JK Rowling owns Harry Potter, not me. It's her sandbox, I'm just playing in it.
Chapter Four
She was running, and she knew that if she stopped running, it would get her. The corridor was freezing and the chill caught in her chest as she gulped for air. It was clearer this time, she could see further ahead into the distance, but all she saw was just more corridor. There was the tineist glimmer of dawn in the distance outside the glass, but the light did nothing to show what lay beyond. Behind her, she heard as much as felt the darkness pursuing her. Her ringing footsteps were once more swallowed, falling flat in her ears.
Safety was just ahead; she knew it had to be. It was bright and warm, and she'd been there before. Icy tendrils whipped over her neck again, and she put on a fresh burst of speed, determine to get away. Risking a look back, she saw the black mass, swallowing up all light behind her. Was it her imagination or was there a face in the midst of the swirling black mass. She didn't have time to look closer. Fear filled her and she turned back to face ahead. The voice called to her in it's quiet, chilling voice. "Come back, Come back and face death, Harry. It is time. It might even be…painless. Come back."
"No!" she screamed, her shout falling as flat in the air as her footfalls.
In the distance, the turn in the corridor came into view and she threw herself around it. The door stood there in the distance as it had before, wafting golden light out into the corridor. Giving it everything she had left, Heather threw herself towards it. As she reached it, the darkness made one last grab at her, grabbing her around the waist and trying to pull her backwards. With a force of will, Heather dove, flying through the open archway as the door swing shut.
"No!" she screamed again, this time sitting up in bed in a darkened bedroom. The sound of her heavy breathing filled her ears and she could feel her heart beating away under the bandages that still bound her chest under her shirt, which clung to her body with cold sweat. The sheets were likewise damp, sending goosebumps across her cold skin. She wasn't sure how when or how she had grabbed her wand, but there it was, her hand gripping it so tightly that her knuckles were white with effort.
Without warning, the door to her bedroom burst open and two witches swarmed in, wands raised and alight, fire burning in their eyes. Both girls were still in their pajamas and had clearly only just woken up. Heather figured her last scream must not have been in her dream. Not seeing any danger, Hermione let Ginny finish checking the room while she rushed to Heather's side. "What was it?" she asked hurriedly, still trying to get her breathing under control.
"N-nothing, just a dream. Sorry," Heather replied through heaving gasps.
"Wus goin on?" asked a muddled voice from the open doorway. Ron was standing there now, his hair everywhere and his eyes heavy with sleep. He too had grabbed his wand before racing down, but was not as awake as the girls.
"It looks like Heather had a bad dream," Hermione answered for her, not taking her eyes off of Heather's.
"Oh, you alright?" asked Ron.
"Yeah," replied Heather, feeling anything but alright. "Go on back to sleep, all of you. I'm ok."
After they had gone and Heather had locked the door with her wand, she laid back down and tried to relax. It had felt so real, like the visions Voldemort had sent her to lure her to the Department of Mysteries. But these couldn't be that. Voldemort was dead, and no one else should be able to access her mind like that would being nearby. The Burrow's wards should prevent anyone from being that close to her, and there was no way one of the Weasleys would be doing this to her.
It was still several hours until dawn but try as she might Heather wasn't able to get back to sleep. Every time she closed her eyes that corridor returned. When she heard a clock downstairs chime six o'clock, she pulled a robe around her and went downstairs to the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley was already there, making breakfast. On the table was a letter and a parcel, both addressed to Heather. The first was to give her permission to remove the bandages and letting her know that the parcel contained ten doses of her transition potion. Heather ripped open the box hurriedly and plucked out one of the vials. Without preamble she pulled out the stopper and down the contents in one go.
"Tea, dear?" asked Mrs. Weasley.
"Yes, please" Heather replied, settling into her chair from yesterday. "I hope I didn't wake you, Mrs. Weasley."
"Not at all dear. I had to be up anyway to see of Arthur. I'm afraid we won't see him until late tonight." She looked over from her stove to gaze intently at Heather. "Are you quite alright, dear?"
"Yeah," she said, trying to sound nonchalant, "just a bad dream. Nothing to worry about.
When the tea was ready, Mrs. Weasley poured her a mug and set to work making breakfast. True to form, not twenty minutes later, more than enough time for the smell of sizzling bacon to reach his attic bedroom, Ron appeared in the kitchen, wide awake and ready to eat. Not long after that, Hermione and Ginny arrived, followed by George. His eyes had not lost their bloodshot appearance, but they looked more alive than they had the day before. He managed a half hearted smile when he saw Heather and set to work eating the food his mother set in front of him.
"Mrs. Weasley," asked Heather, "Have there been any letters for me from the Ministry?"
"No dear, why would there be?"
"I…I just figured they'd need me by now…" replied Heather. If half of what Ron had said was true, wouldn't they need every wand they could get?
"No dear, from what Arthur told me, Kingsley wants you to recover while you can. I'm sure he'll be reaching out to speak to you soon."
Relaxation did not come easily to Heather. After nearly a year on the run, with the constant fear or being captured, staying in one place did not feel right. She kept busy as best as she could, helping Mrs. Weasley put the house back to rights, doing her best to ignore the pounding in the back of her head that she should be doing something. Every edition of the Daily Prophet that arrived that day, the newspaper had expanded its publications to three times a day now, proclaimed large victories by loyal forces over the Death Eaters, but at dinner that night Mr. Weasley told them that was just the paper spewing propaganda.
"At least it's not the Ministry putting out that trash," he said, "that's all the paper's doing."
Mixed in with these stories were repeated eyewitness accounts from what was coming to be known as The Battle of Hogwarts. Heather was mentioned in almost all of them, and rarely by her real name. She was grateful to note that there was little to no speculation on her gender however, the focus of the articles remaining solely on the battle itself. How long that would last, she didn't know.
Without any significant form of distraction, thoughts and feelings that Heather wished she could bury away swirled through her head constantly. It felt like it had back in her old bedroom at Privet Drive during the summer after Voldemort's return. Cut off from the rest of the world, unable to help or do anything at all other than wait. Her friends did their best to help, Ron constantly offered games of chess or Exploding Snap, but neither of those games held her interest long.
Time dragged slowly that morning. It felt like every time Heather looked up at the clock, it had gone backwards. Feeling a need to move, she offered to go de-gnome the garden. Rooting through the many bushes and flower beds hunting for the little creatures that so strongly resembles potatoes with legs, she could feel silent eyes watching her from the house. "What did they expect me to do?", she thought as she dragged a particularly determine gnome from its hiding place and lobbed it towards the fence, "go off and chase after Death Eaters on my own?" She was smarter than that. Her mood wasn't helped by the repeated glimpses of Proudfoot watching from a ways off. It felt like no one really trusted her to be alone.
When she came inside for lunch, her shirt was sticking to her body with sweat. She was tired but felt better for it. Ginny and Hermione watched her intently during the meal and grabbed her before she could return to the garden when they were all done. They dragged her upstairs to Ginny's bedroom and sat her down on the bed.
"We need to figure out what you're going to wear." Ginny said, flinging open her wardrobe.
"Wear?" asked Heather, nonplussed.
"To the funerals" supplied Hermione.
"Oh, right." Heather couldn't muster up much excitement about clothes right now. "I suppose a t-shirt and jeans won't cut it?"
"Not at all," replied Ginny. She had already pulled a number of tops and pants out and were holding them out experimentally. Hermione went over to help, while Heather stared aimlessly out the window. What did it matter what she wore? How were clothes important when people were dead? People who would still be alive. If only…
"Heather," Hermione broke in on her thoughts, "You need to put some thought and effort into this."
"Why?" asked Heather uncaringly.
"Because," said Ginny, "these will be your first real 'public' appearance as Heather. True, it's only supposed to be friends and family there, but still. You need to care."
"Oh come on," Heather said scathingly, "It's a funeral for Merlin's sake. Do you really think anyone is going to give two damns what I wear?
"Yes, I do" said Ginny coolly. "Heather, you've been famous long enough to know that everything you do and say matters to people, whether you like it or not, so stop acting like you don't. All of that is doubly true now that you're a girl."
"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Heather.
"She means," said Hermione grabbing a grey blouse from Ginny and holding it out towards Heather, "that girls get extra scrutiny from everything. I know that blokes don't notice what another boy is wearing or how he looks, but for girl's it's the first thing that's noticed, particularly by other girls. You know that already, we taught you how to do it. To see how they'd done their make up or were wearing a certain outfit so that you could get an idea of what you'd like to wear yourself.
"Yeah, so?" Heather asked.
"So," interjected Ginny with an air of impatience, "Girls get judged for how we look, how we act, what we wear. Everything about us is judged more strictly than it would be for any boy. Add on to that the fact of who you are, Heather blessed Potter. You'll see soon enough. It's one of the parts of being a girl that downright bites."
Heather extracted herself from her seated position on Ginny's bed and faced her friends. "That's not right," she said quietly.
"Who said it was?" asked Hermione with a small chuckle. "Doesn't matter if it is or not, it's what is. Which means," she thrust a folded bundle of black cloth into Heather's arms, "that you need to care about this."
Heather mulled over their words as she examined the bundle. It was a black dress that looked like it would come down to about mid-thigh on her, with lace sleeves and accents on the skirt. She faced the mirror and held it up in front of herself. It matched well with her hair, and should couldn't help but notice that it made her green eyes stand out. "I guess this will do," she said aloud.
"We should probably add some tights to go with the shoes," said Ginny, moving in behind Heather to see the full effect.
With Heather's outfit decided on, Hermione and Ginny began working on their own. "Heather," Hermione said as she considered one of her own black tops, "do you remember before our sixth year when I told you that there were things about being a girl you hadn't had to experience yet?
"Yeah," replied Heather. "I figured you meant things like monthlys and all that." Her cheeks flushed pink.
"Be grateful you don't deal with those yet" Ginny muttered darkly.
"Yes," Hermione continued, "I was referring to those, but also to how witches are seen by the rest of the world. Its honestly the same as it is for muggle girls. Like Ginny said, everything about us is held to a higher standard just because we are girls. You've probably done it without meaning to."
Heather looked at her dumbstruck. Was that true? Had she thought less of a girl before because of something so basic as how she looked. Now that she thought about it, she unfortunately had to answer yes. While she hadn't been quite as derisive of Eloise Midgen as the other boys in her year had been, her heavy acne had been a running joke for a long time, while the boy's pimples went unnoticed. Ron's remarks before the Yule Ball about not wanting to be stuck with a troll also came rushing back to her.
"I never even realized" she said quietly.
"Well of course you didn't," said Ginny kindly. "it's not the sort of thing that boy's figure out until it's pointed out to them. And, even though you've been Heather for years now, outwardly you've still been a boy."
"Not that you haven't had to deal with similar situations being who you are," added Hermione. "It's just about to get a lot worse."
Both girls had chosen what they were going to wear by now and had settled on the cot facing Heather. "I'm so sorry" she said.
"It's not your fault," replied Hermione. "Like I said, it is what it is. The important thing is that you know now, because you're about to be on the receiving end of it."
"Big time" concluded Ginny.
The dream returned that night as she lay in bed. She didn't' scream when the darkness grabbed her this time, for which she was thankful. Her sheets were soaked again, and her skin prickled uncomfortably. Unable to sleep once more, Heather turned her thoughts towards what was going to happen today. Now that the reality of going out into public as Heather was so near, it was harder to feel confident about it. It had been easy at dinner the other night to say that she didn't care if anyone had a problem with it, surrounded as she had been by friends and family. Now that was being eroded by gnawing fear. Hanging on the outside of Percy's old wardrobe was the black dress Ginny had chosen for her. Heather thought it was almost staring at her.
When she had went on the run with Hermione and Ron a year ago, she hadn't expected to live long enough to see Voldemort dead. In truth, she hadn't believed she would even have a life to live after he was gone. She certainly had never really thought through what it would mean to openly be herself, not in any real way. The dream of becoming the girl she was inside had kept her going for so long, but the reality of it had never been so…real. Did she really have what it would take to face it? Declaring herself and who she was in the heat of battle, an inch away from sudden death with fire burning inside of herbut now she had to live with it. And living with it would be much harder than dying with it had been.
The sun rose as she lay there, creeping in through the half open curtains. Reluctantly, Heather rose and began to get ready for the day. The plan was to set off immediately after breakfast so they had all been told to come downstairs ready to go. Bill, Fleur, Charlie, and Percy were going to meet them at Andromeda Tonk's house. The dress fit her well enough, despite Ginny having a bit more in the chest than Heather did. The lace on the arms was soft and Heather did have to admire how it contrasted with her pale skin. She twisted her hair back into a single long braid, tied at the end with a strip of black ribbon so it wouldn't come undone. She wanted to skip putting on makeup, but Ginny and Hermione's dire warnings about being judged changed her mind. Feeling very uncomfortable and not in the least hungry, Heather went downstairs for breakfast.
As if to contrast her mood, the sky outside was a perfect shade of blue unmarked by a single cloud. Once it was clear that none of them were going to eat much, Mrs. Weasley shepherded them outside where they would wait for Heather's auror escort to arrive. Heather rechecked her small purse multiple times while they waited. It had been magically expanded much like Hermione's beaded bag, though not to the same cavernous proportions. Tucked inside were her wand and invisibility cloak, along with a few other keepsakes she still couldn't bring herself to get rid of or leave behind, like the Marauder's Map, the snitch from her first quidditch game, and, tucked down in the very bottom of the bag, the Elder Wand. Her escort was a quartet of black robed aurors with Proudfoot in the lead. The Weasleys met them at the boundary of the wards, where the aurors formed up around them and they all disapparated.
The home of Andromeda Tonks looked different than it had on the night Heather had been here last. Inwardly, she had to admit that could have something to do with not crash landing in the garden on the back of a giant motorbike next to an unconscious Hagrid however. Scattered around that same garden were knots of other black clad witches and wizards, some familiar and some not. In the distance Heather could see rows of chairs arranged in front of two wooden boxes. Heather had to look away from the caskets quickly before she could start crying.
She followed the rest of the Weasleys into the midst of the other guests. Three of the aurors moved off to take up perimeter positions, but Proudfoot was a constant presence behind her, which was reassuring if not exactly comforting.
At first, everyone only seemed to notice the Weasleys. Their bright red hair contrasted greatly with the black robes and dresses. Once they noticed Heather, that was all anyone could see. It felt as though each guest had to approach and speak to her personally. Everyone wanted to give their congratulations, sympathize over shared losses, or just silently hold her hand. Faces began to blur before her eyes after ten minutes of such treatment. She became aware of an undercurrent of whispering at the edge of her hearing. Whispers were something that she was thankfully used to dealing with so this didn't bother her at the moment. Doing her best to ignore them, she was grateful when the Weasleys began to interpose themselves between her and the growing crowd.
More witches and wizards had arrived by now, including Kingsley Shacklebolt and what looked like a half a dozen more aurors. Kingsley looked tired and somber, dressed in robes of black trimmed with purple. He nodded at Heather but didn't speak to her or seek her out. She could tell that he wasn't there as the Minister for Magic, not today. Today he was nothing more than a friend coming to say goodbye. Official business could wait, for now anyway. Under cover of his arrival, which caused somewhat less of a stir than Heather's had, Andromeda Tonks emerged from the house clutching a small child in her arms. Her eyes swept the crowd, coming to rest on Heather, who she made directly for.
"My dear," she said when she approached, "It's so good to see you again." She was a few inches taller than Heather, with features so similar to her sister's but different in all the ways that mattered. "I want you to meet Teddy."
The baby looked up at her with inquisitive eyes. He looked so much like his father, Heather thought, even as the babies features began to shift. In a moment his hair had gone jet black and his eyes had turned the same vivid green as Heathers. "Hello there," she said, reaching out a hand to grab his pudgy one.
"He likes you" said Andromeda. "You…you do know that Remus and Dora named you godmother, right?"
"Yes" Heather said before her swelled shut.
"Will you sit with me?" Andromeda asked. "During the funeral?"
"I couldn't." Heather replied.
"Why not? You're probably the closest thing to family that Remus has still alive, and I know Dora always had a soft spot for you." Andromeda said kindly.
"She did?"
"You didn't know? After Teddy was born and Remus came back from Shell Cottage, he told us who you were now. Dora was the only one of us who wasn't surprised. I remember her saying, "Good for her. It's about time."
"If I remember right, they had a bet going on it." Heather smiled sadly.
In the distance they heard a soft chime ring out, quiet enough to not be intrusive but still easily heard over the many muted conversations. Andromeda took one of Heather's hands in her own and lead her towards the chairs, sitting her down next to her in the front row.
The funeral wasn't long. A short Ministry wizard walked to the front and stood between the two caskets. He spoke about Remus and Tonks much as the wizard who presided over Dumbledore's funeral had spoken about him. Lots of words that sounded good, but felt empty and hollow compared to the depth of life both Remus and Tonks had led. When he was done, others rose and spoke, telling old stories that brought chuckles and tears from many of the assembly. Heather thought about speaking, but each time she was on the verge of rising, something stopped her. She was lost in memories of anti-dementor lessons with Remus and dinners at Grimmauld Place with Tonks screwing up her nose every couple of minutes. No one knew this, not even Ron or Hermione, but she had been the last person to speak to Remus, in the forest after he had died. But the words he had spoken there were for her and Teddy alone. One day when he was old enough, she would show him that memory and hope he could understand.
Once the last person had spoken, the Ministry wizard stood once more and waved his wand in a long arch. Both caskets burst into white flame and were gone, replaced by small stones, marked with both Remus' and Tonks' birth and death dates. It was over. "One down, so many more to go" Heather thought quietly before berating herself for it. She looked around for the Weasleys and Hermione.
"Heather," said Andromeda before she had taken two steps, "I'd like for you to come visit us sometime soon if you can."
Heather turned back to see the tears rolling down her cheeks, then down at the baby now sleeping in his grandmother's arms. Remus's son. "I'd like that," she said quietly.
Everyone returned to the Burrow for a brief lunch, before Heather, Hermione, and Ron set off for Terry Boot's funeral. After Terry's was another, and then another. Looking back on that week, Heather had a hard time keeping track of just which funeral they had gone to in what order. It felt like the attendees, the words spoken, even the scenery was all identical. At each one everyone seemed to want to talk to her, to say the same pleasantries and nothings over and over again, only to whisper amongst themselves as they walked away from her.
Fred's funeral was no different, even if it did hurt more. When she woke a darkness had settled on her heart. It was like the sun had lost its brightness, and the very warmth from it was drained away. Colors which only days before had been vibrant and alive now seemed dead looking. Good moments full of laughter, which were few enough, were robbed of their joy, while sadness and tears were magnified. They were only three days into the week and she was tired in a way that sleep alone couldn't fix.
Not that sleep brought any rest. The dream visited her every night, until it reached the point where she was afraid to sleep, scared of being caught by that all consuming darkness. Instead, her waking mind forced her to relive the battle, watching each death over and over again. The darkness of her room began to whisper to her at night, sounding like parseltongue out of a badly tuned wireless set, mocking her as she lay wide awake.
During the rare moments they were able to rest at the Burrow, she began to retreat into herself, holed up in her bedroom with the door locked. She would ignore calls for meals, her stomach unable to handle the idea of food. She wasn't the only one either. After Fred's funeral, George had found the hidden bottle of firewhiskey and drank himself senseless again. She knew she was worrying the other residents of the house but she couldn't bring herself to care. It just didn't seem to matter anymore.
Thursday evening after the last funeral of the day, Heather mutely went upstairs, ignored the summons to dinner, and laid on her bed staring blankly at the wall. She hardly moved when a hand banged loudly on her door. "Heather Potter!" Hermione shouted through the thin wood, "If you don't open this door right now I'm going to blast it down. I already have Mrs. Weasley's permission!"
Heather didn't answer, but scooped up her wand and aimed it at the lock, which clicked open. Hermione pushed her way inside, stopping short at the sight of Heather on the bed.
"Ok, Heather. That's enough. I've got to talk to you, so sit up." She lit the room's lamp with her wand and yanked back the curtains to reveal the fading evening light outside. Heather winced at the light but made no other sign she noticed her friend's presence. Hermione sighed and bodily pulled her up into a sitting position, resting Heather against the headboard. "Heather, you need to come back to us."
"Why" Heather asked softly, her eyes unfocused and listless, her chin resting limply on her chest.
"Because, as hard as this is to hear, you're still alive. And…and I need you to be ok before I leave."
Heather's eyes slowly came around and focused on Hermione. "Leave? Where are you going?"
"Australia. I've got to go find my parents, but I can't leave with you like this."
Heather continued to stare blankly at her friend. Deep inside her green eyes, a fire it felt like a fire was kindled. "What do you want from me, Hermione?" she asked, her throat catching around the words from lack of use. "I go from feeling everything to feeling nothing one moment to the next. I can't control it, I can't control anything. The only thing that makes it better shutting everything out. That way no one else has to deal with it."
"But is that actually helping, or is it just delaying having to deal with what's really going on?" pressed Hermione.
"I…I don't know," Heather admitted. "And I don't really think I care right now" she added.
"Well I need you to try and care. For me." When Heather didn't say anything, Hermione asked, "What's going on in your head?"
How to sum up everything she was dealing with, Heather wondered. There was her guilt at still being alive when so many had died, her fears that she was going mental, but beyond those fears, one stood out clearly. "What if I made a mistake becoming Heather?" she whispered into the silence.
"No" said Hermione, "You are not a mistake, Heather. Look at me," she continued firmly, softly pressing Heather's chin upwards until their eyes met.
"I'm messed up Hermione. I'm so messed up and I can't even put into words how." Heather whispered.
"Well, how about you try and I'll help as best as I can?" Hermione suggested. Silently, she drew her wand and aimed it at the door. The locked clicked again and she muttered "Muffliato."
Heather pulled back, bringing her knees up under her chin and wrapping her arms tight around her. She was silent for a while, and Hermione sat there, watching her and waiting.
"I'm afraid I made a mistake, that either I'm not really Heather or that becoming her completely is wrong. That it's the wrong thing for me to do. And I'm so messed up over it, I can't even grieve anymore because I'm to worried about myself!" her voice had risen as she spoke until it was almost a cry.
"And because you think you should have died instead of everyone else, you feel even more guilty" said Hermione, it wasn't a question.
Heather fixed her friend with a glare, the fire in her eyes expanding to a raging inferno. "I was supposed to die!" she screamed. Her body began to quiver so much that the bed started to shake. "I walked into that forest, and it was supposed to be over. I was finally supposed to be at peace. I was supposed to see them again, be with them!" She shoved her finger into her chest so hard that it physically hurt. "I wasn't supposed to have to feel this pain any more. I don't want too! I don't want to feel anything anymore! I want to be dead, just like everyone else." She had stopped screaming as this last sentence came out, and she followed it up with a hoarse whisper, "the lucky ones."
Now it was Hermione's turn to yell. "Heather Potter, don't you dare say that! You really think that the friends we lost are the lucky ones? You are alive because that's what was supposed to happen. Did that mean that everyone who died was supposed to die, no. But you, and only you, were the one who could stop the rest of us from being killed by that lunatic. We needed you. We still do!" Tears had begun to pour from her eyes. She took a few steadying breathes before continuing. "I still need you. You, Heather Potter, are not a mistake. This is who you are, who you have been since third year when I found you preening in front of a mirror in Lavender's uniform." This elicited a small, tear filled chuckle from Heather despite herself.
Hermione felt heartened at that and continued, "You are the witch who has been my best friend since before you were even a witch. You have faced so many things in your life, even though you've asked for none of it. This, you becoming Heather, is just another of those things. Is it fair? Not at all. Is it the right thing for you? Well, you tell me. Do you remember when we got back from Xenophilius Lovegood's house, when I had to transfigure you back into Harry Potter? Do you remember how you felt, seeing yourself as a boy again?"
Heather could remember clearly the taste of bile in her throat, looking back at her boy's reflection, knowing that was how she had to be, even if only for a few hours, and hating it. She recalled how wrong it felt to be called her old name, having to think of herself that way.
"What about when we went to Godric's Hollow and we used polyjuice potion to turn you into the old man?" Hermione pressed, seeing the thoughts rolling behind her friend's eyes. "I know you didn't say so, but I saw how you reacted to being that male again. Can you really tell me you'd be happy going back to being a boy? I know, I really do know that this isn't easy. If life were fair, you would have been born the girl you are on the inside. If life were fair, then no one would've died to defeat Voldemort. But just because life isn't fair doesn't mean its not worth being here for. I need you to know how strong you are inside. You can do this; you can become Heather. You already are her, in here." She pressed a finger on the center of Heather's chest. The pressure hurt, but not in a bad way this time.
Slowly, hesitantly, Heather began to release the death grip she had on her legs. Her muscles ached from having been clenched so tightly. She didn't feel better, not really, but for the time being it was like the darkness had pulled back. Hermione had been the patronus Heather's heart had been unable to summon itself. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and she reached up to wipe them away. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.
"It's alright" replied Hermione, reaching out to pull her friend into a hug. "I've been waiting for something like this since you told us about what happened in the forest. I meant what I said though, you are a stronger witch than you want to believe."
"Still not as strong as you are." Heather replied, her words muffled by the amount of Hermione's hair that had found its way into her mouth. Hermione let her go.
"Book, cleverness," she said, echoing the words of so long ago on the night Heather had come face to face with Voldemort for the first time since that Halloween night. "There are more important things."
This time, Heather felt an actual laugh well up inside her as she was transported back to a much simpler time, when the worst thing they had to worry about were sorcerer's stones and Ron passing the potions' final. Hermione smiled too, but when she spoke her voice remained firm. "I really need you to listen to what I'm about to say, Heather. As much as I wish it would, this isn't going to get easier. Remember what Ginny and I told you about getting extra scrutiny as a girl? That's going to start soon, if it hasn't already. I've been checking the papers every day, and while there hasn't been any mention about this so far, it's only a matter of time. I need to know you're going to be ok while I'm gone. You'll still have Ron and Ginny, and everyone else, but I need to know."
"How long will you be gone?" Heather asked.
"I don't know. I'm not sure where in Australia my parents are, or even if they're still there. I'm hoping to be back before term begins, but we'll just have to see. Promise me you'll ask for help if you need it while I'm gone?"
Heather nodded. "I promise."