T Minus Thirteen hours before D-Day (Departure Day)
.
The ghost of a soothing off-key baritone voice melodically flowed beside Hermione Granger's softer mezzo-soprano one in her mind, nearly invisible in the dead of night as she recreated a memory.
Just like the voice in her head, she, too, couldn't carry a tune in a bucket but it didn't stop her. Lullabies sang at a volume barely above a whisper were routine now.
It seemed that the wizard whose head lay in her lap needed to hear them as much as she needed to sing them.
.
"…One of these mornings, you're going to rise up singin'."
.
Using the smallest amount of moonlight that slipped between blackout curtains to see, Hermione's thumb gently brushed the stubbled cheek pointed up at her from her lap.
"You're going to spread your wings and take to the sky."
.
She brushed locks of hair that perfectly matched the suffocating darkness from her best friend's face. His beautiful green eyes were screwed shut, buried in her stomach. Arms that typically lifted his girlfriend and reached for golden snitches were locked tightly around her waist.
.
"But until that morning, there ain't nothin' can harm you, with your mammy and pappy standin' by."
.
Harry tried so hard not to let her see his tears. So, for now, Hermione was content to ignore the wetness seeping through her shirt. "You were dead." His confession was muffled, but she understood. "You died over and over again and I didn't stop it…"
The notorious bookworm simply cradled the most famous wizard in the world to her and continued to rock him as best she could while reaching deep into her past for every comfort she could think of.
Just like she did nearly every other night. And would continue to do so until it wasn't her place anymore.
"Shh, sweetheart. You're alright. It's all over now. It was just a dream."
"You weren't alright," Harry whispered brokenly. He tightened his hold on her, as if he thought she might disappear if he didn't. "Troll… Bas… D-d'ment'r…R-Remus… Full moon… Department… Myst'ries… Lake…Mannn'r… VOL…"
.
Hermione screwed her own eyes shut and her hands momentarily stilled. "I'm alright. See?" She then forced her fingernails to resume their task of lightly trailing over Harry's scalp. "We made it through. They can't hurt us anymore. Honestly, the only regret I have is being unable to travel far enough back in time to murder Merope Gaunt in her cradle. As morbid as it sounds, at least then Voldemort would never have existed."
Even if that meant the two of them never became friends.
.
The exhausted wizard barked out a shocked, short watery laugh. "Imagine that. A world where a whole year can pass without someone trying to kill me."
"Indeed. You might have gotten away with two. Possibly even three."
"Now you're pushing it."
"Am I?" Hermione asked, a faint hint of amusement making her lips tingle. "We are, after all, discussing a possible world where your homework could have been complete before the morning it was due."
He turned his head just far enough to peek up at her with one eye. "Absolutely. Have you met me? I can't get that lucky. Besides, there can't be a dimension where you're not making me tackle paperwork. That doesn't even make sense."
Hermione gave a noncommittal hum. "It is a dreadful job, but I guess somebody's got to do it."
.
A heavy silence fell between them for what certainly felt like a year. A comfortable year, all things considered. Right there, inside the sitting room of a house that once belonged to Sirius Black, Harry and Hermione were simply existing.
.
Nobody was trying to kill them at the moment.
The portrait of Walburga Black was safely covered and not yelling at anyone.
Light and shadow played across the dingy ceiling.
Kreacher hadn't dropped in to address her as, "Master Harry Potter's Mudblood," in a few days, now that she thought about it.
Still, it was the cruel ghosts hiding within those shadows that made Harry's stubborn sniffles and her breaking heart seem louder.
.
"'Mione?"
"Yes, Harry?"
His fingers toyed with the back of her shirt. "You call me 'sweetheart' sometimes. And sing to me."
Hermione stilled. "Does it bother you? I can stop."
Harry shook his head. "I was just wondering why."
The absence of the sun did tend to allow inner demons to come out and play, Hermione thought wryly. This night was certainly no different. She let out a breath that weighed at least three of her.
"I'll tell you, but only if you swear not to tell anyone. It's rather personal. The reasoning lies entirely in my life before Hogwarts."
Harry's gaze snapped upwards.
.
"I understand if it's too much to ask," she quickly explained. "I mean, you are getting married soon and it's wrong to ask you to keep things from your fiancé…"
"You mean she doesn't know? I thought you two talked about everything."
Hermione slowly shook her head. "I never even told Ron much about life before we were eleven. Ginny is a good friend, but I simply don't feel close enough to her to talk about my parents."
Every muscle in Harry's body melted. "If you trust me enough to talk about them, I'd be glad to hear about them."
The unspoken promise within the tenderness of his crooked smile was more than enough. One squeeze around her waist prompted her to draw her wand and light the fireplace.
.
Maybe it was the immediate warmth that accompanied an orange glow that waged war against the black shadows that overcame them moments before.
Maybe it was the tired but genuine interest on Harry's face while Hermione readjusted herself on the sofa.
Maybe it had nothing to do with their surroundings, or the exhaustion that dragged them both down, or even the fact she was scared to fall asleep.
Perhaps she just needed to talk about something other than the war and the nightmares that plagued them both. And this was the last night that she would be allowed to do so. At least like this, with nobody else's ears around but the ones she wanted her story to reach.
She glanced down at her patiently waiting audience of one.
.
"You know my parents were dentists," she began.
Harry nodded.
"My mum's name was Madelynn. My dad's was Wesley."
Harry gave her another squeeze, urging her to continue.
"While Mum was a natural born-and-raised English woman, Dad was from the States. Louisiana, to be precise. Some locals there call it the 'Bayou Country.'"
Harry's eyes grew round as saucers.
"Dad wanted to travel the world," Hermione continued, staring at the Firebolt mounted over the fireplace, "ended up here, met my mum. I'm not quite sure how he ended up in dental school, but not even the weather here wore down his roots."
Her eyes grew hot and prickled as she continued to speak.
"Cooking failures in the woods aside, I did end up learning how to use a stove pretty early. The first thing Dad insisted I learn when I got tall enough to reach the stove was how to make a gumbo."
She roughly wiped at her face. "His crawfish etouffee was awful, though. I never had the heart to tell him. It just made him so happy to cook. You would have loved him."
"And your mum?" Harry asked, seeming almost scared to break the spell of the moment.
"I loved her. I mean, of course I did; she was my mother. But we weren't close. It was strange, honestly. We looked alike, shared the same home and saw each other every day—at least we did, until I got my letter—but we were more like two ships passing in the night. It was my Dad who fundamentally shaped me."
"I'm…"
Hermione shook her head sadly. "Don't say you're sorry, Harry. I'm merely providing context to properly answer your question. With all of that being said, when I was a little girl, I'd run into my parents' room and climb straight into Dad's arms after a nightmare."
Harry stilled.
She softened. "He'd hold me close, brush my curls out of my face, tell me everything was alright, and sing me every lullaby he knew until I calmed down enough to go back to sleep.
"I was Hermione, Mimi, Neenee, cher or chérie or any other silly little nickname he thought up at any other time, but it was during the times when I was shaken up, sad or scared that I was 'sweetheart.'"
.
Fat, sluggish tears slid down Harry's cheeks as she stared up her in awe. "Thank you, Hermione. Thank you."
The brunette sniffled, even as she was wiping away evidence of his overwhelming emotion. "There. Now, if you tell anybody that, I might have to kill you."
The Man Who Had a Death Wish simply rolled his eyes and turned his face back into her shirt, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "Fuck off, Neenee."
.
And as Harry clung to his best friend for dear life, as the witch in question stared into the fire like it might hold the answers to life's ultimate questions, they both waited for permission to smile and laugh and pretend to be okay.