Ch. 5 – Death's Dealings

Hermione had known that being intentionally kept in the dark after what he had gone through would make Harry furious. She remembered pleading with Dumbledore to at least let her give him some information. But the headmaster had been clear: Harry was not to be told anything lest the letters be intercepted. So that time at least, she had reluctantly put the supposed safety of the entire wizarding world first and wrote him letters she had known to be useless. She had certainly imagined him feeling resentful and hurt over the secrecy, but now reading about him having to resort to lying in the dirt on the hottest day of the summer, surreptitiously listening to Muggle news after the Daily Prophet had proven to be useless, made the guilt grow. Harry had been angry with her and Ron to the point that he had thrown both their birthday presents of Honeydukes chocolates away unopened. He had been effectively abandoned at a time when he desperately needed support but the most human contact he had had that summer had apparently been his uncle's hands closed tightly around his throat. It had been an unbearable month or so for him—all the ugly thoughts and frustrations keeping him seething throughout the day, and nightmares of Cedric's death and long dark corridors waiting for him in bed.

When she had heard about the dementors, she had nearly lost her mind as well. Of course something like that would happen; trouble and misfortune seemed to be drawn to him. She had frantically turned to every book she could get her hands on, ignoring the reassurances of many Order members and looking up everything she could to personally be certain he could not be expelled.

As Harry's neighbor, Mrs. Figg, revealed to him she had been in contact with the magical world all along as a Squib, Hermione was unpleasantly reminded of the character of Harry's relatives. They were the type of people who not only neglected their nephew but intentionally deprived him of anything even resembling the smallest amount of joy. "The Dursleys would never have let you come if they'd thought you enjoyed it," she read Mrs. Figg offer as an explanation as to why his annual visits to her house had also been miserable—albeit slightly less so than being in the company of his actual relatives.

After a very revealing, angry shouting match between Harry and his aunt and uncle, culminating with a Howler from an unknown sender, Harry had spent all of next day in his bedroom. Hermione read that three times that day Aunt Petunia shoved food into his room through the cat flap Uncle Vernon had installed three summers ago and bristled with anger. It was a constant reminder of how they had starved him as a child and the bloody thing was still being used!

Then she remembered. It was not a moment from years ago that the books made her think about once again but one from just earlier that day. It had been hours before and the voice in her head had led her back to this room with the ghostly whisper of "cat-flap." She put the book down. How could she have forgotten about everything she had read once she went outside this room? What had even made her leave? She recalled the drowsiness that had come to claim her upon finishing the third book. And after that, she had found herself back in the Weasleys' kitchen, not remembering a thing until seeing Crookshanks had triggered her memory of the cat-flap she had read about in the second book.

Hermione looked towards the flowing sand in the giant hourglass and sensed that soon, fatigue would come for her once again. She glanced over the long roll of parchment on the small table next to her, covered with notes from reading through the fourth book. At least she had come prepared this time. But she could feel, understandably so, that what came from these books was knowledge she was not supposed to have. And just as some force seemed to be determined to have her find out what was in them, another opposing one seemed equally bent on making sure she did not keep that information in her head.

She returned to Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix where Harry finally arrived at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. She had thrown herself onto him in a hug that nearly knocked him flat upon seeing him, hands bearing the marks of Hedwig's beak from when she had not been able to provide satisfactory answers in her letters. She read that Harry found that he was not at all sorry and smiled sadly. She could not blame him; death had been hanging over him. The bitterness and pain he had felt had paved the road for all the angry shouting. It was the angriest she had seen him up to that point, though there would be plenty of other moments later that year in contention. It was as if he had decided that wrath was a suitable weapon to ward off the grief.

The looming Ministry hearing had not helped matters either. Hermione had sensed that Harry did not even want to think about it, so she and Ron had refrained from mentioning the matter out loud. But when she read over how the hearing had actually happened, she scoffed with anger as well. The whole trial was a farce so clear that even a child could see through it. From the abrupt changing of the location and time to Fudge's attitude, willing to disregard witnesses and bring up irrelevant matters to discredit Harry. Even Dumbledore's appearance, which gave Harry a fortified, hopeful feeling rather like that which phoenix song gave him and was about the only thing which gave the whole matter any sort of credibility, seemed unexpected. No doubt Fudge had meddled in an attempt to prevent Harry from having any help whatsoever. Hermione had to stare in disbelief. The Minister had been fully prepared to put a fifteen-year-old wizard through a full criminal trial and disregard all evidence for a case of underage magic. And the way all those old wizards and witches had acted so surprised to hear about the dementors! As if there was any other reason for Harry to have conjured a Patronus! Did they all think he was some kind of common street performer doing magic for the mere amusement of Muggles?

Though the trial soon ended with Harry being cleared of all charges, Hermione was still fuming at the blatant corruption that had been on display. It was not put out of mind until she read about Harry's thoughts regarding Dumbledore: "I wish he'd talked to me, though. Or even looked at me" and that was when the scar on his forehead burned so badly that he clapped his hand to it. She saw her own response of "What's up?" and was surprised to read that none of the others had noticed a thing.

She thought back to that moment. Had they really not? When it had been so obvious? How was it possible that in that room—full of people who cared about Harry—only she had seen? Of course she had not known exactly why but it had been clear that something had been wrong. She frowned and the fleeting thought came to her that in addition to uncovering more about Harry, these books were perhaps making her newly aware of things about herself as well.

The letters from school arrived, and with them, the prefect badges. Hermione's face slightly reddened at the memory of mistakenly assuming Harry had been the one to receive the badge. The thought that they would together—well, it didn't matter what she had thought at the time. And it had been completely unfair to Ron as well. But the matter of the badges had bothered Harry. He could not lie to himself; if he had known the prefect badge was on its way, he would have expected it to come to him, not Ron. She read sadly as the ugly thoughts came to his head. So he had moments like these as well…

The reveal of Mrs. Weasley's boggart made Hermione's breath stop. She recalled the only time she had encountered one—back in third year where it had taken the form of a stern-faced, disappointed Professor McGonagall who had told her so convincingly that she had failed everything. But now? What would she see? She tried to not give it any more thought but returned to Harry thinking he could not think Mrs. Weasley silly. He could still see his parents beaming up at him from the tattered old photograph, unaware that their lives, like so many of those around them, were drawing to a close. He had death on the mind. They all did. Voldemort's return had made it so. It was only fitting then that the symbol of the Order was a phoenix, a creature who symbolized hope and rebirth in the face of death. Dumbledore had chosen well.

They were soon boarding the Hogwarts Express and Hermione was reminded of the worry that had been coursing through her because Sirius had insisted on coming along. Draco Malfoy, of all people, had legitimized that worry with his snide comment of "dogging your footsteps."

Hermione slammed the compartment door behind them and turned to look at Harry, who knew at once that she, like him, had registered what Malfoy had said and been just as unnerved by it.

"Chuck us another Frog," said Ron, who had clearly noticed nothing.

Hermione rolled her eyes. She kept reading until—

Hem, hem.

That stupid, foul, ridiculous, pathetic, evil woman! Hermione read through Umbridge's speech again—the parts that made it to Harry's ears anyway—and her temper was tested. The most noteworthy part had made it onto the pages—There again, progress for progress's sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering. It summed up the problematic attitude of much of wizarding society. The hubris—the certainty with which they maintained that things did not need to change. Never mind how those who were looked at as different were treated. Those in the majority were content as long as the status quo was not disrupted because they were unaffected. She recalled the description of the statue that Harry had seen in front of the Ministry—the centaur, goblin and house-elf all looking adoringly up at the witch and wizard and scowled.

With the start of the new term came new problems for Harry Potter. The Daily Prophet's assertions that nothing was out of the ordinary had convinced much of the student body that Harry was indeed an attention-seeking liar and deserving of ridicule. She read about the argument between him and Seamus and knew his misery for that year was only beginning.

Their first Defense Against the Dark Arts class with Umbridge had been eventful. At the injustice of being called a liar, Harry had gotten so angry that he had brought up Cedric Diggory's death in front of the entire class only for Umbridge to brush it off as a tragic accident and send him off to Professor McGonagall with the note that he would be serving detention every evening that week. McGonagall only had words of warning for him which Hermione agreed with: "Do you really think this is about truth or lies? It's about keeping your head down and your temper under control!" But this was Harry. A sense of justice so strong that before he knew it, he was doing what he felt was right in the moment without thinking of the consequences. Wasn't that why, in their first year, he had first gone after Malfoy for taking Neville's Remembrall despite Madam Hooch's warnings of expulsion? Wasn't that why when the troll was released and she was crying her eyes out in the bathroom, despite the clear danger, he had gone back to look for her? Hermione smiled faintly. He had always been like this.

Professor McGonagall had sent Harry on the way with another comment: "Well, I'm glad you listen to Hermione Granger at any rate." Hermione's eyebrow raised. Did he really? Did he listen to her? It was not in the manner McGonagall had meant but she pulled up in her head all the instances she could recall where she had failed at getting him to do or not do something. He could certainly be headstrong and she knew from past experience if there was something he was absolutely set on doing, there was no convincing him otherwise. To her, the moments of listening and not listening seemed to be evenly divided. Where did she stand among the rest of the people who he listened to though?

It pained Hermione to read about Harry's detention with Umbridge—how he was forced to carve the mocking phrase of I must not tell lies into his own hand over and over. For hours. Other teachers may have assigned detentions where students were made to do something practical, like cleaning or preparing supplies for the next class. But Umbridge, almost as if attempting to reinforce her awfulness at every opportunity, assigned detentions that were not only useless to anybody else, but disturbingly cruel.

Then came Harry's letter to Sirius about his scar hurting while serving detention with Umbridge. It was almost right after Hermione had warned him about putting that sort of information in a letter and he had told her that he wouldn't. She read as he went up to the Owelry and Cho entered. Hermione's eyebrow raised and she could not help but feel curious as to how Harry would be when he was finally given the chance to be alone with someone he was interested in.

His insides seemed to shrivel with embarrassment. The weather. He was talking about the weather…

She sighed with sympathy. But it seemed it had turned out okay for Harry in the end. He was feeling very pleased with himself after Cho called him "really brave." Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. So simplistic and generic. That had been all it took for him to feel so elated?

Harry's thoughts turned. Of course, she had preferred Cedric, he knew that… She frowned. Even if it had worked out for them that year, that would always have been hanging over them. And Hermione, at least, felt that she would not be able to take being in a relationship with someone who was still clearly hung up on someone else. And Harry…he deserved to have someone who was not merely settling for him. Didn't they all?

She returned to reading and passed over more events from that year: Ron's first Quidditch practice (it seemed really bad even to her), Percy's letter warning about Harry (imagine having someone you knew well in the past turn on you like that), Sirius's revelation that Fudge was afraid of Dumbledore raising a private army hence the complete prohibition of magic usage in class (she knew where this was going), Trelawney's inspection (was now really the best time for her to predict Harry eating porridge apparently foretold a gruesome and early death?), another week of detentions for Harry in Umbridge's class (wait for it…), and then another one right after in Care of Magical Creatures.

Hermione finally came across when she had suggested learning Defense Against the Dark Arts by themselves. It had seemed natural to her that Harry should be the teacher. Despite how flustered he had been over Cho saying he had been brave, he really had been incredibly brave. Hermione could have told him that a million times. But apparently, in that moment, he had not believed her—had thought it had been some kind of joke. She read as Harry, hand bleeding profusely, smashed the bowl of murtlap essence and began to scream at her and Ron.

You don't know what it's like! You — neither of you — you've never had to face him, have you? You think it's just memorizing a bunch of spells and throwing them at him, like you're in class or something? The whole time you know there's nothing between you and dying except your own — your own brain or guts or whatever — like you can think straight when you know when you're about a second from being murdered, or tortured, or watching your friends die…

She had seen the pain in his eyes and realized her mistake. The approach of the subject had been too light and the clear mark of death hanging over his words had opened her own eyes. She had immediately discarded her flippancy but there was still the issue of making clear that she was being serious—of making him believe he truly was capable of such a thing. She needed to push him past his self-doubts. To make him see for himself the great wizard he undoubtedly was. That it hadn't just been luck. She wanted to take his hand and drag him above his despair. He would be great—already was great and yes, "really brave." So she figured the least she could do was to be a little brave herself.

"Harry," Hermione read her book-self say. "don't you see? This…this is exactly why we need you… We need to know what it's r-really like…facing him…facing V-Voldemort."

It was the first time she had ever said Voldemort's name, and it was this, more than anything else, that calmed Harry.

And eventually at her urging, he had acquiesced, hadn't he? And so many people had come to the Hog's Head to hear him—them—out. From the expected usuals like Neville and Dean to Lavender (who had thought him a liar at the beginning of the year) to people from other Houses. From Ernie and Hannah to Cho. Hermione recalled her own eyes fixing on Cho a number of times during that meeting. No particular reason. But as she reported to Harry later, she just couldn't keep her eyes off him…

Then Hermione read something heartbreaking.

Dobby the house-elf was standing beside the table on which Hermione had left her half a dozen knitted hats. His large, pointed ears were now sticking out from beneath what looked like all the hats that Hermione had ever knitted.

Time seemed to stop. And she quickly scanned the rest of the page until Dobby began to talk about Winky. "She still does not care for clothes, Harry Potter. Nor do the other house-elves. None of them will clean Gryffindor Tower anymore, not with the hats and socks hidden everywhere, they finds them insulting, sir.

And Luna's words that she had read earlier came back to her. "There are plenty of eyewitness accounts, just because you're so narrow-minded you need to have everything shoved under your nose…"

And what had she said about Fred and George when they had perfected the Puking Pastilles? "Oh, they only know flashy stuff that's no real use to anyone…"

She knew their business was beyond successful now. Was it true then? Here were her flaws being laid out to her. Why had Harry never told her? Then she tried to imagine how she would have reacted if he had told. Perhaps she would have refused to believe it until she had marched down to the kitchen herself. And what would have awaited her? Would they have been angry at her? Would they have turned her away for only having wanted the best for them? Or apparently, what she had arrogantly decided was the best for them? Insecurities within her bloomed and threatened to swallow her up. Every negative thought she had had about herself was being cruelly rattled off in her head. She had been so convinced that she had been right. And she hated saying sorry because again, it would have meant that she was wrong. Even now with the beginning of tears forming in her eyes and after hearing that none of them would clean Gryffindor Tower anymore, she did not think she was wrong in wanting the house-elves to have better rights. But she was forced to confront the idea that her methods needed tweaking.

Once she recomposed herself, she tried to focus on the Quidditch match against Slytherin. That time, Ron had looked particularly lost and distressed. So she had done something similar to what she had done for Harry at the end of fourth year. She read as her book-self stood on tiptoe and kissed Ron on the cheek, distracting him from what had been on the Slytherins' badges. Her thoughts turned back to reaching the end of the fourth book where she had noticed Harry only thinking it was something she had never done before.

"See?" she told herself, chasing away the question in her mind of who exactly she was trying to convince. "That was a kiss of friendship. Just like here."

Following the match had been the disastrous moment where Harry and George had sprinted after Malfoy, determined to hit him as hard as they could. Initial shock had frozen Hermione on the spot as she had watched with horror. And now, reading the words that had made Harry react in such a way, she thought it rather strange. Malfoy had said far worse things to him before, but she had never seen Harry this angry towards him. It had been another effect of the miserable year he had been having. The grief of death and the constant ridicule had made him want to lash out at everything and this had been his breaking point. But the world did not run at your convenience just because you were having troubles and Harry had paid the price—a lifetime Quidditch ban.

It seemed very fortunate then that Hagrid had come back at that time. But as usual, Umbridge had poisoned everything with her presence. Hermione remembered trying so hard to convince him to change the lesson plans to no avail. And her fury only grew as she remembered Umbridge's disgusting treatment of him during the inspection.

Her anger at Umbridge stayed until she was distracted by another of her own careless comments, this time about thestrals: "...they are very interesting, aren't they? The way some people can see them and some can't! I wish I could." The look on Harry's face as she had uttered that… Another hand dealt at the table of death. Nobody said she didn't have her stupid moments.

But December soon arrived and so did the last D.A. meeting before the holidays. She managed a smirk at the description of the golden baubles Dobby had put up, each showing a picture of Harry's face and bearing the legend HAVE A VERY HARRY CHRISTMAS!

Then it was just Harry and Cho. And she had began by talking about Cedric…

The kiss.

It had left Harry very confused. Hermione had noticed how he was acting as he came back to the common room. She had guessed what had happened well enough. Had even managed to explain everything about how Cho must have been feeling to him as well… And whatever her own feelings on the subject were, this was the girl her best friend liked and she knew she should support him wholeheartedly.

She read on until she reached Harry's dream. To no surprise, Cho was there as well. Hermione again smirked. It was some silly nonsense about being promised 150 Chocolate Frog cards. Of course the girl Harry had been infatuated with had showed up in a dream or two.

Cho shouted, "Cedric gave me loads of Chocolate Frog cards, look!" And she pulled out fistfuls of cards from inside her robes and threw them into the air, and then turned into Hermione, who said, "You did promise her, you know, Harry…I think you'd better give her something else instead… How about your Firebolt?"

Hermione sat with her mouth open as her heart began to beat faster. Turned into? As in, transformed? "It's nothing," she told herself. It was only because she was the girl Harry was closest to, the most prominent female presence in his life. She really needed to stop reacting this way to some of these passages. These bloody books had made her more susceptible to foolishness, it seemed. If she had been told about this dream before, she would undoubtedly have laughed and never thought about it again. It meant nothing—absolutely nothing—that the girl who had been Harry Potter's biggest crush at that point had changed her form to become herself. And besides, dream-Hermione had been demanding Harry give up his Firebolt. It wasn't as if she had exactly been a positive presence in that dream… What she was thinking about was nonsense. Rubbish. Silliness.

But Hermione knew the terrible dreams and visions that Harry Potter would have past this point. So she attempted to put her heart at ease and looked up at the ceiling of the room. She listened to the roar of the fire and for just a few seconds—just for a moment—as her mind uncontrollably turned to thoughts of silliness once again, she allowed herself a very small smile.