I began this story just over one year ago. It has captured me, stolen my attention, every day since. I haven't posted in nearly two months — my agency has grown quite quickly and left our team a bit understaffed. So I've monitored activity from a distance and imagined future outcomes. Thanks for sticking with me in the gap.
If you've been with me since the beginning, I owe you heaps of gratitude. I could never have imagined so many would follow me into the twists and turns, the folds and braids of this wonderful story. Your encouragement has taken me farther than I ever thought possible.
Thank you for reading. Do comment, with shaken fists or happy hearts. I can't wait to hear your thoughts.
Luna had become a student of his movements, his expressions, his unspoken thoughts. She knew him, better perhaps than she knew even her father. Whether their souls were knit by the draw of Nexus, or perhaps by braided threads of affection, prophecy, and tribulation, Luna felt that she could finish his sentences, think his thoughts in their shadow's wake.
So she felt his fear, even now, though they'd been apart for a full year. He was broader now, stronger. Were it possible, sexier. He seemed to have grown in other ways, too. His intellect was sharper, and he felt more hopeful. Yet she could feel his concern, his growing apprehension, as they drew nearer the confrontation with Voldemort.
She didn't want him to be afraid. She'd decided to do all that she could to comfort him. It was half the reason she'd pushed the boundaries they'd set (for him, so long ago). Half the reason. The other half was the impossible gravity which drew her to him at every moment he was near. She needed him, in all the ways. She wanted him, literally every part of him; she fought the inclination to touch him, to seduce him, to taste him, every moment.
Luna whispered her gratitude, directed somewhere inside or outside the universe, she knew not which or to whom, for the coming semester at Hogwarts. They needed true obstacles - solid brick walls, patrolling prefects, looming consequences - to maintain the integrity of their commitments. The thrill of his touch, the radiating pleasure of his kiss, the overwhelming thrill of orgasm, was never enough. She needed him, viscerally, completely, overwhelmingly. She hadn't the power nor the will to resist the impulse to flirt, to stretch just so, to watch his expression shift altogether at the momentary glimpse. So she looked forward to their separation, with relief and regret in equal measure.
Three days. Less than 96 hours remained of this perfect summer. The summer of her first letter, her first friend. The summer Harry Potter changed everything. She pressed nearer to him, tucking her shoulder beneath his and wrapping her arm around his waist. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest, and at every breath the haunting shadows of possibility lengthened in her consciousness.
How odd, she thought. To feel such hope, against the backdrop of such fear.
Hermione Granger sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning forward into her palms, her fingers threaded through chestnut locks, fighting a sense of foreboding. She'd mentally rehearsed the many steps of their preparation, over and over reevaluating the pace of her execution, the potential interactions of disparate wards which might strengthen (or, she gasped at the thought, compromise) the protections of each. She reflected on the integrity of the extension charms, the influence of dark artifacts, tracing every shape of distant possibilities. Finally, she was forced to admit, there was nothing left to do, and no way whatsoever to account for the influence of Voldemort's soul.
She paced her room, worrying her lip while whispering sharp rebukes to herself for not having yet prepared for bed. Rest, she knew, was proven to accelerate brain function, and she couldn't afford a slow morning.
Yet she couldn't rest. She was too afraid. She couldn't lose Harry. The wizarding world couldn't lose Harry. He was her best friend, and the magical community's bright beacon of hope.
At a loss, she sat at her writing desk, flipped absentmindedly through Hogwarts, a History. A moment later, she heard a stir near her open window and felt a weight settle happily on her shoulder.
"Good morning, Newton." She met his wide gaze with a friendly smile, and gently ran her fingers through the feathers between his wings.
It was then that the notion crossed her mind, and for the first time that evening she felt something other than apprehension.
A blush colored her cheeks as she put quill to parchment in a flurry, before she could convince herself otherwise.
Fred,
Hi.
I can't sleep. And I can't tell you why. But I'm desperate for distraction.
Are you awake?
Hermione
She toyed with the quill, fighting the joint influence of panic and exhilaration. After only a moment's hesitation, she hastily tied a leather chord around the small roll of parchment and handed it to the owl now bobbing with excitement before her.
"Take this to Fred, Newton. Not George. Fred is the cute one."
A moment later she was alone, her heart beating rapidly.
It was late, nearly three. A faint breeze whispered through the open window. Harry lay beneath thin sheets, his arm wrapped tightly around Luna's slight frame. He memorized the shape of her shoulder, the rise and fall of her chest, the scent of lavender that seemed to envelop him when she was near. He couldn't sleep, yet her presence whispered comfort and hope.
He would speak to him tomorrow. To it. The shadow cast over his past, the storm that had stolen father and mother, the specter that had haunted his every moment since. Tom Riddle would stand before him, would speak to him, a cracked shard of the soul of one of the most powerful dark lords to tyrannize magical Britain.
And Harry was, bizarrely, intrigued by the opportunity. Some part of him hated Voldemort. That may never change. Yet another part of him knew, beyond all regret and bitterness and vengeful rage, that this was a man. Just a man, who was once a boy. Probably a lot like Harry.
Two years ago, after Ginny had been taken to the Chamber, after Tom had materialized, moment by moment siphoning her soul, Harry had spoken to him. He was ambitious and arrogant, manipulative. Yet he was sixteen. A year younger than Harry. This version - the snapshot to whom he'd be speaking in a matter of hours - was much older. Fifty-four. At the apex of his political and magical power. Harry fought a sense of dread curiosity when he considered that he'd be given an opportunity to interview a sociopath at sixteen, and then again at fifty-four, within a few short years.
He knew he ought to be afraid. But he wasn't.
Of course he felt some degree of apprehension. Tom Riddle was a master manipulator, had coaxed some of Britain's most ancient pureblood families to support and even facilitate some of the darkest atrocities in magical history. The rumors he'd heard, laced throughout embellished war stories, tearful confessions, and drunken reflections over countless rounds of firewhiskey, struck the same tone. Voldemort rarely forced the will of others. No. Much worse, he led them there, freely, to the darkness. How many hearts were captured by his promises, before even an imperio was cast?
Yes, apprehension was there. But Harry knew him, had seen through him over and over. Whatever happened tomorrow, Harry doubted whether the monster he knew could hide.
So he held tightly to the slight frame of Luna Lovegood, breathed deeply into her hair, and fell slowly to sleep. And just before the world slipped away, the echoes of a whisper resonated to his very soul.
Is this what hope feels like?
