakfast.

"Professor McGonagall," he called when he caught sight of her unmistakeable hat bobbing through the corridor.

She stopped in her tracks and allowed him to catch up.

"Mr Potter, what can I do for you today?"

"I was wondering if you had any success on my" - he hesitated as he took note of several students being within earshot - "summer issue."

"Ah, yes," she said gravely, whipping her wand out and casting a silencing charm over them both. "I am afraid to say the only direct solution I could possibly have provided would have been to offer the use of my own spare bedroom. Much as I would be happy to do so, there are strict rules pertaining to teacher-student relations which forbid such a thing excepting the most dire of circumstance."
"So you can't help," Harry sulked, unsurprised at his luck.

"I did not say that, Mr Potter," she corrected, drawing an envelope from her inside pocket and handing it to him. "Should you find, by sundown, that you have no roof over your head, open that envelope and follow the instructions therein. I must stress you should only do so as a last resort, but in such an eventuality do not hesitate."

"I, that's, thank you?" Harry spluttered, having no clue what she had actually done for him.

"I do hope you shall not come to need it. Now, to breakfast?"

Harry accepted the dismissal graciously, if only because the professor had the look of a woman in serious need of coffee. He supposed he wasn't the only student who would be availing on her at the last minute, on top of whatever duties she had to perform to bring the school year to an orderly end.

Tucking the envelope safely away, he walked with her to the hall - or rather, they walked the next twenty yards together before an older Gryffindor intercepted her to ask about some missing property, and she waved him on.

Hermione had woken up with tears on her face, and little recollection of how they got there other than 'a bad dream'. Unlike all the nights she had nightmares about Penelope - fortunately lessening in frequency but equally horrid every time - she was not covered in sweat, nor was her pulse racing and her breathing laboured; she was simply sad. It wasn't a sharp sort of sadness though, more a numbness nestling in her soul, a sense that something was deeply wrong within her. It followed her like a shadow throughout the morning, flirting with whatever stormcloud was over Harry's head to create a sullen breakfast experience during which she could barely stomach a thing.

She packed a couple of slices of toast for later, knowing the length of the train ride ahead, but there was an odd distance to the action; like she was thinking of someone else's comfort, not her own. Like future Hermione was an entirely different person, with needs and desires, whereas present Hermione merely went through the motions. She bumped into several people and things she thought she would typically have avoided, but hardly minded as the pain of a bruised hip helped her to focus and put up a front of being normal.

Her mind wandered as directionless as her feet, but there was a pattern to its meandering; through every twist and turn and rabbit hole it always came back to Gilderoy Lockhart. The man she had killed.

She still didn't regret that. He had made his bed; dug his own grave. Veritaserum wasn't needed to assure her what she had said to madam Bones was the truth, but that wasn't where her mind kept getting hung up.

The problem lay in the things she didn't say. The problem lay in her opinion not of the man, nor her actions against him, but in her own emotional response thereto. Or rather, the stark lack of one. She had killed a man, and felt nothing. All the books she had read on mental health, and the countless hours spent on a therapists couch trying to explain her feelings without using the words 'magic' or 'troll', told her she was supposed to react differently. People were supposed to overreact to traumatic experience. Soldiers, hard men trained for the purpose, would often vomit after their first kill, or crumble under the weight of the guilt they felt for surviving when their brothers did not.

Survivors guilt she could understand; that she got. In some of her dreams she was the one to find herself crushed in the serpent's jaws, and those were the least painful, as it meant Penelope was the one to get away. So, she knew she still felt; she knew her empathy wasn't somehow broken by trauma, turned off entirely as an automatic coping mechanism. In the immediate aftermath she had chalked her disconnection up to shock, expecting any moment for it all to hit her like a freight train. But the the train never came; there must have been leaves on the track somewhere.

With Lockhart there was only an emptiness; a maddening abyss she shuddered to behold, for fear of what it may see in her. She didn't even feel anger towards the man anymore. Anger was pointless; he was dead. He had been a problem, and she had removed that problem. Without hesitation, or mercy, or remorse. What sort of person can kill without feeling something?

Her legal defence was clear: She had understandably overreacted, made a snap decision in the heat of the moment, when her heart was pounding too hard, her blood too thick with adrenaline, for her to possibly be expected to think straight. She was an innocent little girl thrown in way beyond her depth, and the guilt she would carry with her was lesson enough, punishment enough should punishment be due.

The untold truth was equally clear to her: She was a cold-blooded killer, justified or not.

And Dumbledore had rewarded her for it. Her name was engraved on a plaque in the school trophy room. 'Services to the school' - they might as well have had Lockhart's head stuffed and mounted on the wall. At least Bones had sensed something was off. Hermione still didn't know who Bellatrix was, nor where to look to find out, but she thought she would not like what she found when she did.

More specifically, because apparently it had begun to matter, she thought she wouldn't be supposed to like what she found. Whether or not she would; whether or not she would feel anything about the revelation…

She hated that the truth was she simply didn't know. She didn't know who Hermione Granger was any more. Two years ago she had been a quiet, bookish girl with a future in academia. But now...? She was almost glad to be blind, because that was a simpler sort of pain than the idea of not recognising oneself in the mirror. Of looking into your own eyes, and seeing a stranger staring back.

She hated that instead of spiralling her into a panic attack, like a normal, well-adjusted person, her dark thoughts drew her into a hollow, lifeless giggle.

Harry's morning passed in a storm of activity through which he sedately drifted, having had an early start and little to pack. The minutes blended together, the crowds bore him along, and before he knew it he was on the train as it rumbled out of Hogsmeade station. Sharing a cabin with Hermione, Luna, Neville, the twins and Lee Jordan, he came back to the world when Neville asked him a question he didn't catch.

"Sorry, what did you say Neville?"

"What're you doing this summer? Gran's got me booked in for a whole bunch of tutoring to catch up on what I missed, and raise my grades in general I guess," he moped.

"This summer? I, uh, don't really know. Honestly, I'm not sure where I'll be at all."

Everyone in the compartment looked a little put off by his statement, or the tone of it, except Hermione; she was engrossed in reading, apparently so engrossed she wasn't even multitasking the conversation like usual. Whatever she was reading must be good; she was softly giggling to herself.

"What d'you mean by that, Harrikins?" Luna asked sweetly, prompting Harry to wonder if the girl wasn't spending too much time with the twins.

"Oh, well, it's just that I… Uh… I don't have a home to go to."

"You what?" Lee and the twins chorused.

"I'm probably going to be renting a room in the Leaky all summer, assuming that's allowed."

"Bloomin' heck, Harry, you should've said earlier," Fred gasped.

"We'll have a word with mum, you can visit the burrow whenever," George asserted.

"Yeah, just have to put up with more food than you can physically stomach-"

"-our fangirl of a sister trying to sneak you smooches-"

"and Percy being the mopiest git in the world."

"George! Your brother lost his girlfriend, have some decency!" Hermione chided, viciously, though never leaving her reading.

The twin Harry had assumed was Fred looked suitably chastened, but defended himself with, "hey, he was mopey before that, is all I meant. And how'd you know I'm George?"

"Your voice is higher," she grumbled.

"Hear that, brother of mine?" the real Fred sang. "Hermione Granger, smartest witch we know, reckons your balls haven't dropped."

"I did not say that," she said, aghast.

"I think we're getting of topic here," George complained, "so, Harry, our place sometime, what d'you reckon?"

"I'll uh, let you know," he said, thinking about living under the same roof as doe-eyed, face assaulting Ginny Weasley and wondering if the Leaky wasn't the better option.

"Brill," they echoed.

The conversation died, unsurprisingly, after that until Harry plucked up the courage to pick it up again.

"Hermione."

She didn't respond, pointedly fixated back onto her reading, but now Harry knew she wasn't entirely tuned out.

"Hermione."

"Hmm, yes?" she said with a jump.

"Did you ever have any ideas about summer?"

"Oh, uh, I've got something in the works, Harry. But it involves my parents; when we're at the station I can talk to them and let you know."

That was news to him.

"Huh. You never said…"

"Had a lot on my mind recently," she muttered darkly.

Harry took the hint and left it at that. He let the vague hope lift his spirits for a while, but in truth it was too vague and too quickly dismissed, like it had little chance of coming to anything, and so his mood fell once more. The atmosphere in the cabin stayed positive - how could it not with the twins in attendance - but Harry separated himself from it. It was easier to simply exist below it all, to disappear into the background and be alone with his thoughts.

The saying 'misery loves company' was not one Harry resonated with. His misery loved to shut itself away in a dark cupboard and brood. His misery liked to clamp his lips together, turn his eyes out the window, and sulk about how all the towns and fields they passed were no doubt chock-full of people and livestock happier than him. It wasn't an enjoyable way to pass a several hour journey, but the time passed all the same, as uncaring for his plight as the world it turned in.

At Kings Cross he forgot his case on the train, and was turning back for it at the door when Hermione bumped into him, carrying his along with her own. She looked in better spirits than earlier, which he supposed was good for her.

"Harry? I got your suitcase," she spluttered.

"Oh, thanks," he grumbled, annoyed to have been such an idiot.

"It was no trouble," she said, even as she struggled under its weight until he took it off her. "Now, help me find my parents won't you? They'll be on the muggle side. Or do you need to say goodbye to anyone first?"

Harry did have several people he should bid farewell, having spent the day too moody to bother, or in Ginny's case actively avoiding them until the last minute.

"No, all good, come on," he said.

He led her through the crowd, those who saw him coming stepping hastily aside and those who didn't being moved without apology. They were among the first out through the barrier; the open space and breathable air was a blessed relief. He spotted Hermione's parents a mile off; she had clearly inherited her mother's hair and her father's jawline, though her mother had it rather more under control. He wondered whether she had inherited her mother's blue eyes or father's brown, before… whatever it was that had happened to her.

He realised he was staring, but then they were staring back so whatever. Also they were one of very few groups of people looking directly at a brick wall muggles' eyes would pass right over if they didn't know better. Also they were coming right over, grinning at him and Hermione. He really hoped they were her parents, else there was about to be an abduction in broad daylight.

Wherever they'd abduct me to, it'd still be better than going back to the Dursleys, Harry mused bitterly.

"Hermione, sweetie, there you are!" her mother joyously cried, gathering her daughter into a crushing hug so sickeningly intimate Harry cringed in second hand embarrassment.

Thankfully her father only held out a hand to greet Harry, very formally, which helped Harry get over himself and accept it. Briefly.

"You must be Harry, then," he said with a warm smile.

"Um, yes sir, how did you-" know?

Mr Granger tapped a finger to his forehead with a sympathetic smirk and explained, "it is quite the giveaway."

Mrs Granger finished suffocating her daughter and turned to Harry, arms open and moving forward for a moment before she caught herself and awkwardly dropped her hands to her sides, hug mercifully aborted. Hermione must have told her not to, which was thoughtful. Harry shot her a sheepish smile by way of thanks.

"Right, to the car I suppose," Mr Granger declared. "Did you want to walk with us Harry?"

He had quite a commanding tone, and Harry had nothing better to do, so he agreed. He thought about asking for a lift to the Leaky, or somewhere vaguely nearby, or even just directions, but Hermione was suddenly being bombarded with questions about her schoolyear and he lacked the confidence to interrupt. She was doing a much better job avoiding any heavy topics than he would have.

At their car - a much newer and more expensive looking model than Vernon's pride and joy - Hermione's parents turned to Harry as she hefted her case into the boot. He wasn't sure how to say goodbye to a friend's parents he'd only just met, but Mr Granger took the lead.

"Come on then lad, let's have your suitcase."

"Sir?"

Mr Granger, for some reason, took Harry's suitcase and loaded it into the back of his car.

"What? What's going on?" Harry asked - he hadn't asked for that lift and forgotten already, had he?

"Ah. Harry," Hermione said cautiously, "do you remember at Christmas, how you surprised me? And how I promised I'd back get you back?"

"Yes…"

He'd actually forgotten that little promise, but the memory came back easily enough.

"And then, how you told me you had nowhere to stay this summer? And I said I'd help you with that?

Mrs Granger was smirking, and Harry wasn't so sure he liked that.

"Yeah, I tried asking you on the train…"

"Yes, and I told you there was something in the works - and never outright told you I wasn't able to arrange for you to visit?"

He hadn't realised until then, or otherwise forgotten, but that was absolutely right.

"I guess."

"Well… How does visiting today sound to you? For about, ooh, two months?"

A little bit of his brain noted that his jaw had flopped open like a stunned fish. The rest of his brain was frantically rebooting, flicking from grumpy to… well, it had yet to decide on a suitable emotion; that was the problem.

"Surprise?" she said nervously as his scrambled mind slowly came back to him. "Harry?"

"Oh dear," Mrs Granger voiced, "I think you broke him."

"I'm staying with you?" he blurted out, disbelieving.

"You're coming home with us, yes. If you want to, that is."

"Coming home…" Harry repeated, marvelling at the way those words rolled off his tongue - at the way they calmed nerves to whose pains he had grown so numb, he'd forgotten he had them. "Why?" he directed at Mr Granger, but it was Hermione who answered.

"Because you don't have anywhere else to go, and that isn't right. It isn't fair; it wouldn't be fair to just leave you to your own devices, not after everything you've done for me. Not after…"

"But.. and… and you're ok with it, Mr Granger? I don't want to be a burden."

All his life he had felt like a burden. Burdening the Dursleys came with an odd satisfaction, like he was getting back at them just by existing, but burdening the Grangers just felt unfair.

"Harry, lad, how long did you spend sleeping in a store closet so my daughter wouldn't be left alone?" Mr Granger asked.

"She told you about that?"

"She told me a lot about you, lad. Now answer the question, please."

He thought back to that time. It seemed so long ago, and so inconsequential after how the year had ended. Yet it had been quite a long time, hadn't it? It must have been…

"Uh, it must've been… seven weeks?"

Mr Granger nodded, as he clearly knew the answer already.

"Seven weeks of hardship, and for a girl you barely knew. That isn't something most people would do, but you did it for Hermione. You did it for a Granger, and now the Grangers are going to repay that kindness. And it has nothing to do with the fact that if we didn't, Hermione here would just find a way to sneak you in anyway," he said with an outrageous wink.

"You wouldn't really?" he asked her, even though he knew the answer. Maybe he just wanted to hear it from her, and she didn't disappoint.

"You know I would," she assured him, offended. "Of course I would. You know what I'm capable of."

"She didn't say as much," Mr Granger said, holding out a piece of paper for him to take, "but she certainly said enough."

Harry took the paper, and found it was a letter, written by Hermione's hand. So he read:

'Dear Mum, Dad.

I have a problem. Or rather, a friend has a problem, and my problem is how to solve his problem. Which I'm determined to do, because he's my best friend, and he slept with me - poor choice of words, sorry - he endured sub-par sleeping arrangements in order to keep me company, and safe, for several weeks. Yes, it's to do with what I mentioned at Christmas, and it's sorted now (mostly), but the point is he was a good enough friend to do it without thinking twice. I've never had someone do something like that for me before, and talking to the other girls in my dorm I get the impression he went beyond what friends would normally do. It means a lot. I can't describe how much.

So I'm going above and beyond to help him out. That would be easy, even if it were hard - fun little paradox but you surely know what I mean - except it isn't in my power to help with his problem.

But it is in yours.

I've written this letter six times. Seventeen if you count the attempts that failed in the first paragraph, and seeing as I left in that 'sleeping with' line you can imagine what those were like. It feels weird, not knowing what to write. Reaching for the words and finding they aren't there. Or that they are, but they just don't convey the real meaning of what I'm trying to say.

This matters to me. I can write that it matters completely, utterly, absolutely, infinitely much, but that will all sound like hyperbole, even when I follow up by saying it isn't.

Still: It isn't.

I'm rambling. I'm scared to ask because… not because I'm scared you'll be angry, or anything like that, but just because I expect you'll say no. You won't understand, so you'll say no, or you will understand and still think I'm being stupid, although if that's the case I'm not sure you understand at all, or maybe crazy is a better word than stupid. Maybe I am crazy; how would I know?

Actually, I must be crazy, because I'm trying to think of other ways to solve the problem, and they're all mental, and I'm not dismissing them because they're so mental, but because they wouldn't work. Only because they wouldn't work. It's like no other reason or fault is enough to write a plan off.

I'm definitely crazy. But I think I'm also right. And these damn Gryffindors are rubbing off on me.

Getting to the point.

Harry doesn't talk about his home life. He won't talk about his home life. He doesn't need to. I know you both have training on recognising the signs, I leafed through some of that material in the office at the practice, and it's obvious. My friend came from an abusive home. I think he may have run away. If he didn't he'll be going back to them for the summer. If he did it's clear he has nowhere else to go. I'm unsure which is worse.

Finally wrote the problem down. Took me long enough.

Harry Potter, my best friend, my first true friend, who has stood by me through a quite frankly ridiculous turn of events, has nowhere suitable to live this summer. Getting the non-magical authorities involved is a recipe for disaster, and the magical authorities are appallingly useless at this sort of thing; they left him in an abusive home in the first place. They left him to be raised with no idea about magic, even though both his parents were magical. Every time I think this world can't get crazier…

Stop rambling Hermione.

The question: You've probably figured out where I'm going with this. I'm going to find Harry somewhere to live this summer. Somewhere he won't be abused, or alone. There's an obvious choice. I want to bring him home. With me. To our house.

Like I said, I'm crazy. But.

Wherever he is this summer, I intend to be there, if no-one else he trusts is. And the list of people he trusts is short. This is probably sounding like I'm threatening not to come home unless you let him come to, which isn't what I mean by it. Even though it basically boils down to exactly that, it's not for that reason. I just can't let him get thrown out to the world, not after all he's done for me. I almost stayed at Hogwarts over Christmas, and if Ginny hadn't been staying I know I would have. Just to make sure he wasn't alone.

Why is having friends so… well, again, I can't find the word.

I know Harry is rich, so it's not like he'd be on the streets or anything, but I'm worried. I can't help but worry, and it's driving me insane even when I can see him every day to know he's ok, to know he hasn't

To know he hasn't

I don't think I can write that down.

I don't know how to end this letter.

I don't know what to do.

Please say you'll help him.

- Hermione'

When he finished he could hardly see for all the water pooling in his eyes. He looked up at his friend's blurry face and simply asked, again:

"Why?"

"Because you'd do the same for me?" she shot back, unhesitant. "Because you're my best friend? Because it's the custard's job to make the cake better?" - she giggled at that, her first carefree smile of the day, and so did he - "I can think of all sorts of reasons, Harry, but I think Luna puts it best… whatever happens, however bad things might be…"

She reached out and took his hand; for the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn't mind being touched at all. Her hand was warm, and somehow it held a promise. A promise of safety; of friendship; of facing whatever came their way together. A promise Luna had put so eloquently the first time he met her, yet the weight of which he only came to truly understand as his best friend recited it to him, her words full of meaning, sincerity, and an intense note of sadness.

"...friends don't leave friends to the cold."

End of Book One

I've decided to post the following book, Hermione Granger and the Power to O'erthrow Law, as a direct continuation of this story. It'll be a few weeks before I start uploading it, as I'm working on improving my writing in the break between books.

Many thanks to everyone who has reviewed with compliments and/or constructive criticism.