Magnolias by Kaze

Rating: PG13
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 10/06/2004
Last Updated: 03/12/2004
Status: In Progress

[6th year fic] // He had been stuck in this state of being for so long that whatever offer of
awakening that he was beginning to realize she was unconsciously making, opened a door of
terrifying emotions that were anxious to drown him. // In the midst of tragedy, Harry Potter and
Hermione Granger will find the answers that they are desperately seeking in the discovery of each
other.




1. And to the Shadows I Fall
----------------------------

MAGNOLIAS

*There is a hate that burns within*

*The most desperate place I have ever been*

*Try to get back to where I’m from*

*The closer I get the worse it becomes*

*The closer I get the worse it becomes*

Nine Inch Nails, the big come down

**CHAPTER ONE**: And To The Shadows I Fall


Alone in the silent darkness of his room, Harry Potter found himself enchanted by the seductive
dance if the shadows on his wall. There was something beautifully twisted about them. As each faded
stream of light escaped from underneath his door, the shadows began a quiet and passionate rhythm.
Sometimes he found himself on the edge of his bed, reaching out to touch the shadows instead
creating his own. Other times he drew back with fear gripping him painfully and entwining with a
bitter acceptance of his fate. He was becoming a shadow of himself it seemed. Within the grief, the
loneliness, and the loss, he found unquestionable acceptance. But he didn’t want to be a shadow.
Being accepted by the shadows lacked an intimacy he desperately craved and he was beginning to
think that these were feelings he could never have.

Maybe this was why he was sitting quietly and alone on the edge of his bed, watching the shadows
and actually wishing that Voldemort would finally do him in. Or perhaps he was meant to only
understand the hollow shell of a man. Understand the demon in the darkness. Assume his secrets. Use
them against him. To understand the wizard that had been trying to kill him all these years was to
share—

Their connection through the prophecy was already warranting a hollow coexistence. Coexistence
between the two of them was impossible. There needed to be a balance, but one of them had to
die.

To be come victim or murderer, that was the eternal question.

A quiet knock at his door startled him out of his thoughts and he scrambled to his feet. Must be
Mrs. Weasley checking up on him. “Coming,” he called, stumbling to the door. His hand closed around
the knob and he pulled with a numbing ease.

“Hermione,” he murmured. For a moment, his eyes could see nothing but a blurred figure standing
before him. He blinked. Standing before him was an eleven-year-old Hermione Granger, who had come
to befriend him because of a stupid mountain troll and believed in him with an unwavering belief of
spirit and trust.

He blinked again.

He had been in the darkness too long because the *fifteen*-year-old Hermione was standing
before him now, still with that unwavering spirit and faith reflected in her eyes. He swallowed
suddenly. Why was he getting the feeling he had missed something?

“Why are you sitting in the dark?” She asked softly.

He found himself stepping back to allow her in, unable to respond. His mind was frantically
obsessed with the sudden notion of something being different with his best friend.

“I thought you weren’t arriving until Thursday evening,” he finally replied, still gripping the
ends of his thoughts.

She had yet to step across the doorway into his room, the soft glow of the candlelit hallway
illuminating the intensity of her eyes. She was too pale for July, he mused even in his frozen
state.

“I can only take an empty house for so long,” came the vague response as she stepped through the
doorway and into the darkness of his room.

He stored this response in the back of his mind as a possible contribution to his awareness of
her allure. Somewhere in his mind, perhaps the food to his mystifying fascination, he came to a
conclusion that his thought had never been occupied with anything but selfish sorrow.

He knew his parents solely on the memories of others, good and bad, and the few photographs that
he had collected over the years. Remus remained a close mystery to him, never truly making a
complete effort to connect to him. Sirius he knew through fragments and memories that lacked a true
emotional significance. He did not know Sirius outside of what was their shared grief. And when
finally faced with the severe truth just barely a month later after Sirius’ death, his grief for
his godfather was now driven solely on the moments he *could have had* in that short time with
him.

Maybe this was why he was overly attached to his friendship with Ron. It was inevitable that the
two of them would drift apart. Even in his desperate hold on their slowly fading friendship, he
still acknowledged the fact that Ron would one day become a complete stranger to him. Perhaps the
true reason he held on to what was left of the innocent and sometimes completely ignorant
relationship they had was Ron’s connection to *family*.

While Ron had his episodes of jealousy that simply immerged from someone even slightly
mentioning the “heroics” of Harry Potter, his bout with jealousy came in during much more quieter
moments. There was a pang in his heart every time Ron received a letter from his father or when
Ginny was surprised with an extra box of chocolate frogs because Mrs. Weasley was getting
concerned. He couldn’t begin to understand how Ron could even be remotely jealous of him when he
was nothing but a name.

But the Ron could not fathom Harry’s jealousy, often hidden by a dark shadow, of his family. Ron
simply did not know how to appreciate his family. There were times where Harry found himself
shamefully wishingthat something might happen so that Ron might actually experience life through
his eyes. He was bitterly ashamed of these feelings, but he knew his place with Ron.

But what about Hermione? Where was her place in his life?

The click of his door shutting and the returning comfort of the bleak darkness roused him out of
his thoughts. A rustle of clothing indicated sudden movement and he waited for Hermione to
speak.

“Can I turn a light on?”

He patiently waited for his eyes to slightly readjust to the darkness. “Are you afraid the
dark?” He asked.

“Sometimes,” she answered quietly in a nervous, child-like fashion. “Harry, I can’t see. Can we
just open the curtains and let *some* light in?”

The obsession that had plagued him earlier returned to his mind and filled him with a frantic
anxiety to be near her. In only associating his grief solely with his interactions with others,
never looking beyond that *grief* had cost him dearly with Sirius. And he knew from the scraps
of his heart that he could not go through that again with Hermione. The Department of Mysteries
incident was testament to that.

“Where are you?” He asked, blindly reaching for some form of contact.

“Over here… I think.”

“Hermione,” he growled. “This isn’t funny, I’m trying to help you here. Where are you?”

“I’m not laughing,” she snapped, her voice growing louder. “You’re the prat that didn’t want to
turn the damn lights on.”

He shifted towards the sound of her voice. “You didn’t have to come in.”

“You let me in.”

“Touché,” he conceded finally. Frustrated, he stumbled back onto his original corner on his bed.
He turned slightly to search for her, hoping that the faded light might draw her out.

“Hermione?”

The bed gently sagged down and he could make out her silhouette. The shadows that held his
fascination seemed to shy away from her.

“Yeah?”

“You’re too far away.” He swallowed nervously at the seductive sensation of her fingers tangling
with his.

“Is that better?” She asked huskily.

“Yeah.”

They sat in silence for several moments, the need for words never plaguing either of them. This
was what he liked about the state of his relationship with Hermione. There was no dire need of
expectation, a comforting and frightening concept at the same time. And yet there were times, which
grew more frequent as they became older, he was aware of his own desolate state of being. He had
been stuck in this state of being for so long that whatever offer of awakening that he was
beginning to realize she was unconsciously making, opened a door of terrifying emotions that were
anxious to drown him.

“Why are you afraid of the dark?” He asked, breaking the silence.

“Confessions,” she murmured, her hand tightening its grip on his.

“Confessions?”

What kind of answer was that?

“Confessions,” she affirmed. “There’s something about the dark and confessions. There’s
something about the dark and terrible secrets too.”

“You’re only—”

“Darkness, Harry is nearly the equivalent of going mad,” she interrupted. “Dementors like the
dark…”

He violently ripped his hand from hers and pushed himself of the bed, melting back into the
consoling shadows. He suddenly felt an overwhelming feeling of betrayal. He had hoped she’d
under—

He didn’t know what he had hoped for.

“Then I must be mad,” he responded angrily.

“Harry—,” she began.

“No, Hermione. You’re afraid of the dark and terrible secrets, remember? Isn’t that what *I
am*?”

“Harry, *please*—”

“Just go, Hermione,” he snapped, pushing himself as far away as possible.

There was a creak from his bed as he heard her jump down and quietly make her way from what he
assumed to be his door. His breath caught at the sound of her sighing softly in defeat.

“I just wish you would talk to me, Harry.”

He moved forward with his anger fueling another bitter retort, but he was only greeted by the
sound of his door gently shutting.

Maybe it was better this way.

TBC Author’s Notes:

I am so unbelievably excited about this fic. Maybe because finals are over, which really
wouldn’t count since I am taking summer credits since I had the *brilliant* idea about finishing
early. Maybe it’s because I hate Philosophy 309 with such a fervent passion. Maybe it’s because
English 346 is all about the Romantic Period with all those lovely depressing poets. Or *maybe*
it’s because HP3 was just so awe-inspiring and brilliant. The point is I am excited.

It looks like this is going to be a very long fic. I can’t honestly say that it’ll be more than
at least ten chapters, but I don’t plan things very well. *shrugs* Or so my mother says.

I’m definitely going to focus more on the emotional relationships rather than an
action-adventure filled 6th year. I just like torturing characters more. I’m a sadist
apparently. But Voldemort will make his yearly appearance, I promise.

Oh and before I forget, thank you to Alexandra for being my beta reader and the fun emails. It’s
a scary task to pick my mind. It’s beyond me why anyone would want to, but they both seem to like
it.

So now business is done, it’s time for me to tell to review. You know you want to.



2. I Call the Phantoms of a Thousand Hours
------------------------------------------

MAGNOLIAS

*Wilt thou go with me, sweet maid,*

*Say maiden, wilt thou go with me*

*Through the valley depths of shade,*

*Of night and dark obscurity,*

*Where the path hath lost its way,*

*Where the sun forgets the day,*

*Where there’s nor life nor light to see,*

*Sweet maiden, wilt thou go with me?*

An Invite to Eternity, John Clare

**CHAPTER TWO:** I Call the Phantoms of a Thousand Hours

Hermione had been staring at a blank page in her journal for like an eternity. Ginny had long
gone to bed and now was sleeping restlessly in her space in the corner. The younger girl had just
gone to bed. Her attempt of trying to engage Hermione in conversation had failed miserably,
allowing an eerie silence to settle in their room.

Grimmauld Place refused to lose the aura of misery that wanted to surround it indefinitely. The
ear-shattering wails of Mrs. Black’s portrait no longer blasted through the hallways. Kreacher had
disappeared; his snarling and muttering were a brief memory. Mrs. Weasley had mentioned that a sock
went missing from the laundry that she had been doing earlier.

Despite the disappearance of the house-elf and portrait, Grimmauld Place was empty and all its
inhabitants confined themselves to their respective rooms. The silence was maddening with Sirius’
presence still haunting the hallways. On her way to her room with Ginny, they encountered Remus
sitting on the stairs with his head buried in his hands. The desolation in Remus’ eyes was heart
wrenching, she thought sadly. The man had lost not only a friend but also a brother and their
moments together had been brief. Remus had been busy with Order business and Sirius had been far
too lost after his time in Azkaban.

There was something about this house, something that was eternally miserable. It was as if the
house itself took pride in manipulating the grief of those who lived within it with a sickening
glee. The words *too late* seemed to hover above everyone who lived within the house. Perhaps,
dear old Mrs. Black had cursed the house before she died in case its ownership came under Muggles.
She wouldn’t put it past the wretched woman.

Maybe she should have stayed home.

She knew if she were home, her sanctuary would be right in front of the abandoned Steinway,
situated against the far window of the family room as it had always been, a worn copy of Mrs.
Dalloway in hand. The Steinway was a wedding present from her grandmother to her mother; something
that she knew her mother was hoping to pass down to her despite her separation from the Muggle
World.

She also knew if she were home, she would be locked in a vicious verbal battle with her mother
or moments of awkward silence with her father. She sighed, breaking her stare away from her journal
and to roll onto her back. She watched as the shadows of the wind-caressed trees danced against the
ceiling. She knew the inevitable separation between her and her parents had been a long time
coming. The expectations that her parents carried about her going to medical school dwindled when
they had finally realized that her entry to the magical world was not just a passing fancy but had
quickly become her life.

Life at home was filled with arguments of what Hogwarts and the wizarding world would actually
provide for her and had gotten worse with the letters notifying her parents about the impending
danger that Voldemort posed. It had been unacceptable to her parents when she had informed them of
her decision to stay at Hogwarts and continue her magical education.

A part of her understood her parents’ disappointment stemmed from worrying. They were
intelligent enough to recognize the position of their daughter. It made her sad that their support
faded into almost nothing, too clouded by their disappointment in her to offer any.

So she had packed her bags and sent off a letter to Tonks at the Ministry to let Mrs. Weasley
know that she would be arriving earlier than planned. Without so much as a good-bye to her parents,
she met Tonks at a designated location.

Hermione rubbed her eyes tiredly. She wasn’t home. She wasn’t faced with the constant irritation
of arguing with her parents. She had meant what she had said earlier to Harry. She was tired of an
empty house. For when her parents weren’t trying to engage in verbal battles with her, the house
was completely silent. She was tired of being home alone with nothing but her thoughts to keep her
company.

And yet she had come to Grimmauld Place and a different kind of silence. The maddening, numbing
silence that kept even Crookshanks confined to the corner of her bed. This could be home. But it
wasn’t. Instead she was quietly struggling to make sense of her life on top of her bed, still clad
in her torn jeans and button-down oxford from her arrival earlier in the evening.

She yawned and shifted. Her page was still blank. Her eyes darted around nervously. Her quill
had switched from hand to hand, dangling from her fingertips off the side of her bed. Her eyes
watched the fading candlelight, the agonizing frustration from her conversation with Harry still
eating away at her.

**“*Are you afraid of the dark?*”**

There was something in the way he had asked her the question. She had immediately recognized the
desperation in his voice, but the desperation itself merely served as a layer to the dark and
complex emotions underneath it. This notion alone unnerved her completely. She recognized his
desperation, knew that he fought to control his emotions. It frightened her that they were quickly
nearing the bursting point. But what terrified her more was that Harry felt he had to fight
alone.

Her answer—

Her fear of the dark, of confessions was a poor reason for selfishly protecting herself from
him. The complete and utter opposite of what she wanted to do.

***“Just go, Hermione*.”**

He may not have said it out loud, but instinctively she knew he was looking for someone to
listen to him. She wanted desperately to be that person, but she missed an opportunity because of
her own selfish fear.

“Hermione?” Ginny’s sleepy voice broke through her thoughts. “I don’t mean to sound terribly
rude, but could you *please* blow the bloody candle out?”

“Sorry, Gin,” she murmured, glancing distantly at her blank page once more. “Got caught up in
my… my writing… I’m just going to go get water from the kitchen, do you want something?”

She heard a moan of irritation. “For the love of God, *go to bed*.”

Hermione ignored her friend and blew out the candle between their beds. She dropped her journal
and quill to the floor with a soft thump. Rising to her feet, she carefully maneuvered throughthe
darkness of their room into the hallway. A bleak chill embraced her as she walked quietly down the
stairs and into the small kitchen air. Despite Molly Weasley’s attempt to bring a bit of warmth
into the kitchen with a glass vase of wildflowers, the kitchen still retained the same coldness of
the rest of the house. She shook her head. Surrounding herself with these thoughts would only serve
to feed the misery, it would only be best if she got her water and went back to her room to try to
sleep.

She began to quietly search for glass in the cupboards, cringing each time an obnoxious squeak
permeated the sullen silence of the household.

“Dad said that your parents didn’t see you off this time around.”

She jumped, nearly dropping a glass she had found onto the floor. *Of course…* *Ron*.
He only ever appeared when she just wanted to be left alone. She bit her lip, trying to slip on a
mask of composure before she turned around. It seemed as if she couldn’t avoid him forever.

“Ron,” she greeted him quietly with air of indifference, hoping that she could avoid a
confrontation at all costs. She kept her head low, so that her eyes did not meet his gaze. It was
best to be completely passive. Things between them had been especially strange in the last two
years. She knew that he held some feelings for her and she’d realized too late that things between
them had begun to whirl out of control. There were too many moments where she found Ron had
cornered her into an awkward silence. It was almost as if he were trying to *force* her to
confess something. But these continuous rows of his were getting to the point where she was growing
too weary to fight.

“Scared you?”

“More like startled me,” she snapped, filling her glass with water. “Don’t do that. It’s bad
enough that this house is utterly creepy.”

“I haven’t seen you all day,” he responded, ignoring her comment. She could recognize some of
the hidden implications in his voice.

She sighed. She was in no mood to fight him, especially in the middle of the night. For a
friendship that seemed to be based on nothing but their fighting, these moments were signs. She
needed to pay attention, especially now when she recognizing that he did have a hidden agenda when
it came to her. “Ron, I only arrived in the early evening. And it’s late. I’m tired. I just came
down to get a drink of water.”

“Ginny said that you talked to Harry.”

Her eyes narrowed. Was he deliberately trying to trap her? Or better yet, was he trying to
manipulate her concern for Harry into something he could use against her? She set her glass down
and whirled around, now curious as what exactly he was trying to get at.

“*And*?” She hadn’t meant for her reply to come out in an indignant manner. It seemed her
attempts to keep this conversation neutral and short were blatantly going to fail.

“And here I always thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” he mocked, inching closer
into her space and blocking hopes for any future escape.

She could feel her anger rising. “What exactly do you want from me, Ron? All I came to do was to
get a bloody glass of water. Do I need to give a reason for every damn thing I—?”

“I’m just saying,” he cut her off. “You spent way too much time trying to involve yourself in
his life when he obviously doesn’t want you to get involved.”

**“Just go, Hermione.”**

Her fists clenched angrily at her side. What was it about Ron and his ability to draw out every
insecurity that she had carefully hidden?

“Do you enjoy being malicious, Ron? Because if you *must* know, I was only trying to show
him that I do care and that I’m not going to hide from him like *you’re* obviously doing.
Besides, *did it ever occur to you that he needs someone to talk to?* Or are you still
convinced that the world revolves around you?”

Hermione pushed passed Ron with a vicious shove, too angry to realize that she had left the
kitchen in the complete opposite direction than she had intended too. She made her way past the
spot where Mrs. Black’s portrait had hung and where Kreacher had spent time muttering. Suddenly she
found herself at the end of a hallway and cursed her own stupidity as she finally realized she had
cornered herself on a side of Grimmauld Place that she was nowhere near familiar with.

“Stupid Ron.” She let out a shaky sigh. Her eyes darted around for a bit of light that could
possibly help her find her way back to the kitchen and then to her room. “Stupid me.”

A hand fell upon her should and she jumped.

“Ron,” she hissed. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore. Not about my parents. Not about
Harry—”

She whirled around with every intention of pushing him away again, but was frozen in her place
when she found herself meeting Harry’s fierce.

“Harry…” she whispered, his name stumbling out of her lips.

His grip tightened on her shoulder and she wondered how much he’d heard of her conversation with
Ron. She swallowed nervously as he drew her closer, his mouth inches away from her own.

“I’m beginning think that we were meant to have these conversations in the dark, Hermione.”

**TBC**

Wow guys. Thanks for all those lovely reviews. You really know how to make a girl feel. I’m just
glad that you enjoyed the first chapter.

The second chapter is more of an introspective chapter, and the last I swear, but some issues
need to get out of the way first.

Just a quick note this time around. The title for this chapter is a line from Percy Shelley’s
“Hymn to Intellectual Beauty”. Although Shelley isn’t my favorite romantic poet, the line really
seemed appropriate for this chapter for some reason. “Hymn to Intellectual Beauty” is a beautifully
sad poem and I do recommend everyone to read it.

And finally, Ron. Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron. I love the guy to death. Honestly. But a warning for
future chapters to come… Ron’s going to be a jerk. Plain and simple. If you want to see what my
version of Jerk!Ron is like, go read my story Undercurrents. I’m not saying he’ll turn out to be a
complete jerk… You’ll just have to wait and see.

Until the next chapter!



3. The Nature of the Unconceivable
----------------------------------

MAGNOLIAS

Blue now is the colour

Love the drug I’m needing

Got to keep this feeling

With the headlights burning

We’re looking up for something

Answers on the ceiling

Watching out the windows

Watch the way the wind blows

Soon it will be morning

Still the question lingers

I twist it round my fingers

Could you be my calling? PJ Harvey, the Slow Drug

**CHAPTER THREE:** The Nature of the Unconceivable

“I’m beginning think that we were meant to have these conversations in the dark, Hermione.”

There was something deliciously dangerous about the close proximity of her lips. He nearly
forgot about his intentions of seeking her out, the mere scent of her erasing all his thoughts
about their previous conversation. He towered over her, he mused. *Had she always been this
tiny?* Forcing himself to close his eyes and try to regain some of his composure, he
unconsciously tangled his fingers in her. He watched with an almost feral pleasure as she trembled
under both his touch and his gaze. He was momentarily caught off guard as her hand came to rest
shyly against her cheek, her fingertips brushing gently against his skin. A soft sigh escaped her
lips and he wondered what it would be like to *kiss* her.

He was drowning in a sea of darkness. Why was it that she followed without any hesitation? Could
she explain his mysterious need for her? He was losing his mind, he decided. Needing her this
desperately had to be a sign of insanity, especially since he had no idea why.

Harry violently untangled himself from their semi-embrace and pushed himself away, turning his
back so that he could regain his control. He swallowed. He didn’t understand any of this. How was
it that being around her, simply breathing the same air as her, was sending him into sensory
overload? He was already gripping the fringes of his sanity? How could he possibly even begin to
control himself with *this*?

“What are you doing on this side of the house?” A stupid question, but a needed diversion
nonetheless. He didn’t even know what this side of the house was. Echoes of her conversation with
Ron scraped against his subconscious. She was miserable about something, he had no doubt. But
something had set her off, something more than Ron. *You could use it against her*, a voice in
his head crooned.

“I— I don’t know,” she finally answered. He turned and watched as she wrapped her arms around
herself as if she were trying to protect herself from the darkness of the hall.

“You *don’t know*?” The words escaped his lips harsher than he intended them. An odd
feeling in his stomach clawed at him as she turned away from him completely. For moment, he could
have sworn he was facing the terrified eleven year-old from their first year, the very same girl
who continuously put on a brave front despite her fears. Now she stood with her back facing him, as
if she was seeking to protect herself from him.

“I don’t know.” She left no room in her voice for further question, but he did not miss the
slight wavering in her words. For once, he reveled in having the emotional upper hand of the
situation. It was sickeningly empowering to know he could stir the ever-composed Hermione
Granger.

“I heard your conversation with Ron,” he tested.

She stiffened and he fought to keep a malicious grin of his face. The voice in the back of his
head cheered in twisted delight. *She doesn’t understand*, it whispered. *No one does. She
will never understand.*

“I’m not surprised,” Hermione murmured, her voice exhausted and forlorn. It was as if she were
trying to be as passive as possible. *Just like everyone else in the this damn house*, the
voice finished. “I’m going to bed.”

*Oh no*, he thought. *You’re not going anywhere.*

“I thought you wanted to talk to me, *Hermione*,” he mocked, goading her into an argument.
She whirled around, her eyes flashing dangerously. Streams of light escaping from a window in the
corner lightened her silhouette.

“Are you intentionally trying to be a prat like Ron, Harry? Or are you that desperate in trying
to get me to hit you?”

She was in his space again, her vanilla perfume threatening to cut the last few strands of his
sanity. He forced his eyes to focus on the empty space above her. They were soon drawn to another
window in the far ends of the hallway, where the moon kissed the carpeted floor. Whispers of Ron’s
nightly confessions one hot summer night before the start of their fourth year resurfaced. They had
been sitting by the front steps, watching Ginny and Hermione catch fireflies.

*There’s something about her mate, something I can’t quite put my fingers on. It’ll be the end
of me though. It’s as if she lights up the room…*

He had been too deep in his crush on Cho to really pay attention to what Ron was saying.
Nevertheless, he did remember the wistfulness in his friend’s voice. Was Hermione really that
unattainable? In fact, what made her that way? Now he wondered what Ron had really seen.

Swallowing, he shifted from foot to foot. “It goes both ways,” he murmured, breaking free of the
spell his memory briefly cast. She said nothing in response, her gaze intense and unnerving.

He struggled to continue, fighting the allure she exuded. Her eyes were far too bright. The
scent of her perfume far was too enthralling. He had to keep his mind straight. “You— You want me
to talk to you, *but you don’t talk to me*. And I’m not ready to talk to you, Hermione. In
fact, I don’t think I’m ready to talk to anyone yet. But remember, it goes both ways.”

Her hand reached out and grabbed him by the wrist before he could escape. The simple contact,
skin against skin, burned him. This is what scared him, this longing for something that he couldn’t
understand.

“It isn’t working, Harry,” she began quietly, her voice laced with a sad fury. “I’m not going to
pretend to understand what you’re going through, but you can’t make me go away. I’ll keep telling
you this if I have to.”

“Will you?” He tried to regain control of the situation, prying his hand out of her grip. He
turned his back to her this time, fighting to steady his breathing. She was watching him. He could
feel her eyes burning holes into him, but he refused to unravel under the intensity of her
presence.

Eyes were the windows if the soul, so goes the old saying. He was guilty of applying this
statement to Hermione. She had beautiful eyes, something that he had acknowledged since that
fateful meeting on the train to Hogwarts. Something he would never bring himself to telling
her.

It was her eyes, their warmth and honesty that drew him to her. Her emotional strength was a
constant fixture in his life, so much so that he was addicted to it like a drug.

But the intensity of her gaze seemed to illuminate the dark hallway. It scared him. It was as if
she were trying to piece together a puzzle. An immensely complex puzzle that would better if it
were left alone, he thought sourly. Unfortunately for him, Hermione was brilliant at puzzles and
worse— She had the patience for them.

It scared him even more that he couldn’t read her.

He trembled as she slowly took him by the hand again, the contact between them nearly maddening.
He was utterly at a loss with his desperate struggle to keep her at bay while wanting her
intoxicatingly close.

“Harry,” she murmured tiredly. “We can’t dance in circles forever. If you need space, I’ll give
it to you… just come forward and ask me.”

He heard her sigh. “You’re absolutely right, it does go both ways. You want to talk? I’ll
listen. But you want *me* to talk you? You’ve got to want to listen.”

Her hand released his from her grip and he watched as she stepped in front of him. Suddenly, it
was as if he were seeing her for the first time. Nearly six years of friendship, innocent times
spent together even with the knowledge of Voldemort looming of their heads. Sometimes they laughed.
Sometimes they yelled. Sometimes they cried. But somehow they still managed to remain friends.

Now things were changing.

Ron, he could always understand. He knew where the other boy stood in his life and could guess
where he’d stand in the future, if he ever made it that far. Then there was Hermione. Questions and
even more frequently, answers that he thought were set in stone plagued him constantly. There was
one disturbing question that stood out in his mind.

Had he ever listened to her?

Brushing a shaking hand over his hair, he closed his eyes with hopes of getting control of his
thoughts. *I should just walk away*, he chanted as a mantra. A part of him recognized the
dangerous territory he was treading with Hermione and warned him to back away. Another part
whispered that it was inevitable. He was going to eventually have to deal with it. But his thoughts
were interrupted, Hermione’s voice drifting towards him like the passing wind

“I want to listen to you,” she whispered. She moved another step backwards, only hesitating
slightly as if she hoped he would stop her. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

He couldn’t even bring himself to form her name on his lips, torn between his fear of what
stopping her would lead to and his relief that pushing her away was working. It would be easier if
she were the one to walk away. Yet he found himself watching in fear, as she seemed to fade, the
darkness opening its arms and swallowing her.

*Why was it so hard to believe?*

**A/N:** Well, wow. Thanks guys. The story was only on chapter two and this is the response I
get? *blinks* I’m a little overwhelmed with the response only because the story is just beginning
really.

I’ve got nothing really to say this time around, except please continue feeding my ego and
review. Thank you to my wonderful betas Sarah, Alexandra, two very awesome people. And thank you my
reviewers, I can’t stress that enough.



4. the Hollow Revelation
------------------------

MAGNOLIAS

In your room
Where time stands still
Or moves at your will
Will you let the morning come soon
Or will you leave me lying here
In your favorite darkness
Your favorite half-light
Your favorite consciousness

*Your favorite slave*

*In your room
Where souls disappear
Only you exist here
Will you lead me to your armchair
Or leave me lying here
Your favorite innocence
Your favorite prize
Your favorite smile*

*In your room
Where souls disappear
Only you exist here
Will you lead me to your armchair
Or leave me lying here
Your favorite innocence
Your favorite prize*

*Your favorite smile* **Depeche Mode, In Your Room Again**

**CHAPTER FOUR:** The Hollow Revelation

It was the rain that finally woke her up, not her persistent need to escape her dreams. The
brutal drumming of raindrops viciously beating against the window, startled her out of her
dream-induced state. Her breathing was short and the sensation of misery still lingered as if to
tease her. She could still pick out pieces of her conversation with her mother, wondering if she
could ever get past the rift between her parents and herself.

*“I can’t tell you,” she replied softly, packing her clothes into her trunk. She tried
desperately to avoid eye contact with her mother. “You because you won’t like it.”*

*“It’s that boy,” her mother exploded, Hermione’s words lost in her tirade. The older woman
stepped forward, nearly knocking her off balance. “Harry, right? I read the Daily Prophet! I know
how dangerous—”*

*Her hands slammed down on her trunk, a hideous thud echoing throughout the room. “You want to
know,” she hissed, tears burning in the corners of her eyes. She whipped them away angrily
“Fine.”*

*And then everything began to pour out.*

*“I almost died,” she laughed bitterly. “In fact, I was ready to die. But I came back… I don’t
know why, god knows I’ve tried to find the reason, but I came back.”*

*“Hermione, darling,” her mother tried to interrupt.*

*She shook her head. “Sometimes I think I’m here for Harry. I’d like to think that I came back
for a boy. But I’m supposed to be practical? So maybe, maybe you could explain to me why I feel so
damn useless!”*

It seemed her misery had followed her to sleep. She pushed herself up into a sitting position
with her eyes struggling to readjust with the change in lighting.

“Hermione?”

She hissed in pain, her right shoulder throbbing with reminders of that fateful night in the
Department of Mysteries. Her eyes landed on the bed across from hers, meeting the worried gaze of
Ginny Weasley. The younger girl had always offered a shoulder for her to cry on or an ear for
listening. They were friends to some degree. They weren’t exactly close, but Ginny was the only
person she could to talk to without getting angry or frustrated.

“Morning Gin,” she responded softly.

“Finally! I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever get up,” she exclaimed, her eyes twinkling.
She was obviously trying to lighten the mood, “Didn’t get much sleep, eh?”

“No,” she murmured, pushing her legs over the side of her bed. She wondered how long she’d have
to pretend that she was all right. She had already lied herself into a numbness when she had been
home.

Ginny jumped off her bed and made room for herself on Hermione’s. “I’m worried about you. I know
you don’t want to talk about it, but maybe it’ll help to get some of what’s bothering you off your
chest.”

She swallowed. “My shoulder hurts…”

Ginny’s eyes widened. “I thought Madame Pomfrey gave you enough healing salve to take care of
the pain and get rid of scarring.”

Hermione shook her head, strands of hair falling out of her ponytail and into her eyes. She
reached up and pulled at the sweatshirt that she had sleepily put on the night before, when she had
stumbled back from her encounter with Harry in the hallway. Finally deciding that it was okay to
show Ginny, she yanked the sweatshirt over her head and drew a startled gasp.

“Merlin, Hermione,” Ginny breathed. “I didn’t know it was that bad…”

She winced as the pain refused to go back to the dull throbbing she had been used to since that
aftermath of that night. Her eyes drifted down to her scar. Dolohov had undoubtedly done a number
on her. A long, angry gash ran horizontally from the top of her shoulder to just above her breast.
The amount of pain alternated, Madame Pomfrey had warned her. But the healing salve seemed to do
nothing.

“Do your parents know?”

“They know that I was involved with the field trip to the Department of Mysteries,” she replied
sardonically. She winced as she watched Ginny flinch in response. She sighed.

“My parents have this idea of me, Gin,” she began quietly. “They’re rational enough to
understand that the house with the white picket fence isn’t exactly in my future, but they won’t
let go of this idea that— I’m a muggle-born. I’ve got to struggle with two different worlds, the
one that holds my family and the one that holds a life that I know is right for me.”

“You’re parents love you,” Ginny injected. “When I met them, I could see it in their eyes.
They’re proud of you.”

She shook her head. “I know they love me. I love them too. They’re the only parents I’ve got.
But you have to understand Gin, for them my ‘time’ in the magical world is nothing but a passing
fancy. The danger that I’m facing right now is superficial to them. Regardless of everything, they
still expect me to apply to Oxford or Cambridge for medical school. They want a doctor, not a
daughter.”

“Hermione…”

She shrugged and bitterly replied, “I’ve come to accept the fact a long time ago. I just wasn’t
prepared for the ‘university’ speech to come so early, among other things.”

Hermione turned and pushed herself off her bed, starting to search for something to wear. She
heard Ginny sigh in defeat and acceptance of the conversation’s direction not being pushed any
further.

“Mum’s up,” Ginny began. “She’s making an early breakfast so we can get an early start on
packing. I wish we could still go to Diagon Alley even though Dumbledore owled us our schoolbooks.
But Mum’s on her last nerve because the Twins told Ron and I that there were rumors of Death Eaters
lurking around the entrance for Knockturn Alley when we went to visit them at their joke shop.”

Their schoolbooks had been purchased before everyone’s arrival to Grimmauld Place. Mr. Weasley
had explained to them that Dumbledore did not want to take any risks especially with the growing
recognition of Voldemort’s return.

“Looking for target practice, no doubt.”

Ginny snorted. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

The two girls got ready in silence. Ginny was already dressed for the day ahead of them, but she
nervously redid her hair into a ponytail as if she were debating to pushing the conversation
between of them into uncharted territory. Hermione, on the other hand, settled for quickly and
quietly easing into her jeans and one of her father’s old rugby t-shirts, ignoring the sentimental
pang in her heart. Signaling her readiness to go to breakfast, she and Ginny left their room and
made their way down the stairs.

The smell of bacon and eggs was delicious. Her mind would not stop her from musing on the
ironies that it was food that almost made the dreariness of Grimmauld Place nearly disappear. It
was times like these that she thanked God for someone like Molly Weasley and her good intentions.
The older woman went a little far sometimes, she had good intentions, nonetheless. Too many good
intentions. She could count on Molly Weasley to stay the same.

For a moment, she could have sworn she was enjoying the liveliness of breakfast at the Burrow.
Entering the kitchen, she took the empty seat next to Remus while Ginny took the empty seat next
Ron. Small talk between the adults about the latest gossip and the occasional Quidditch commentary
occupied most of the conversation.

“They say Malfoy’s going to be released,” Arthur Weasley murmured.

Her eyes widened. A sharp kick from Ginny told her that she hadn’t been the only one who heard.
She glanced at Harry to see if he had heard, but he was too busy trying to avoid conversation with
Ron. She could feel the awkwardness between the two boys in heavy waves, but with a sigh, returned
to staring at her breakfast plate in silence.

Remus snorted. “For what? Good behavior?”

Tonks shook her head. “Uncle Lucius is trying the ‘I was under the Imperius curse’ again. Plus
Fudge is a complete pansy when it comes to dealing with the man.”

Hermione tried to focus on something other than the conversation that was going on beside her.
Several thoughts went through her head at that moment. *Lucius Malfoy?* *Would her parents
be all right? Was Dolohov free too?* She shivered. The mere thought of the Death Eater that had
cursed her was almost enough to send bile rising up her throat. Would this stupid war ever end?

She pushed her plate away, suddenly losing her appetite. She watched quietly as Harry stood up
and headed back up the stairs, an irritated Ron following. No one at the table paid any attention,
they were too involved in their own quiet conversation. Moments later she soon found herself being
ushered by Mrs. Weasley back up the stairs with Ginny to start getting things ready for their
departure for the new school year. She tried to push thoughts of what happened in the Department of
Mysteries along with Lucius Malfoy’s release to the back of her mind, finally coming to the point
where she had to stop in mid-step on the stairs.

“Are you okay?” Ginny asked worriedly. “Is it your shoulder? Do you want me to get my mum?”

“I’m fine,” she murmured in response. “I guess I should have just stayed in bed.”

Ginny grabbed her by the arm. “I’m not letting you walk up the stairs like this. You look like
you’re going to fall, Hermione.”

She said nothing in response, but let Ginny seek comfort in helping her up the stairs. The
hallway was quiet, nothing like it had been at nighttime, but the silence was still as disarming as
ever. They stopped at the doorway of their room.

**“Well, you can’t have her!”**

Her eyes widened at the sound of Ron’s angry voice. She heard Ginny curse under her breath.

“Not again,” the younger girl muttered, turning back around.

“Again? What’s wrong?”

Ginny stopped in mid-step and sighed. “It was before you came.”

“What happened before I came?” She couldn’t hide the sense of urgency in her voice as she
watched Ginny shift nervously. She struggled as the panic the rose within her.

“I—”

The sound of shattering glass caused both girls to jump.

“Go get your mum,” she called over her shoulder, running towards the open door to Harry’s room.
The sound of shattering glass still rang painfully in her as she stood silently in the doorway of
Harry’s room, vaguely aware of the chaotic scramble of footsteps and voice heading in her
direction. She was worried beyond belief. What had Ginny meant when she had said that this had
happened before?

For a brief moment, she stood frozen with her eyes darting between a dangerously silent Harry
and a deliriously angry Ron. Droplets of blood escaped from Ron’s clenched hand and splashed onto
the shards of broken glass scattered at the feet of the two. She watched with a perverse
fascination as the room seemed to grow brighter and a prism of color invaded the stark walls.

“*Boys*!”

She was startled out of her thoughts by the sharpness of Mrs. Weasley’s voice and Ginny laying a
nervous hand on her arm. She watched as Remus entered the room and stepped between the two boys.
She didn’t miss the look of disappointment the flashed in Remus’ tired eyes.

“This is totally unacceptable,” Mrs. Weasley hissed. “I expected more from you than this
Ron—”

“Of course,” Ron cut her off in mid-rant. “You side with poor Harry who can’t do anything wrong
because he’s such a tortured soul.”

“Ron,” Arthur Weasley warned as he stepped into the room as well.

“No,” he snapped back, causing Hermione to wince. Hermione didn’t miss the dark look that Ron
shot in her direction. The fierce anger in Ron’s eyes was beginning to scare her. “This is between
Harry and *me*. You need to stop coddling Harry like he’s a bloody baby. And you need to stop
getting in between the two of us. A confrontation between the two of us is going to happen. If not
here, then on the train to school… If not on the train to school, then in school. You can’t prevent
the inevitable.”

Hermione watched as an angry flush bloomed on Mrs. Weasley’s cheeks and unconsciously moved away
from the older woman who looked ready to unleash an even angrier tirade. Mr. Weasley held his wife
back and warily watched the scene unfold.

“Ron’s right, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry’s cool voice seemed to darken the nauseating brightness of
the room. For a moment, she felt Harry’s eyes rest intensely on her. Hermione fought against the
violent urge to meet his gaze and settled upon watching the prism of colors created by the broken
glass and blood on the floor. “We might as well solve this now. So let’s talk Ron. In front of
*everyone*…”

Ron seemed to be struggling, Hermione noticed. Harry had somehow trapped him, using his
intentions against him. Whatever those intentions were. She made a mental note to ask Ginny what
had exactly happened between her two friends. Friends, even the mere thought, were beginning to
lose meaning in her mind. Things were truly changing.

“Well, Ron,” Harry spoke again. “Don’t you have something to say?”

Ron shook his head and violently whirled around, pushing through everyone who had gathered
around the door. Then he stopped in front her, raising his bloody hand as if he were going to touch
her cheek. Hermione found herself moving closer to Ginny as if she were shielding herself from
Ron.

“You don’t deserve her, Harry Potter,” Ron murmured.

“Neither do you.”

But Ron was gone. There was only tense silence now. Harry hadn’t moved from where he was
standing and Ginny had let go of her arm to follow her parents who were going after Ron. Harry’s
eyes fell upon her again and she couldn’t avoid meeting his gaze this time around. She moved
further into the room and began to feel dizzy as the room began to spin. She knew this time he was
trapping her.

“I’ll go get some bandages for your arm, Harry,” Remus spoke quietly, breaking Hermione out of
her trance. She unconsciously sent the older man a grateful smile, but the smile quickly
disappeared as soon as she saw Harry’s arm.

“Harry,” she breathed, moving closer and gingerly grasping his arm with her hands. Bits of glass
were embedded in a nasty cut that ran along his wrist. It looked almost as if it had been— No, she
shook her head. Harry wasn’t like that. She hoped it never would get to that point. Her fingers
began to gently brush some of the glass out of his cut.

“I fell on my arm,” he murmured, stopping her hand. “Ron was going to hit me and I ducked,
tripping on the dresser.”

“What about the glass?”

He didn’t answer and she found herself wishing that Remus would return quickly, but could only
continue pulling out the pieces of broken glass in his skin. Harry quietly stilled her hand,
forcing her to look up.

“Ron’s right,” he murmured in a quiet defeat. “I don’t deserve you.”

Her eyes widened in comprehension. The fight had been about her. “Me?”

“You,” he mumbled with a nod. “He’s in love with you, you know. Or at least that’s what he
believes.”

Her heart was pounding and her hands were shaking, forcing her to pull away. She was the source
of animosity between her two— She didn’t even know what to call them anymore. She wrapped her arms
around herself. She wanted to cry.

“He can’t be,” she whispered. This wasn’t happening. Panic began to surge through her mind. Was
this why Ron was malicious when he had encountered her in the kitchen?

Harry stepped forward, gently pushing her chin up. “He is.”

“And you?” She asked, swallowing her tears.

He shrugged. “I don’t understand this.”

“Do you think I do?”

“No,” he murmured, tracing her lips with his fingers. She couldn’t begin to describe the effect
of his closeness. The movement of his fingers against her lips was intoxicating. She found herself
unable to pull away from the dark secrets in his eyes. It was inevitable, she realized. No matter
how much they avoided each other. No matter how much they didn’t understand, they would always be
inexplicably drawn to each other.

“Hermione?” Harry’s lips were entirely to close to her own. Was he going to kiss her? What would
happen then? There was entirely too much going on right now. She didn’t know if she could take
another rise in the emotional instability that threatened to drown her. “I—”

“You what?” She breathed.

“I can’t do this.”

Then he was gone.

**

**A/N:** Yes, Yes. Terribly sorry. I know it’s late, but the month of July has been extremely
busy and I have been suffering from computer problems at home and at work. I almost considered
throwing my laptop out of my window.

A couple things first. Thank you guys for all the lovely reviews. I mean it. And as corny as it
sounds, they make the day seem a lot better.

Now the good news. The stories going to pick up now, so wave goodbye to Grimmauld Place for the
time being. But the bad news is the next update won’t be for another two weeks. The reason why is
as follows: My birthday’s on Tuesday. My parents, out of the kindness of their heart, are taking
the family on the vacation for my birthday. Where? I don’t know because it’s a surprise.

The bad news that stems out of this is that there will not be an update for another two weeks
because I have no idea where we’re going and I can’t bring my laptop.

But I promise to update **much, much faster** when I return.

Other than that, please continue to review and make me a happy author.



5. The Scars of Echoes
----------------------



do you know how far this has gone?

just how damaged have i become?

when i think i can overcome

it runs even deeper

in a dream i'm a different me

with a perfect you

we fit perfectly

for once in my life i feel complete-

and i still wanna ruin it

afraid to look

as clear as day

this plan has long been underway

i hear them call

i cannot stay

the voice inviting me away

do you know how far this has gone?

just how damaged have i become?

when i think i can overcome

it runs even deeper

everything that matters is gone

all the hands of hope have withdrawn

could you try to help me hang on?

**nine inch nails, even deeper**

**CHAPTER FIVE:** The Scars of Echoes

Sometimes he dreamed of the veil, an endless curtain of velvet darkness quietly strangling him.
He heard the voices too, intoxicating pleas of death and release that mingled with the voices he
truly knew. His mother's cries, the whispers of his father, and the painted memory of
Sirius' fall had settled into a twisted routine of tormenting him nightly. But now, now his
nightmares had spilled into his conscious state, which made the daytime into a restless hell.

He was certain that Voldemort was enjoying his self-inflicted state of torture.

Everything seemed to lead back to the Dark Lord. Harry was well-aware of the fragmented presence
of the main cause of his problems. It was not as strong as it had been the previous year, but the
connection in his mind was still there. His awareness grew stronger as his descent into the
maddening shadows grew faster.

Harry sighed, casting an unfocused gaze upon his hands. Torn between being exhausted and
bitterly frustrated, he continued to wait for Professor McGonagall to come fetch him and bring him
to the Headmaster's office for a meeting. Something had apparently happened, a very cross
McGonagall had hinted at the prospect of the meeting being earlier. But she ended up telling him to
finish unpacking and then wait for her to come and retrieve him in the Gryffindor Common Room. He
knew the routine. Dumbledore was going to tell him the same thing he did every year. Then again
what was one more apology?

He really wasn't much for unpacking.

He settled into a chair in the corner of the common room, ignoring as many people as possible
and watching as everyone disappeared into their respective rooms. He appreciated the emptiness of
the common room now. There was no one to approach him with inane questions about his summer and
there were certainly no whispers of gossip, which had started in his first year and only
intensified when he reached his fifth year.

The problem, however, of being left alone was that he had the time to *think*.

He had no desire to think about anything, but his mind had other ideas. He rubbed his eyes,
staring back into the quiet fire. From the moment he, Hermione, Ron, and the rest of the Order had
arrived on Platform 9 3/4, everyone from Neville and his grandmother to the band of sneering third
year Slytherins could feel the tension between the group. Quick and quiet goodbyes from the adults
led to immediate separation between the kids. Ron had left without a backwards glance to go off
with Seamus and Neville before the mandatory Prefects' meeting. Ginny followed some of her
friends off to a separate compartment, recognizing the fact that it wouldn't help if she had
stayed. He, on the other hand, had sent an empty glare at a lagging Hermione, who had quietly
accepted his request to be alone to go sit with Hannah Abbot.

He did not miss the shadowed glance that she had sent in his direction.

*Hermione*, he thought with a heavy sigh. *Hermione*.

He had spent most of the train ride thinking about her. Perhaps he should be thankful for the
distraction she provided, but the memory of the kiss that almost happened had other ideas. It had
started out as a simple distraction at first. He could turn off his thoughts about Hermione easily,
but then his thoughts began to linger on the several encounters they had shared in Grimmauld Place.
His mind had created snapshots, from the glimmer of her eyes to the redness of her lips; he had
begun to become obsessed with the mere distraction of her.

It was then when he fell deeper into a much darker and desperate reflection. Make no mistake. He
undoubtedly recognized the importance of Hermione in his life. It was because of her that he
survived numerous brushes with death and that he was able to rationalize his circumstances when
called for. Yet here he was his mind full of thoughts that opposed the very regard he had held her
in since he had first met her.

Maybe he should thank Ron for his part in his revelations after all.

He had never doubted Ron's place in his life, dwindling further as the heated tension
between them grew. The scar on his wrist, still very raw and very angry, from their fight on their
last day in Grimmauld Place was very much a reflection of what was happening between them. His eyes
closed tiredly. The fight between them, although still a fresh memory, was not the first.

The first fight he had wanted to kill Ron.

He remembered it started with Ron's endless ranting, something he had grown accustomed to
ignoring. The Weasley's had arrived earlier that day and not even a few hours in, Ron had been
complaining about the emptiness that Grimmauld Place seemed to be surrounded in. How it started was
an entirely different matter altogether.

Ron had thrown accusations at him before, ranging from him secretly enjoying the attention he
received to not sharing his glory. But there had never been accusations about Hermione. He could
ignore Ron's rants about his fame, easily recognized as a desperate cry for attention. He
couldn't ignore accusations about Hermione.

He could not remember who threw the first punch.

There had been glass everywhere. He remembered Ron on the ground, his fists pounding into his
ribs. He remembered staggering and then hit the other boy, breaking his nose. It took Charlie and
Bill Weasley and Remus to pull them away from each other. Between the blood and the glass and the
others, what he remembered most was the violence in both of them.

He could not remember what the other boy had said, but he remembered the intense need to defend
his female best friend. Hell, it was like two male lions fighting to claim a female. The only
difference was that Ron knew exactly where Hermione stood in his mind and he had no clue.

The fight was much more of a blur after that. He hadn't thought about much at all, until the
arrival of Hermione at Grimmauld Place and the second fight he had with Ron. It dawned on him that
he understood Ron's violent need to have a place with Hermione, but his own need went further
than that it seemed.

It scared him.

It scared him to have a need for someone that was so severely profound. This wasn't one of
those fantasies that he had created as a child laying in bed in the cupboard under the stairs. This
need was very real and his feelings were very intense. The territory that he had unconsciously
ventured into was serious and left him vulnerable, something he couldn't afford.

He was certainly nowhere near a place where he could begin to understand his feelings for her.
Feelings that Ron accused him of having. Feelings that he was beginning to accept that he had.

The opening of the portrait entrance startled him and he shifted uncomfortably as the center of
his thoughts entered the common room.

"Hey," his voice echoed through the empty room. It seemed his mind had other ideas
about how to handle her invasion of his reflection time.

Hermione stopped and turned, her eyes glowing with the faint light of the fire. Why was it that
she never walked away? "Hi."

It was dangerous for her to be like this, he mused. So entirely open to him and still a mystery,
he was enthralled by her mere presence. It was amazing to him how somehow, in ways he could never
possibly understand, Hermione managed to evoke such strong emotions in him. It was unnerving how
she got under his skin. Whether it was intentionally or unintentionally, she managed bring out the
best and the worst of him.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, astonished at his lack of control. He had no idea what he
was apologizing for. His stomach was suddenly in knots, so much so that he could not rationalize
the scenario that he had placed himself in. He wanted her to leave before he lost total
control.

She said nothing in response. Her eyes watched him quietly. He watched as her fists clenched and
unclenched at her sides. The silence and her lack of response were beginning to eat away at
him.

"Please," she murmured finally. "Don't say anymore. I know what you're
trying to do."

Whether it was his sudden nerves or her clear desire to avoid this conversation, he snapped.
"I'm apologizing," he replied, crossing his arms over his chest and frowning.
"Isn't that what you want?"

"What I want?" She stepped closer to the chair and into his space, dropping her school
bag in the process. He could clearly see that she was both tired and frustrated, but reason never
registered when it came to dealing with Hermione.

His frustration won the best of him. "What's your problem?"

"My problem, Harry, is that we keep doing *this*!" She exclaimed. "I
can't do this anymore. We keep dancing in circles. I don't want to fight with you and I
don't want to be left behind every time you decide to walk away!"

"I-" He couldn't find the right words to speak. The tears in her eyes were almost
too much and he found himself shaking with a desperate need to take her into his arms. The
emotional roller-coaster he had placed himself on had become even more complicated.

"Please," she whispered, shaking her head. "Just don't."

Then as quickly as she appeared, Hermione was gone.

"Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall's voice startled him and drew his gaze away
from the spot Hermione had stood. "The Headmaster will see you now."

He nodded and turned to follow, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

His heart refused to let him ignore the ache left behind by Hermione walking away.

**

**A/N:** I know, I know. It's been a while and I apologize. I do however have a plethora
of excuses that range from barely escaping the wrath of Hurricane Charley when I was on vacation to
allergy attacks and the start of school as perfectly logical excuses. Plus this has only been
edited by one of my beta readers, but I was feeling very guilty about the length of time that has
passed by from the last chapter being posted. So I'll say it again. I'm sorry.

But I'm not going to apologize for the length of this chapter. This chapter is intentionally
short because chapter six, still being written folks, is *very* long. And like this chapter,
number six is intentionally long for a reason… but you'll see when it's finally posted.

One more thing before I sign off. A lot of you have asked when and if there will ever be a
resolution to the outpouring of angst. The answer is… Just kidding! But I will tell you folks, the
rollercoaster ride is far from over.

Thank you as always for the overwhelming reviews and even birthday wishes that were in the
reviews for the last chapter. It made me a very, very happy author. So in other words, keep the
ego-kissing coming. I welcome it all. *winks*

-->



6. The Descent into Madness
---------------------------



*I tried to love you I thought I could
I tried to own you I thought I would
I want to peel the skin from your face
Before the real you lays to waste*

*You told me I'm the only one
Sweet little angel you should have run
Lying, crying, dying to leave
Innocence creates my hell*

*Cheating myself still you know more
It would be so easy with a whore
Try to understand me little girl
My twisted passion to be your world*

*Lost inside my sick head
I live for you but I'm not alive
Take my hand before I kill
I still love you, but, I still burn*

**alice in chains, [love, hate, love]**

**CHAPTER SIX:** The Descent into Madness

*She was dying in color. Blues, greens, oranges and yellows, lavenders and golds— She found
herself overwhelmed by the mere sensation of the colors that danced around her. She could smell
flowers, fragrances only found in her grandmother's garden in early spring. She could hear
laughter, something she had been denied for nearly— she had lost count how long it had
been.*

*“You can't leave.”*

*She saw red. She saw Harry. She saw red and Harry. Harry stood before her. His eyes were dark
and filled with angry shadows, she found herself trembling under the intensity of his gaze.*

*“You can't leave,” he repeated, grabbing her by the wrists and pulling her up.*

*Suddenly, she was alive. The colors began to fade from bright to mute, greens to grays. She
felt alive and in pain— alive and drowning in a desperate sadness. She jumped, Harry's hand
hovering over her heart and sending chills of dread down her spine.*

*“Why are you doing this?” She whispered brokenly.*

*His hand drew back and cupped her chin in his palm. Her brows creased and she stumbled
backwards at the cool, sticky sensation clung to her skin. Her hand subconsciously rose and gently
touched her chin, her heart pounding viciously against her chest.*

*“Harry… Wh—”*

*Her eyes widened and her lips parted in a silent scream as Harry thrust his own hand into his
chest and ripped out his heart. She struggled against the bile rising in her throat as she watched
the still beating heart lie in the palm of his hand. Blood gently rolled off his fingertip and fell
to the ground like raindrops.*

*“This belongs to you.”*

*He held out his hand with his heart as if he were making a sacrifice to a god. Her lips
trembled.*

*“Let me go,” she pleaded weakly.*

*“This belongs to you,” he repeated. He placed the heart in front of her and reached out to
trace her face with his blood-coated fingertips. She fought a nauseating shiver of— oh, god— she
couldn't even bring herself to—*

*“I—”*

*His hand hovered over her heart, his fingers brushing dangerously against her. His lips were
a mere fraction away.*

*“And this,” he murmured. “This is mine.”*

*And she saw red.*

She awoke with a jolt, the library chair she had been sitting in jerking backwards with a shrill
screech. Forcing herself to control her erratic breathing, she tentatively placed a trembling hand
above her heart and silently begged the vicious pounding to stop.

*This is mine.*

It had been weeks since the she shared a *real* conversation with Harry. It wasn't like
they were avoiding each other. The feat was an entirely impossible accomplishment, but she could
feel him withdrawing emotionally. She struggled daily with being terribly frightened— and as much
as she hated herself for it— *grateful*. Then there was the start of these nightmares…

*This is mine.*

She trembled and buried her head in her hands, the sound of parchment crinkling under her
elbows. She barely noticed that her inkpot had spilled onto her planner, the black ink seeping into
the book like blood from a fatal wound.

*This is mine.*

It seemed as if they were invisibly linked together by some force refusing to let them separate
out of twisted amusement. She had fallen into an avoidable routine with Harry. They sat next to
each other at meal, across from a silent and observant Neville and a newly separated Dean Thomas
and Ginny. Both claiming it was *safer* to be friends.

Perhaps it was safer to be friends. It was certainly easier that what was going on between Harry
and her. That was beside the point, it seemed that Harry and her were doomed for complication in
this mess of a relationship.

At meals, for example, something ridiculously inane like passing the mashed potatoes would
obviously require eye contact or even a simple brush of the shoulders. The problem with the
simplicity of this tireless routine was the effect. When his fingers brushed hers or when he would
accidentally bump his shoulder against her own, there would be a dangerous rush of emotions. She
was well aware that their relationship was dangerously treading the proverbial line, but she
couldn't help but fear the overwhelming consequences.

Being insightful didn't help make things any easier.

Class together was the worse. In Advanced Potions, Snape had decided that it was in his *good
graces* to pair students off by houses, saving her from having to listen to Ernie
Macmillan's ego trip. She knew she could never delude herself into thinking that Snape never
had an ulterior motive because she found herself still having not only to endure her
professor's vicious taunts, but working closely with Harry. She watched with a heavy heart as
Harry barely flinched under Snape's taunting and struggled not to answer back when Snape made
it clear that he wouldn't tolerate any footsie-playing.

Bastard.

It was Advanced Care of Magical Creatures that sealed the deal. Hagrid could sense the tension
between Ron and Harry from miles away. Ron was indifferent towards her on good days, thank Merlin
Quidditch had started to get into full swing, but she still was on the receiving end of a dark
glare every now and then. The tension between Ron and Harry, however, was an entirely different
story altogether.

Hermione didn't pretend to understand all of what was going on between the two boys, but she
could feel the alarming intensity between the two of them. It scared her really. Although there was
a time where she deluded herself with the notion that Harry would never deliberately harm anyone,
she had long accepted that the boy and his innocence seemed to be nothing more than a mask.
Ron's intentional taunting and the ever-present knowledge of Voldemort's growing strength
were not helping the matter at all. There was a brewing darkness inside of Harry Potter. The mask
had finally crumbled when Sirius died. Everything else was feeding an even greater catalyst.

Voldemort— *no Bellatrix Lestrange—* had opened Pandora's box in form of the Boy
Savior.

Yet Ron, it seemed, had won the role of the biggest contributor to Harry's growing
aggression. She knew Harry avoided Ron like the plague for Ginny's sake and even to a certain
extent, her own. Ginny had confessed to her one night in the library that she wrote to Tonks who in
turn wrote to Remus to beg Harry to avoid confrontations with Ron altogether. Harry complied, but
enduring Ron's taunts could only go so far.

Hermione was worried about him, she had never denied that fact, but she was tired of being
pushed away. She knew in her heart that if she had to wait for him to be ready to talk, she would
wait even at the cost of her own sanity…

*This is mine.*

And her heart.

She sighed tiredly. Her eyes wandered to the pile of unfinished Potions homework scattered about
the table. She had been hoping to be *at least* three to four months ahead of the game, but
was occupied between thoughts of her situation with her parents and Harry. It was a bloody mental
tennis match.

“You dropped this in the common room.”

She jumped at the sudden appearance of Harry in front her table. His hand was outstretched,
shyly offering her the letter that she had received from her parents in the morning earlier.
Hermione swallowed nervously at his hand, gently taking the letter and silently cheering at her
control.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“From your parents?” A shy inquiry, but it still made her nervous. She could feel his eyes
burning holes into her. And what happened to the Harry that had made it perfectly *clear* that
he wanted nothing to do with her?

She finally nodded, clutching the letter as if her life depended on it. “Yeah…”

She avoided his gaze as best as she could, finding herself focusing on his hands. Although the
remains of her dream still clung to the dark corners of her mind, the awkwardness between them was
intense and she found herself wondering yet again what had brought this change in his demeanor.

“Listen,” he spoke, abruptly turning around. “This was a bad idea. I'm going to go back to
the Common Room.”

He started to walk away, but her lack of emotional control got the best of her and she stood up.
“Wait!”

He turned, his hands shoved deeply into his pockets.

“I,” she struggled, marveling at her loss of suitable words. “Talk to me?”

It brought her a sense of comfort to know that Harry seemed to be visibly struggling. Whether it
was struggling with walking away from her yet again or something else, she couldn't tell.

“How do you do that?”

She was confused. “Do what?”

“How do you completely set aside yourself like that? I— I'm not good at this,” he mumbled.
This time he didn't turn away to leave her in state of emotional chaos. This time he stayed
standing a mere two feet away from her, waiting for an answer.

She swallowed nervously, amazed that her lips managed to curve into a small smile directed
towards him. “Neither am I,” she confessed.

“Yes, you are,” he stated. He pulled out the chair from across from her and sat, picking up one
of her quills and rolling it between his fingers. “You're completely selfless when it comes to
m— well, *talking*.”

Hermione said nothing, casting her gaze upon her opened books. She felt terribly exposed and
nervous about having this conversation, here and now in the library.

“I meant what I said before,” he continued, lowering his gaze down to his hands. “Except the
words didn't come out right. I want you to be able to talk to me— I trust— I—”

She was going to lose this moment with Harry, she realized. If she didn't push way her own
selfish worries, they'd never talk.

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” She interrupted. “I have a feeling that Madame Pince is
going to close up soon.”

He looked startled, but managed, “Sure.”

She nodded, pulling out her wand and quickly muttering a cleaning spell to gather up her mess of
homework. She sighed quietly, glancing at the letter sticking out of her bag. She'd have to
write a response later.

The two of them left the library in a less than companionable silence. She was still unsure of
his intentions and was stuck in a dangerous limbo of whether or not it was okay to trust him. They
wandered down the scarcely occupied hallway towards the Astronomy tower, passing the occasional
snogging couples as the finally reached the winding staircase that led up to the tower.

“If I didn't know any better Hermione, you only suggested leaving the library because of
your secret desire to snog me.”

She stifled a laugh. It was then that she began to really realize how truly ridiculous the
situation had become. This was *Harry*, her best friend. This was the very same Harry that had
shared countless adventures with her. From time turners to sneaking past curfew, this was the very
same Harry she would—

Hermione shook her head. She needed to stop thinking like *that*.

“Harry,” she began, a tiny smile blossoming onto her lips. It was the first smile in months that
was actually genuine. And it *hurt*. Harry's awkward teasing gently broke her from her
musings. “You've found me out. I've been secretly nursing this desire since the tender age
of ten when little girls still think boys are made up of greasy grasshopper guts.”

“Greasy grasshopper guts?”

She laughed at the look of mixed amusement and disgust on his face. For a moment, it felt like
they were okay. *Really okay*. “Well, no not really. But I did have a rather twisted good time
of making Lavender Brown believing the notion. Twit.”

He shook his head. “I can't believe she feel for… Ron was right. You're a brilliant one,
but scary.”

Her smile disappeared. Ron. She didn't want to think about Ron and his continuous attempts
of forcing guilt onto her already turbulent emotional mind-frame. She didn't want to think of
the shadowed glares and the taunting whispers that she had no doubt in her mind were directed at
Harry and her.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. At least, Harry seemed to understand.

“It's all right,” she murmured with a shrug. “We'd eventually have to talk about
Ron.”

She watched as his shoulders tensed and his defensive mask slipped back into place. Hermione
struggled with her rising anger. So there was something else. She felt like crying.

“What's there to talk about?” He returned, turning away slightly.

“Oh, I don't know,” she snapped back sarcastically. “There's a little incident that took
place at Grimmauld Place that comes to mind. You know, the one where the two of you wanted to kill
each other. And now, *now* I can't help but feel like you're hiding something from me.
A major something.”

*Just once*, she added silently. *I'd actually like you to be honest with me. I
don't want to keep asking myself about what happened to us.*

Harry sighed. “It's not the first time it happened.”

“I know,” she replied tiredly. She couldn't allow herself to forget that fact.

He looked surprised and took a step back from her. “You know about that fight?”

She shrugged, a lame attempt at passing the notion off as nothing. In reality, the emotional
roller coaster was wearing her thin. “Ginny,” she began quietly. “Ginny mentioned something about a
first time. I wasn't going to—”

Hermione felt his disappointment and swallowed nervously. She found herself unable to finish
under the new intensity of his presence.

“But you were curious.”

“I'm not going to lie to you.” His withdrawing was beginning to scare her.

“But you have before,” he said sighing. “You're a terrible liar, you know, and you really
can't hide things very well.”

*Oh no you don't*, she thought angrily. She stepped closer and reached for his
shoulder, her hand resting lightly.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. Is that why you don't trust me?”

“But I do,” he interjected. “I trust you more than anyone else, Hermione.”

She froze, her hands dangling helplessly at her side. “Hollow words,” she whispered, feeling the
ever-hated desperation rising within her. She just didn't know what to do anymore.

“Hollow words.”

Hermione turned around and prepared herself to make the trek back to the common room. Flinch was
usually around the Hufflepuff side during this time of night.

“Damn it, Hermione!”

Her eyes widened as she felt his hand envelope her wrist. He pulled around with a sharp tug.

“Will you just listen to me? Do you think that this is easy?”

She snatched her wrist out of his grasp with a furious glare. “Well then, what do you want from
me Harry? It's not like I presume to know every bloody thing about you. Do you want me to yell
at you? Or perhaps, you're looking for a pity party? Or do you secretly want me to push you
away so that you can *say* you talked to me? Do share because frankly, I'm dying to
know.”

She was trembling violently now. Her lips quivered and her eyes were clouding with tears. “I
told you that I want listen. I told that I want to help. But I can't, *I won't* if we
keep doing this silly little dance.”

Hermione suddenly found herself pressed against the cold, hard wall of the Astronomy Tower with
her hands pinned above her head and Harry's lips a breath away. At this moment, she was forced
into a clear understanding of how dangerously unstable the both of them were. The emotional
turbulence was so raw, so brutally severe that this simple invasion of space would choke the both
of them.

“I need you, Hermione,” he hissed. “Merlin knows Dumbledore will stop at nothing to remind me
that fact. But this scares me. It scares me how desperately I need you. And what's worse is
that I'm willing to hurt other people. I'm willing to do things that I shouldn't be
willing to do.”

She said nothing, but watched in a perverse satisfaction as he began to show signs of the same
turmoil she was haunted by.

“Do you understand now?” His fingers slipped under her chin and forced her to look into his
eyes. “Do you see how dangerous this is for the both of us?”

His head lowered and his lips pressed against the crook of her neck. Somewhere in the back of
her mind a voice was screaming at her to get out of this violation of space, but her body had other
ideas. Her mind's disgust was quickly sated as a breathy moan escaped her lips. She knew she
was at her wit's end. A wall was falling and neither them were ready.

She couldn't control herself.

And to her rational horror, she found that she didn't want to.

“We need to stop,” Harry whispered, his fingers tangling in her hair.

“Uh-huh.” Her mind was on overload. The nearness was driving her mad and her rationality
acknowledged a losing battle as he pressed his lips against her neck again. She couldn't
describe the intensity of emotions that rose within her as his body pressed into hers. There was an
unspeakable fire that burned between them. The chaos of emotions fed the fire with leisure and she
found herself wondering if there would be a point where they would both explode.

“Harry…”

She watched with a hooded gaze, as his eyes seemed to darken. She felt sick at her desperation
of wanting him to touch her— His indecisiveness was irritating to her for some reason. She found
herself struggling with the overwhelming incentive of wanting to kiss him.

*This is mine.*

She could no longer ignore the fact that there was something between them. No matter how
dangerous, how undeniably frightening it was— Things had to change.

“Kiss me,” she whispered, somewhere between a plea and an order. She barely even realized when
the words escaped her lips. The rational part of her mind drowned in the fever of the moment.

“It'll change everything,” came his breathless reply.

They were treading dangerous waters.

“Is that the point?” She whispered, the madness of their bordering intimacy swallowing her
whole.

*This is mine*.

And so he kissed her.

*TBC*

**A/N:**

*glances up from preparing riot-gear*

Err, hi?

*sighs* I once again am finding myself apologizing for the long wait for the chapter, hopefully
seven won't suffer the same intense rewrite that six did. Can't make any promises though, I
am a perfectionist. Blame it on genetics.

Anyhow, before anybody says anything. I *know* there are some issue that need to be
explained/resolved/further complicated… Joking about the last one. Well, not really. Things are
going to get a lot darker (and I mean *darker*) from here on now and the rating's going to jump
considerably, so consider yourself forewarned.

As always, thank you for the lovely reviews. I can't stress enough how much I truly
appreciate every single one. I try and answer as many as I can, so please don't feel like I
don't appreciate you if I don't answer. It's probably because of all my literary theory
homework and my extremely boring 8:45am math class.

Can you believe that I'm an English major and I'm still required to take math?

I can't. It sucks.

Oh well. Please continue with your generous reviews.

And from here on now… Welcome to the Jungle folks.

-->



7. Further Down the Spiral
--------------------------



*Into the night of the heart*

Your name drops slowly

And moves in silence and falls

And breaks and spreads its water.

Something wishes for its slight harm

And its infinite and short esteem,

Like the step of a lost one

Suddenly heard.

Suddenly, suddenly listened to

And spread in the heart

With sad insistence and increase

Like a cold autumnal dream.

The thick wheel of the earth,

Its tire moist with oblivion,

Spins, cutting time

Into inaccessible halves.

Its hard goblets cover your heart

Split upon the cold earth

With its poor blue sparks

Flying in the voice of the rain.

**“Slow Lament” Pablo Neruda**

**CHAPTER SEVEN***:* *Further Down the Spiral*

*I would gladly die for a kiss like this**, Harry Potter mused amongst the chaos of his
mind.*

His lips crushed brutally against hers as they molded into a feverish embrace. For a brief and
tantalizing moment, he was able to lose himself in her. The taste of her lips was indescribable, a
mix of something completely forbidden and unfathomable. Rationality and reason were gone now,
replaced by the overwhelming sensation of her skin underneath his fingertips. He was going mad, his
hands— *no, her hands*— were causing emotions that were so completely foreign to him to rise
up.

*This—*

“Hermione,” he murmured against her lips, quietly moaning as her fingertips began to trace a
seductive and frenzied pattern underneath his shirt.

“Harry, we're—”

His lips lowered and pressed against the side of her neck. He was becoming intoxicated by the
sweet and warm sent that was Hermione. All the sensations in his body were on fire.

“I—”

“We need to—” She hissed as his fingers danced further up her crumpled shirt.

“—Need to stop,” he managed to finish as she crushed her lips against his once more.

This *thing* between them was dangerous, *no*, explosive. Instead of being granted
some sort of release, *any release*, the tension between them continued to build up. He
couldn't get enough of her. He didn't want to get enough of her.

“You're right,” she murmured, tugging his bottom lip between her teeth. “You're
right.”

“I—” He could not speak, lost in her erotic whispering.

*Love is a powerful emotion*, Dumbledore's voice mocked as his fingers stilled against
her skin. His body began to burn as the soft lace of her bra teased his fingertips. He struggled to
focus.

*And Miss Granger is capable of extraordinary things.*

His head fell against her shoulder, exhaustion overwhelming him and temporarily sating his
desperate need to—

*She will be the one to help you, Harry*, the old man's voice continued to whisper in
the back of his mind. He sighed, the remains of his conversation with Dumbledore escaping from the
recesses of his mind and returning to haunt him full force. He sought comfort in her embrace,
trembling under the full force of her presence.

*Tell her the truth.*

“I'm sorry,” he breathed into her neck.

“For what?” She whispered in response. A part of him was secretly pleased that she made no
attempt to remove herself from his embrace.

“For everything, *anything*— I don't know.”

She laughed softly and he couldn't help but smile himself. It felt good to smile. To
*really* smile.

“We're a mess, huh?

He sighed and looked up, suddenly enchanted by her eyes. They were subtly memorizing, dark
coffee brown with flecks of gold scattered about. He was frozen it seemed, the fierceness of her
emotions nearly unbearable.

“We're a mess,” he agreed.

Harry straightened up, his eyes never leaving her daunting gaze. It had finally dawned on him
that *this*— everything that he had consciously and unconsciously tried to prevent— this was
really happening. Things were changing, some good, and others indescribable. Nevertheless, both he
and Hermione were slowly leaving their self-inflicted purgatory.

Unless, he couldn't bring himself to tell her the truth about everything.

Truth was such an intimidating concept. For something that was so virtuously rationalized, truth
was always relentlessly vicious when it came to emotions. He had no desire to hurt Hermione, but he
was afraid that the damaged had already been done.

“This scares me,” he whispered. “And yet, at the same time I know I need *this*. A—am I
crazy?”

Hermione was silent for a moment, casting her gaze downwards. A few stray curls feel over her
eyes and he couldn't stop his fingers from gently tucking them behind her ear.

“No,” she murmured finally, leaning into his touch. “You're not crazy. We're just lost.
Terribly lost.”

“Then what do we do n—”

The sound of hollow clapping echoed loudly in the empty Astronomy Tower. Harry turned and
grasped Hermione's hand, the unwelcome sight of Ron leaning against the wall greeting them like
a terrible omen.

“Well, well. If it isn't the *golden couple* that could… Out past curfew I might
add.”

Something raw and very dangerous began to claw inside of him and Harry found himself clutching
Hermione's hand as a lifeline to his sanity. A foreboding sensation began to creep inside of
him, embracing him with maddening ease. He swallowed, begging himself to exert at least some
control.

*At least for Hermione's sake.*

“Ron,” he responded evenly. “Isn't this slightly out the way of where you make your
rounds?”

“Well see here's the thing,” the other boy answered, moving closer. “Parkinson decided to so
graciously inform me that Hermione, *my* Gryffindor counterpart, had decided to a double round
next week without telling me. So Parkinson decided to ditch me and I went off in search of
Hermione.”

“Is there a point to this?” Hermione asked quietly from his side, her own grip on his hand
tightening. From the shadows in Ron's eyes, Harry wondered vaguely he had been standing there
all along.

“I'm glad you asked.”

Harry's eyes narrowed as Ron pulled out a letter from under his robes. He tensed. It was the
very same letter that Hermione had been avoiding talking to him about. Out of the corner of his
eyes, he could see that she had paled considerably. She was trembling now, his grasp on her hand
tightened and he pulled her close. Alarmed, she hissed in pain.

“Don't be stupid, Ron,” he murmured, stuck between expressing his growing concern for
Hermione and smashing his fist in Ron's face.

“Ah, but don't you want to hear? It seems as if our darling Hermione's been keeping
secrets from us. Now why would she do that? Doesn't she *trust* us?”

He would be lying if he said that Ron's words weren't getting to him. Truth and trust go
hand in hand, he mused morosely. They had a lot of ground to cover. More than he had ever
thought.

“Trust isn't a word I tend to throw around lightly, Ron,” Hermione spoke through gritted
teeth. His eyes widened in surprise as she leaned further into his embrace, as she seemed to be
struggling to stand.

“But you trust *Harry*,” Ron replied, speaking his name as if it were a dirty word. For a
moment, Harry began to wonder what had happened to them. Had this war—the war that was stuck
between starting and *not really* starting—torn them apart this badly?

“I do.”

The simple, honest words that left her lips struck a cord with him. He hadn't realized how
important it was to him to have her trust in him. Some would call it blind faith, but it was much
more than that. Hermione's trust thrilled him. It was his *balance*.

Ron let out a defeated sigh, the letter falling from his fingertips. “There's obviously
nothing I can do to change your mind.”

The ambiguous statement aroused a feeling of suspicion in Harry. But his feelings of suspicion
were suddenly pushed away as Hermione latched onto his shirt with a death grip, her knees buckling
from underneath her.

“Hermione!”

He pulled her closer to his body, lowering the two of them down to the ground. His hands were
shaking and his breathing was frantic.

“Hermione, what's wrong?”

She was shaking violently, one hand clutching his shirt and the other on her shoulder. She was
whispering hollow words of comfort to herself that much his panic-stricken mind could tell.

Her head was buried in his chest, her stifled moans of anguishing pain clawed at the last
remains of his sanity. His lips began to move and beg a frozen Ron to help— to do *something*
but Ron never moved.

“Make… make it stop,” Hermione gasped. “It—it hurts so badly…”

“I can't— I don't know what to do! Please,” he whimpered helplessly as Hermione's
grip began to loosen. “Tell me what to do.”

Harry was uncertain about what really happened next. Whether it had anything to do with Ron
slumping uselessly to the ground or the violent tremors that took over Hermione's body—but he
*snapped*.

Carefully placing Hermione on the ground using his cloak as a headrest, he whispered a temporary
sleeping spell. He then directed his gaze towards a trembling Ron. *He's the source of all of
this*, the mocking voice in his head hissed. *He sewed his eyes shut because he is afraid to
see…He's nothing but a coward.*

“Get up,” he hissed. “Get up, you coward.”

Ron snapped out of trace and angrily replied, “Sod off, Potter! This is your fault! If you had
stayed away from her, she wouldn't be going through this.”

“She's fine,” he murmured, advancing towards the other boy. “The sleeping spell I cast will
distract her from the pain.”

“You think you're good enough for her,” Ron inched closer. They were face to face now.
“You'll have her killed!”

Harry lunged for Ron and the two boys fell to the cold, hard ground in a tangle of limbs. The
other boy used his height as an advantage, grabbing Harry's arm and snapping it behind his back
with a sickening twist. He had him pinned to the ground and his knee pressed into his back
painfully.

“What's the matter, Harry?” Ron taunted. “At a slight disadvantage here?”

He growled dangerously. “*Accio* wand!”

In an uncharacteristic display of wandless magic, Harry's wand flew out of his sack of books
and into his hand. With renewed strength, Harry grabbed his wand and broke free from Ron's
grasp. Ron's wand fell from his robes, forcing him to dive for it.

But Harry was faster and as soon as Ron's wand was within the grip of his hand, he uttered,
“*Expelliarmus*!”

He smirked. “At a slight disadvantage here?”

“Fuck you,” Ron cursed, clenching his fists.

Harry shrugged carelessly. “Really don't swing that way. Sorry. However, you and I need to
come to some sort of agreement.”

He stopped and kneeled, grabbing Ron's shirt with his fist. Somewhere inside of him, his
heart perhaps, made a lonely plea for him to stop this madness. *This was Ron.* Ron, the very
same boy who had been the first person he had met in the wizarding world. This was Ron, *his
friend.* But a much darker feeling from within him soon silenced the voice.

*A violation had been made*, returned the voice. *He must pay. She is yours and you must
defend that claim. Defend the claim and it will be well…*

He raised his wand.

“*Expelliarmus*,” came the whisper of a chilling, detached voice.

Soon, Harry found himself watching a distraught Hannah Abbott and Ginny Weasley running to
Hermione's unmoving form and Professor Snape standing with his wand in his hand.

“Have to hand it to you, Potter. Didn't know you had it in you…Sixty points each from
Gryffindor and do tell me the spell that you've placed Miss Granger under,” Snape murmured.

“The bewitched sleep…She's in pain,” he responded, his eyes never leaving Ron's furious
gaze. “I don't know why…”

Snape nodded. “Miss Weasley please escort your brother to the Headmaster's office, I do
believe he is waiting for the two of you. And Miss Abbott, I am sure you can handle a simple
levitating spell and bring the injured Miss Granger to the Hospital Wing. I will deal with Mr.
Potter.”

Hannah nodded and followed Snape's instructions, not before whispering words of comfort to a
clearly distressed Ginny. Ginny, in turn, grabbed the arm of her brother with a withering look,
leaving him with no one but Snape.

“Now Mr. Potter, although I don't think killing Mr. Weasley would leave the world at a
disadvantage…Detention for the next two weeks in the Potions Lab.”

Harry nodded, but said nothing in response. The rage in his mind was beginning to calm down.

The older man began to study him. Vaguely, Harry began to feel the prodding of Snape's
Legilimency skills, making no effort to fight him. He had nothing to hide and he had an idea to
what Snape might be looking for.

As quickly as he invaded his mind, Snape left Harry's mind with a satisfied smirk causing
Harry to wonder what exactly the older man had found.

“You're quite predictable, Potter. Not that I was ever under the impression that you were
anything other than.”

Harry growled, gathering his books along with Hermione's and the culprit letter. “Are we
done? I'd like to get to the hospital wing to see Hermione.”

He was surprised when Snape's expression took on a different light. He was pensive and there
was regret laced in the dark shadows of his eyes. And very quietly, the older man began to speak,
his voice filled with an abundance of sorrow.

“Salvation is closer than you think, Potter. Letting it go would be most unwise.”

Defensive, Harry responded, “Are you telling me that I should use Hermione to my advantage,
*Professor*?”

Snape smirked, returning to his normal bastard attitude. “No, Potter,” he murmured, slowly
making his way to the exit of the Astronomy Tower and pausing to make sure Harry was ready to
follow. “I am telling you to be cautious. Do not make the same mistakes your father did. And do not
underestimate the manipulative power of Albus Dumbledore.”

Then Snape was gone, leaving Harry to his thoughts and dissipating anger.

*Salvation…*

TBC

**A/N:** So the good news is that I've finally come to a decisive decision regarding the
length and the inevitable end of **Magnolias**. The bad news, for me at least, is that I
haven't really reached mid-point yet. Close, but not close enough where I can say I'm
definitely there. The really good news is that this is staying firmly in the direction it's
supposed to be.

Oh and a special thank you to Chaosblades for beta reading. *gushes* He's adorable. And
I'm going to keep telling him that.

*smirks*

As I've stressed before, there's going to be a progression into some really dark and
depression and intense characterization. Just `cause that's the way I am. It will most-likely
be in two or three chapters where the rating will jump to an R. So look out for that, those of you
who shouldn't be reading that *stuff*.

Anyhow, I've decided to get a live journal and actually use it. I will be posting an
assorted amount of *stuff* including snippets from **Magnolias** when I feel terrible for
prolonged posting.

Here's the link to my live journal: http://www.livejournal.com/users/fated_addiction

Go crazy, folks. I do appreciate the feedback. And I'm always happy to make a new
friend.

-->



8. The Importance of Truth
--------------------------



*And in my darkest moments, fetal and weeping*

*The moon tells me a secret— my confidant*

*As full and bright as I am*

*This light is not my own and*

*A million light reflections pass over me*

*Its source is bright and endless*

*She resuscitates* *the hopeless*

*Without her, we are lifeless satellites drifting…*

**Tool**

**CHAPTER EIGHT:** The Importance of Truth

Hermione awoke to the smell of the sterile Hospital Wing. The sluggish throbbing of her shoulder
was hauntingly faint and slowly, her mind had begun to assess what exactly had just occurred. For a
moment, she lay against the chilly sheets of her bed and stared blankly at the ceiling above. She
tried to rationalize. She weighed options, process, strategies that were completely unnecessary.
She doubted. She believed.

*She was so completely lost.*

How had things spiraled this far out of control?

*Oh god*, she had kissed him. She had pressed her lips to his, feeding on the rush of
adrenaline and that delightful tingle that turned her insides out. She had nearly begged him to
touch her *like that* and *right there*, but could never find her voice. The fire between
the two of them was undeniable, fierce, and so bloody scary that her mind could not rationalize
anything that had to do with *it*.

Hermione pushed herself into a sitting positing, ignoring the soreness of her shoulder. She
sighed. She could not keep doing this. She could not keep trying to process something like this,
something so monumental. It was terrifying and wonderful, but it was something that should not,
could not happen. Something so terribly—

*Right.*

She buried her face in her cold hands. As if, things weren't complicated enough.

“Ah, Miss Granger. I see you are finally among us. How are you feeling?”

She tensed at the sudden, but expected arrival of Professor Dumbledore. Her eyes met his with
sudden unease. She could not help but suspicious of the older man. Briefly, she remembered that
Ginny had mentioned something about Harry and Dumbledore conversing in the hallways. *It
hadn't looked good*, Ginny had told her. *In fact, it looked downright
terrible**.* She recognized an unsettling and dangerous change in her Headmaster's
demeanor. Forcing a smile, Hermione steeled herself for the interrogation to come.

“Better,” she murmured. “My shoulder's still a bit sore.”

Dumbledore nodded. “It's to be expected. The designed nature of the curse you were hit with
has a long and painful scaring period. I'm sorry that the healing salve could not do much
more.”

She had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. *Don't you think I don't know
that**?* She sighed. “Thank you for your concern, Professor. But if you don't mind me
asking…”

“Of course, child,” the old man conceded.

Hermione was momentarily grateful for his disturbing ability to be insightful during times such
as this one. She searched her mind for a subtle approach to asking the millions of questions that
had settled in the dark recess of her mind.

“I suppose you're wondering about young Mr. Potter. Am I correct in assuming?”

“That's part of it,” she murmured quietly. “I'm not quite sure where to begin
though.”

“Perhaps from the beginning.”

*The beginning**?* *Was there even such a thing at this point**?* Hermione
sighed, wringing her hands nervously in her lap.

“My…My parents didn't want me to return to Hogwarts year.”

The words left her lips and caused a definite change in the air. It was almost as if she were
finally admitting to herself that she was directly affected by the chaotic mess brewing in the
wizarding world. In some respects, she had long ago acknowledged that there was no way she
*couldn't* take part in this. She was Harry Potter's best friend; involvement by
association was automatic without a doubt. She knew her parents were in danger, especially now, but
what hadn't registered in her mind was their negative response to her life here at Hogwarts.
But her life in the Muggle World was spiraling down the proverbial hole and she couldn't very
well protect her family if the refused to be rational about this.

“I see,” the Headmaster replied. “Have you made them aware of the situation that you've
become involved with?”

“No,” she murmured. “I was going to tell them this summer as…as soon as I returned from school.
I've never *not* told my parents anything, but I found that I couldn't tell them,
especially since they didn't want to listen.”

She unconsciously rubbed her shoulder. “I wasn't expecting the
*this-isn't-**practical* talk until seventh year at least. And I suppose a part me
wished that they'd ask question or show some sort of interest in my life, but they
haven't…”

“Miss Granger,” he interrupted. “It is normal for the parents of muggleborns to—”

“—to have a mixed reaction to their child's development within the society of the wizarding
world. The tendency is not to understand, but a natural reaction. Sir, I've read the books.
Professor McGonagall has given me the lecture. I'm sorry if I fell victim to my nostalgic
feelings and wishes. Isn't it only natural for a child to want his or her parents'
support?”

She was breathing heavily, the pain in her shoulder forcing her to calm down. “I apologize,
Headmaster. I'm just very tired.”

The older man smiled, the infamous twinkle appearing in his blue eyes. Hermione swallowed. There
was that feeling again in the pit of her stomach. She couldn't help but feel as if the
Headmaster had purposely goaded her into a mock argument about her parents.

“You're under a substantial amount of pressure, Miss Granger. Nothing to be ashamed
about.”

She said nothing, allowing him to continue.

“We are entering a time that has the potential of great terror.”

“I'm well-aware of that,” she replied quietly. “I've never been the one not to thing of
actions and the consequences that befall others as a result.”

“He will need you in this hour of great challenge.”

*It's almost as if he rehearsed this*, she mused, uncomfortable with the weight of his
ambiguous statement. *He's placing all the important players in place for the game…*

“Headmaster,” she murmured finally. The concern was a mere trifle. This wasn't about her at
all. “I can't do anything for him if he doesn't ask. It isn't right to impose myself
upon him.”

The Headmaster looked at her strangely for a brief moment. She watched as the twinkle in his eye
disappeared with alarming speed, but it came back just as fast.

“Quite right you are, Miss Granger. Quite right you are.” He leaned forward and gave her a pat
on her clasped hands. “I believe we shall continue our conversation another day, but remember my
door is always opened.”

“Thank you, sir.” She didn't know what else to say. “I'll keep that in mind.”

He smiled. “Good. Now I do believe a frantic Miss Abbott is waiting to visit with you.”

She gave the Headmaster a half-smile and a nod, watching him leave with a dark sense of
foreboding. She couldn't help but wonder if he was intentionally pushing her towards Harry. Not
that they hadn't gravitated towards each other all ready, but she felt like there was a much
more dangerous purpose that he was trying to inspire.

Her thoughts were soon cut short when an anxious Hannah Abbott flew into the Hospital Ward with
her books in tow.

“You're okay!” The Hufflepuff exclaimed, setting what looked like to be the day's
assignments atop her bedside table. She grimaced when she saw that most of it was Advanced
Potions.

Hermione gave Hannah a tentative smile. “I'm fine.”

“Bullshit,” her friend cursed, her gaze darkening. “Look, I know that you've been friends
with Harry and Ron longer, but there's no reason why you shouldn't tell me what's
wrong. I just want you to trust me, no matter how dangerous. I might not be to *always* handle
it, but I'll listen.”

“I know,” she murmured. “I—I'm just not ready to talk about some things right now. I think
it's more so that I'm ready to admit it to myself.”

Hannah sighed. “I just want you to know that I'm here.”

“I know,” she replied, watching as Hannah began ruffling through her robes. Her eyes widened
when the other girl pulled a crumple envelope out of her pocket.

“Before I forget, `cause I've got Herbology next…Professor Snape said that he found this on
the ground.”

*From one mess to another*, she mused. With trembling hands, she took the letter. Her name
was etched across in her mother's elegant handwriting and she forced herself to swallow back
tears of frustration.

“Hermione,” Hannah began, grabbing her hand. “What's wrong? Has something happened?”

She closed her eyes. “I don't know. Life maybe,” she slid a finger under the opened flap and
pulled out the letter. “I didn't think they were serious… obviously I was wrong.”

Hermione handed the piece of paper to her friend. She didn't have to read what the piece of
paper said. She already knew. *I can only take an empty house for so long*, she had told Harry
when she arrived at Grimmauld Place with fresh scars from the intense fighting with her
parents.

“They didn't,” Hannah breathed. She had once confided to Hermione that her father, a muggle,
had vehemently protested against her attending Hogwarts. Her friend's eyes went wide.

“They did,” she confirmed quietly. “They gave me an ultimatum.”

The heaviness of the word lay between the two girls like a terrible omen of things to come.
Hermione swallowed and then continue. “I didn't think it'd come down to this.”

Hannah reached for her hand and squeezed. “Have you tried rationalizing with them?”

A hollow laugh escaped her lips. “My parents? *My parents*? Han, my mum would barely listen
to me when I tried to explain that Voldemort had risen to power and the danger—she told me that I
needed to wake up from this fantasy world. So yes, yes, I've tried. I can do nothing more.”

“But,” Hannah stammered. “*They're your parents*. They can't—”

“They can,” she murmured. “They've been *kind* enough to allow me until graduation to
come to my *senses*. That is if I make it to graduation.”

“Don't talk like that, Hermione,” Hannah admonished.

“I can't help it.” She closed her eyes. “And I can't help that I don't want to fight
anymore. Mum just wrote to tell me that there was no point in coming home for Christmas. They were
going to some place in America for the holidays. She just happened to mention the fact that they
expected me to come to my senses.”

She sighed and forced a smile onto her lips. “Hey, don't you have Herbology to go to?”

Hannah's eyes widened. “Merlin!” She handed her letter back, her eyes narrowing knowingly.
“It doesn't mean we're not finished talking about this, Hermione.”

Hermione sighed, giving her friend a half-hearted nod. “All right.”

Hannah gave her a wave and vanished out the door, leaving Hermione with her thoughts and her
letter. A tired sigh escaped her lips. The great weight of her parent's ultimatum and
everything else nestled upon her shoulders. Sometimes she wished that she could just curl up and
stay in bed.

*What happened to you**?* *You used to be so practical!*

*I am not staring at my daughter**.* *I'm staring at a stranger.*

*When are you going to wake up, Hermione**?* *Come back to the real world, there is
nothing pragmatic about waving a piece of wood in the air.*

“Hey.”

She jumped, her eyes flying to the entrance of the Hospital ward. Harry was leaning against the
doorway, his shirt wrinkled and his arms crossed over his chest. She licked her lips, a warm flush
spreading over her cheeks.

“Hello,” she whispered shyly, all thoughts of her parents and her conversations with the
Headmaster erased from her mind.

“Could I?” He motioned to the spot on top of her bed that Hannah had occupied moments
earlier.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and nodded, surprising herself by reaching out her
hand for him to take. She swallowed at the smoky glance Harry sent in her direction, the memories
of their fiery first kiss rising in her mind.

Hermione watched with half-lidded eyes as he stepped forward and took her hand in his, settling
atop her hospital bed and running his thumb in slow circles against the outside of her hand. She
swallowed. The rawness of their feverish connection struggled to reawaken once more.

“We need to talk,” Harry half-growled, half-whispered. “I need—I need to tell you the
truth.”

“All right,” she replied softly.

He brought their joined hands to his lips and brushed a kiss against her fingertips.

“All right.”

Thus, the first wall began to crumble.

**A/N:** Wait a second. Did I just update in within the span of a week? Much, much earlier
than I planned? *blinks* I suppose miracles do happen. Then again, it could always just be the lack
of attention that I pay in math. The A I have in that class is the real miracle.

So thanks guys for reviewing! I always appreciate the reviews and the death threats for faster
updates. *smirks* But seriously, thank you. It's wonderful to know that you're enjoying the
story. Also thank you to **Chaosblades** because he's wonderful for my ego and just so
charming!

And a couple people that are worth mentioning as well. **Goldy** who's told me to get my
priorities straight is probably the most responsible for the quickness of this posting.
**danielerin** who has always left me some of the nicest of reviews and has friended me over at
lj. *smiles* And last, but not least, **Demosthenes** who always makes me laugh with the
novel-length reviews.

A couple things that I need to mention… Well, I take that back. I'll just say this. Just
remember that everything isn't set in stone. Ron's a git because well, he's a git… In
all seriousness, Ron's the way he is for specific reason that I'm not going to get into but
will be cleared up in the next group of chapters.

Also because I'm a dork and I hate math, I forgot to mention that I've hidden a line
from a Nine Inch Nails song in either Chapter Seven or in this one. If you can find it, I will
write you a one-shot of choice. I'll even write you fluff, as painful as that is for me. If you
don't, *shrugs* I gave credit where it was do. But leave a note in my lj…

And I think that about sums it up for now.

Keep reviewing!

-->



9. And So I Built My House of Cards
-----------------------------------



*This is the place
you'll end up when
you lose the chase
where you're dragged against your will
from a basement on the hill
and all anybody knows is
you're not like them
and they kick you in the head
and send you back to bed
isolation pulled you pass a tunnel to a
bright world where you can make a place to stay
but everybody's scared of this place
they're staying away
your little house on memory lane
the mayor's name is fear
his voice patrols the pier
from a mountain of cliché
that advances everyday
the doctor spoke a cloud
he rained out loud
you'll keep your doors and windows shut
and swear you'll
never show a soul again
but isolation pushes you `til every muscle aches
down the only road it ever takes
but everybody's scared of this place
they're staying away
your little house on memory lane
if it's your decision
to be open about yourself
be careful or else
be careful or else
uncomfortable apart
it's all written on my chart
and I take what's given to me
most cooperatively
I do what people say
and lie in bed all day
absolutely horrified
I hope you're satisfied
isolation pushes past self hatred, guilt and shame
to a place where suffering is just a game
but everybody's scared of this place
they're staying away
your little house on memory lane
your little house on memory lane*

**Elliott Smith, Memory Lane**

**CHAPTER NINE:** And So I Built My House of Cards

He had no idea where to start.

All he knew was that he couldn't think; the sensation of her hand in his made it impossible
to be anywhere near coherent. They desperately need to talk. He desperately needed to tell her the
truth, but all he wanted to do was to kiss her. He sighed, brushing another kiss against her
hand.

“I—tell me where to start,” he pleaded, hoping selfishly that she'd be rational enough for
the both of them and help him.

Hermione squeezed his hand gently, slowly, and somewhat reluctantly. She folded her hands in her
lap and gave him a tentative and encouraging half-smile.

“I can't tell you where start, Harry,” she murmured softly. “I can only listen. Take your
time…I'm not going anywhere.”

Harry stood up, a bitter laugh escaping from his lips. He buried his hands deep into his pockets
and made his way over to the window by Hermione's bed, losing himself in the comfort of the
fading light.

“It seems like I don't have much time anymore,” he whispered, pressing his head against the
cold glass. “Everything's moving so fast and I'm trying— *Merlin*, I'm trying to
keep up. And in the process, I'm losing myself…I don't think I was anyone to begin with.
Just a name…”

His hearing perked up at the rustle of bed sheets and soon he found himself in Hermione's
warm embrace, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist and her head lying against his back. He
couldn't help but bring one hand to caress her arm.

“I don't want you to feel sorry for me,” he swallowed, turning so that they faced each
other. “I couldn't bear it if you did.”

Her hands cupped his faces, her thumbs running soothing circles against his skin. He swallowed,
fighting the urge to kiss her right then. She was beautiful like this, he decided. Her
coffee-colored eyes were wide and full of intense compassion. Her hair fell in unruly curls
brushing against her shoulders as she craned her neck upwards so that they were eye to eye. His
eyes lingered on the pale expanse of her slender neck, his tongue darting out and licking his lips.
*They needed to talk*, he reminded himself firmly. He tore his eyes away. *They needed to
talk*.

Hermione swallowed. She seemed to be struggling just as much as he was. “I don't feel sorry
for you,” she confessed slowly. “I just wish I could do *something*. I feel like I've
failed you in some way. Listen to you is the only thing that I feel like I can do for you.”

“What?” He half-exclaimed and half-whispered. “How could you think that, Hermione? You've
done more for me than anyone. You've believed in me when no one did. I want to— I need to talk
to you, but it's hard. If anything else, *I've failed you—*”

Her lips were pressed against his before he could finish.

If he thought that merely holding her hand was distracting, everything burst into chaotic pieces
when she kissed him. She offered and he took without any remorse, greedily drinking from her lips
as if he were a dying man. His hands slipped under her crumpled school shirt, her bare skin
beckoning to him like an alluring drug.

“I can't—we need to—” He struggled to speak as she tugged his bottom lip between her teeth.
He moaned as she tugged him closer, his body pressing into the softness of her own.

They were both losing control of their rationality.

If it were any other time, any other place— life, thoughts, moments that were completely
different— he might consider rationality. But he wasn't a normal teenager, no matter how
desperately he wished to be. And Hermione, *Hermione* was far beyond the average teenage girl.
There was a frightening intensity of emotions building up between them and it seemed as though they
could not fight it any longer.

*But now*, he forced himself to ease away from Hermione. He brushed his fingertips against
her lips. *Now, they need to talk.*

“Hey, I—”

Hermione shook her head, still gripping his shirt in her hands. “I—I don't…You're right,
we should talk first.”

“And snog later?” He quipped, trying to lighten the mood. His eyes fell on her bare shoulder,
her scar achingly visible. He swallowed. “Maybe you should get back into bed…”

A tentative smile crossed her lips. “I'm fine. I promise.”

He found himself selfishly pleased that she would stay right where she was, pressed against him
with her h— *Talk*, he continued his silent mantra. *Talk.*

“So,” he awkwardly began. “I saw the Headmaster on my way up here…”

He watched with surprised as her eyes darkened. Her gaze lowered and he wondered with a bit of
indignant curiosity if Dumbledore had something to her.

“He was here,” she murmured. She met his gaze. “I don't know why, but I—I felt like he was
trying to force something out of me. It was as if he wanted me to admit something. I just can't
help but—”

He frowned. “But what?”

She turned away from him to face the window and his hands settled around her waist. The softness
of her shirt brushed quietly against him.

“Hermione,” he tried to push again.

“I—as a child,” she murmured finally, her hands against the window ledge. “As a child, we
usually gravitate towards symbols, *not people*, of what we recognize or believe to be truth.
Dumbledore—”

He reached for her. “Go on.”

“You'll think it's rather silly,” she responded with an endearing blush on her
cheeks.

A ghost of a smile slipped onto his lips, somewhat painfully and foreign. He grasped her waist
tighter, allowing Hermione to cocoon herself into his embrace.

“I'm listening.”

The power of his statement hung in the air with a momentarily thick silence.

Her head dropped again and he did not attempt to move, but gently pushed her chin up. He quietly
willed her to say something. He couldn't explain it, but awkwardness of their situation was
fading and their fragile bond was growing stronger. There was a growing need inside of him that
refused to lose it. His survival seemed to depend on it.

“It's a completely different rationale for me as a Muggle-born. It's almost like
believing in the Easter Bunny and Father Christmas and such. You have a certain perception as a
child of the world. And there's a sort of immortality and invincibility that we give to certain
people in our lives, whether it be parents or leaders. This immortality is there to serve as a
means to an end. It's dependable and comfortable.”

She swallowed. “As a child and a Muggle-born, Albus Dumbledore was that immortal, benevolent
champion that could do no wrong. Now, and I might be completely off, I'm inclined to believe
that there's a frightening façade that he's putting up. We've always perceived Albus
Dumbledore to have this generous and selfless greatness about him. But there was never anything
beyond that and that… that's what scares me.”

He sighed. The weight and truth of her words were almost too much to bear. He was caught
somewhere between amazement and a mix of reproach. Her intuition was almost frightening, but he was
angrier with himself for not being able to recognize what she seemed to know instinctively. Now he
had even more reason to tell her everything.

“There's something that I need— *need* to tell you,” he stumbled, reaching for her hand
and gripping it as if it were his last line of hope. “I just don't— want— I'm afraid
to—”

“Harry,” she whispered. “I'm not going anywhere.”

And suddenly their roles were reversed.

“Voldemort,” he began slowly, trembling and surprised when she didn't flinch. “I—I
can't—”

He felt like that scared little boy, lost in a world he was so desperately trying to understand
and *refused* to understand. He struggled to force words to come out, but found himself
terribly terrified of what she might say or think about him and his secrets.

“It's just a name,” she coaxed gently. Her husky voice was laden with weariness. “Harry, you
don't have to tell me everything right away…”

“It's not just a name,” he half-protested. For a moment, he remembered the cold and wet
Chamber of Secrets. He remembered being terrified and lost, staring at a dying Ginny Weasley and a
bitterly triumphant ghastly image of a teenaged Tom Riddle. “It's not just a name.”

She was quiet for a moment and then she turned around, her hands cradling his face once more.
“I'm not trying to lessen the significance he's played in your life, Harry,” she whispered.
“His name was Tom Riddle and he too was just a boy. Tom Riddle is just a name… a name merely used
to instill fear into lives of innocent people.”

“But what about *me*? What about Dumbledore?”

Hermione gently placed one hand on his heart and the other still lingered against his cheek,
gently stroking his skin as if to offer some sort of comfort.

She offered him a comforting, but small smile and her hand still rested warmly against his
chest. “Your name, Dumbledore's name, Voldemort— all social instruments for control.
I'm—I'm getting to the point where I can't honestly believe that this will get better
before it gets worse. But that's the cycle of life.”

“And your parents?”

The embrace of pain and shadows in her eyes was evidence that he had accidentally hit a
nerve.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry,” he nervously added.

“Things aren't good,” she admitted quietly. She tore her eyes away from him. “I—I'm not
quite ready to talk about them or *to* them right now.”

A dejected sigh escaped his lips as he pulled away from their shared embrace. He shoved his hand
in his pocket and began to kick the ground with the toe of his shoe. His dejection increased when
he heard no indication of movement from her.

“We're not ready, are we?”

It was the antithesis of his direct and earnest his words before. It was painful, the
somberness, and he felt as if they were going nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

“I don't think that that's it, Harry,” Hermione's soft voice interrupted his
desolate musings. “I think that we need to move slowly. I—”

“I don't have time,” he interjected bitterly. “I told you.”

Her hand wrapped around his wrist and caught him off guard, pulling him so that he would turn to
face her.

“We can't wait for things to happen,” she snapped. “That's not what I'm saying.
However, you and I— *this*— I want it. Terribly. But for us to build something, we've got
to take this slowly.”

He watched as her hand loosened from his wrist and then fell to her side. A painful coldness
fell over him as she wrapped her arm around herself, her fingers rubbing her scar in a gesture of
comfort.

Harry made a decision.

“Would you think—would you think any less of me if I took a… a life?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “What?”

His hands were trembling as he carefully grasped her by the shoulders. “Would you think any less
of me if I took a life?” He said, his voice echoing in the empty Hospital Ward.

She was silent for a moment. “No,” she slowly replied. “It wouldn't be fair, especially with
the circumstances that we've only begun to face.”

“Not even if it were intentional?”

Hermione shook her head. “I'm not going to lie and say that it wouldn't *scare* me.
Honestly? No, you have a good heart. Sometimes, Harry, with the circumstances. It's completely
unavoidable especially now.”

He was silently, surprised that he could not find an ounce of disgust or dishonesty in her
voice. He was almost afraid to recognize her honesty, a conviction he was not used to since he was
a child.

“I don't deserve this,” he whispered brokenly. “How—why are you still here?”

She smiled, her eyes were endless abysses of warmth and honestly. Harry swallowed, struggling
with the little boy with him that was pleading to seek haven in her arms.

“Because I want to be.”

He was even more desperate to believe.

**

*looks nervously at the sharp objects everyone seems to be sharpening*

I've been pretty good about updating so there's no need to resort to violence to get me
to update faster… Please?

Anyhow, thank you for all the wonderful reviews. I really and truly can't thank you guys
enough. The reviews make my day.

Er, anyhow. *Crawlingwithidiot* was one of the ones to find the hidden lyric. Her very
depressing one-shot is posted on my livejournal if you care to read it. And when I say depressing,
*I do mean depressing.* Estelle was the other person who got the hidden lyric, but has yet to
give me here request. So look for that too.

As always, thanks to Chaosblade… He's really good for my ego.

I don't have much to say, except that next chapter is going to be a *huge* chapter…
Other than that, please review!

-->



10. In the Eyes of Iago
-----------------------

*Your own personal Jesus
Someone to hear your prayers
Someone who cares
Your own personal Jesus
Someone to hear your prayers
Someone who’s there
Feeling unknown
And you’re all alone
Flesh and bone
By the telephone
Lift up the receiver
I’ll make you a believer
Take second best
Put me to the test
Things on your chest
You need to confess
I will deliver
You know I’m a forgiver
Reach out and touch faith
Reach out and touch faith
Your own personal Jesus...
Feeling unknown
And you’re all alone
Flesh and bone
By the telephone
Lift up the receiver
I’ll make you a believer
I will deliver
You know I’m a forgiver
Reach out and touch faith
Your own personal Jesus
Reach out and touch faith*

**depeche mode, personal jesus**

**CHAPTER TEN:** In the Eyes of Iago

*Dear Hermione,*

*If you cannot listen to us, then we will make one last plea as your parents.*

*sThere is no hope for a happy life in that world. You don’t belong there. We have tried to
entertain her fancy and whimsical attachment to magic, when we should have forced you to maintain
practicality. I, as your mother, take full responsibility for not fighting to keep you here. Here,
where you would be much happier.*

*Darling, we love you. Do not dispute that.*

But this, this world— those people— is not healthy.

So after a long discussion between your father and me, we have come to the collective decision
that we will give you until your graduation to come to your senses. I hope, darling, you will
regain that sense of responsibility and practicality that your father and I know you have.

*Remember, we just want what’s best for you.*

And please, for our sake’s stay away from that boy…

*Too late for that*, she mused, shoving the crumpled letter into her bag. *Too late for
that…*

Hermione leaned back into her chair in the Headmaster’s office, trying to block out the quiet
whispers of the portraits around her and her own need to rationalize everything that had happened
these last couple of weeks. She sighed, her fingers reaching up and rubbing gently at her forehead.
Sometimes it was useless to fight her tendency to over-analyze.

A small smile lingered on her lips as her thoughts moved to Harry. They didn’t talk much about
*serious* things after their conversation in the hospital wind. The pain of her scar was
nearly dull and their relationship steadily began to improve through little things. He’d carry her
books to Potions. Or she’d sit with him in the Common Room late into the night and well into the
morning if his nightmare were particularly bad. They’d laugh sometimes. He’d grab her hand. She’d
invite him to have lunch with Hannah and Neville outside. Things were *okay*, but both of them
knew that they were still nowhere near where they *should* be.

She sighed again, wringing her hands in her lap.

She didn’t like this.

She didn’t like the uncertainty.

She couldn’t help but feel that the Headmaster was purposely forcing her to wait for him. It was
gravely disconnecting that she was beginning to believe that she couldn’t put it past him. This man
had brought her into the wizarding world with the presumptions that she would be safe and happy.
This man told her parents with a serious face that she would blossom to sate their skepticism. She
was starting to believe that she could not trust Albus Dumbledore and his benevolence and that
scared her.

For when it came to her intuition, Hermione was frightfully right in some form.

“Miss Granger.”

She turned around to see the Headmaster enter his office, a warm smile on his face. She
swallowed and gave him a nod, that very same uncomfortable feeling rising up in the pit of her
stomach. He sent another fond smile towards a sleeping Fawkes and took his seat in front of
her.

“I had hoped to talk to you under different circumstances,” the Headmaster murmured.

She said nothing, forcing herself to focus on the pile of books on the corner of his desk. She
waited for him to continue.

Dumbledore leaned forward, his gaze intense and somewhat alarming. “You had expressed a concern
to me only weeks ago about your parents. This morning I received a most alarming letter.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, her hands trembling. A thousand terrifying scenarios ran through her
mind, each worse than the one before. She could feel Dumbledore waiting for some sort of outburst
from her. She struggled with the urge to tell the Headmaster to come out and say it.

“They wish to withdraw you from Hogwarts.”

Her heart stopped.

“Withdraw?” She managed to choke out. “With—draw from Hogwarts?”

“I realize the gravity of the situation,” the Headmaster began.

But she wasn’t listening. They wanted to withdraw her from Hogwarts, her home for the last six
years. *Why on earth— How did they— They said they were—* She buried her head in her hands.
She knew they were serious about the ultimatum. She knew that they were serious about waiting until
after graduation. This was ridiculous. They were acting like children.

I don’t know what’s going on in that world of yours.

You’ve never bothered to ask.

I’d rather see you in a nice, sensible boarding school.

I go to a boarding school, mother. One that I happen to be doing very well in…

“Miss Granger?”

She shook her head, meeting Dumbledore’s concerned gaze. “I apologize, Headmaster. I’m in a bit
of shock.”

“That’s quite all right, child,” he replied with a smile. “However, I do believe I have a
solution to this little dilemma.”

Apprehensive, she gave him a nod to continue. Hermione shifted and clasped her hands in her lap.
Trying to ignore the gossiping whispers of the portraits, she found she couldn’t find the strength
to talk now.

“I have talked with Arthur Weasley,” Dumbledore started. “And he has agreed to take your parents
on a tour of the Ministry and then bring them hear so that they can see how brilliantly you’re
doing.”

She choked out a laugh. “And you think that their sentiments are just going to disappear and be
kicked under the proverbial rug? Pardon me for being a skeptic, sir. But I think I know my parents
better than that.”

“I understand that you’re under an immense amount of emotional uncertainty, child. I don’t mean
to cause you any unease, but I do believe I have another alternative to this dilemma.”

Hermione sighed. “Headmaster…I don’t think that…”

He didn’t listen. “You are the brightest student that Hogwarts has seen in ages. Your potential
as a student and as an anchor, if you will, is astounding.”

She leaned forward. She couldn’t help but feel that this was headed in a direction that he had
planned all along. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t follow.”

Dumbledore frowned, but reached for a book in front of him. She watched with unease as he
flipped quietly through the pages.

“How familiar are you with the different levels of magical potential, Miss Granger?”

“I, um,” she started, but then her rational side took over. “I remember the letter that we
received after my Hogwarts letter from the Ministry detailing this, I guess. All I really remember
is that my mother kept saying something about my leveling ability…I’m sorry, I just can’t grasp
where you’re going with this.”

“The responsibility of an anchor, Miss Granger, is to prevent any magical instability in his or
her counterpart. Unspeakables are anchors to a certain extent with their duties to—”

“Protect,” Hermione interrupted. “I know what Unspeakable does, Professor. We had a lesson in
Defense Against the Dark Arts in our fourth year that talked about them. But what does this have to
do with me?”

He handed her the book that lay in front of him. “Page three hundred and forty-nine.”

**Binding Potion**

Aeternus Eternus

*Effects and Uses:*

*Used in binding/marriage rituals.*

*Potentially poisonous, the pair must consummate after the ritual is completed.*

*A double-edge sword effect: potentially strengthens the magic of pair, however, if one dies—
the other will follow.*

Emotionally intense empathy and telepathic

*A tattoo to symbolize success of binding… will be the connection between the pair.*

*Ingredients:*

*Petals of magnolias*

*Stem of a lily*

*Crushed dry lavender*

*½ a cup of unicorn blood*

*2 drops of the blood of the participants*

Aphrodite’s Tears [an elixir]

Her eyes were wide and her breathing was shallow. She fought against the bile that threatened to
spill from her throat. Aeternus eternus was the third dangerous love potion that was ever
concocted. The rumor, according to Professor Snape, was that a man from Italy brewed it in hopes of
binding the woman that he loved to himself for all eternity. The problem was the woman didn’t love
him and he was trying to punish her for it. She killed herself in response and took him to the
grave with her.

She closed her eyes, forcing herself to maintain some façade of calmness.

“This— this is a binding potion,” she whispered, her hands shaking. “This is a deadly
potion…Professor, I *don’t* understand.”

“You’ll be able to protect each other,” Dumbledore murmured as if he never heard her. “It’s
exactly what Lily Potter intended to do, but failed in her great sacrifice.”

The weight of his words was not lost to her. But her mind refused to let go of what her
Headmaster was asking of her— of *Harry*. Had he planned this all along? Had he known that
Lily Potter was going to give birth to a son with the unbelievable magical potential that he
had?

“Does—does Harry know?” She managed to ask, quietly shutting the book close. “Did you tell him
about this?”

The older man’s eyes darkened. “No,” he replied. “I fear I have lost the trust of young Mr.
Potter. We must prepare for the dark days that are upon us.”

She said nothing. She couldn’t say anything. A part of her wondered how much Dumbledore had
weighted in the coming war. The other part of her told her that he always seemed to have their best
interest in mind. Now, she felt numb. Has he taken advantage of the situation with Lily Potter? Was
he trying to repeat history?

“So I assume,” she whispered, grasping the book for a sense of false security. Maybe she should
leave Hogwarts. Maybe she should go back to that sense of false comfort. She shook her head. She
could never leave Harry. She couldn’t bring herself too.

Dumbledore was taking advantage of this *fragile* bond she shared with Harry.

“I assume,” she started again. “That this is up to me? That you want me to talk to Harry?”

“Miss Granger,” he began, speaking to her as if she were a small child having a fit. “I am
asking you to take an incredible risk. But this is a risk that is absolutely necessary.”

Her eyes closed. “I understand what you’re asking of me.”

“Do you?” The Headmaster pushed. “Do you truly?”

She watched him silently for a moment, taking in everything from his crescent moon glass perched
on his nose to his amethyst-starred robes. This man, this supposed comfort, no longer held the same
amount of significance now. She felt sad and yet, she was numb. Numb because she knew he was ready
to sacrifice everything and anything for this war to turn out in the direction he favored.

Hermione felt terribly sick. “I— I need to go find, Harry,” she whispered.

Dumbledore nodded. “Of course, if your parents do not contact you with the days that they are
set to arrive, I will let you know as soon as I know anything. And take the book with you, so that
if you have any questions we can set another time to meet.”

“All right,” she managed quietly, unnerved by the level of calmness he was displaying. She
slowly began to feel suffocated, mustering a nod and heading towards the door.

Down the spiral staircase and through the door, she forced herself to grab onto the wall and
calm down. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes and her shoulder began to throb with the all too
familiar pain.

We just want you to be happy, Hermione.

*I’m happy where I am!*

*There is something about that place, that world—we’re losing you.*

She slid down to the ground, her hands muffling her painful sobs. How could she do this? How
could she be strong for the both of them when she couldn’t even be strong for herself? The
desperation and the mass confusion would drown her, she realized. Yet, the weight of this decision
was entirely her own.

I’m already lost.

**

So yeah.

A week has shrunken to four days.

Maybe it’s the holiday spirit?

*glances wearily at the mob with sharp objects*

Some quick notes about this chapter. The name for the binding potion is Latin and means
“eternal, everlasting, without end”. I’m obviously going to get more into the potion itself as the
story continues to progress, but for now the name and its ingredients are really all that are
important now.

Now to Dumbledore… Yes, the Shakespeare reference in the title was intentional. *Othello*
is one of my favorite plays. *sighs* I’ve got nothing against the old man in all honesty. But do
keep in mind that there’s a war that’s about to start and the old man’s trying to secure a safe
position. It’s human nature and even Dumbledore can’t escape that.

There will be *heavy* H/Hr in the next couple chapters and Ron will be making an appearance very
soon, I promise.

Thank you to Chaosblades for being *gushes* the sweetest and most charming beta reader. He’s
just so cute.

Other than that, don’t hesitate to review or even stop by my live journal. I’m pretty
responsive.

HH



11. The Uncertainty of Forever
------------------------------

She shines
In a world full of ugliness
She matters
When everything is meaningless
Fragile
She doesn’t see her beauty
She tries to get away
Sometimes
It’s just that nothing seems worth saving
I can’t watch her slip away
I won’t let you fall apart
She reads the minds of all the people as they pass her by
Hoping someone can see
If I could fix myself I’d-
But it’s too late for me
I won’t let you fall apart
We’ll find the perfect place to go where we can run and hide
I’ll build a wall and we can keep them on the other side
But they keep waiting
And picking
It’s something I have to do
I was there, too
Before everything else
I was like you…

**nine inch nails, “the fragile”**

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**: The Uncertainty of Forever

“Harry!”

He turned to see a hysterical Hannah Abbott pushing through the crowds of students leaving their
classes and running towards him. Her eyes were wide and when she finally reached him, he found he
couldn’t manage to understand anything that was coming out of the tiny Hufflepuff girl.

She began to ramble in tears about there being something wrong with Hermione. He could make out
words such as ‘*sobbing*,’ ‘*lake*,’ and ‘*parents’* and tried not to think of
nothing but the worst. He had to listen to her first.

“Hannah,” he spoke, awkwardly placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Take your time. Do you
want me to go find Hermione?”

Hannah rolled her eyes and wrenched her arm free. “You’re such a boy,” she took a deep breath
and then continued. “I don’t know where the bloody hell you get off, but Hermione’s by the lake in
tears. Susie’s spent the last hour trying to get her to talk, but she won’t talk. I can’t
stand—”

Harry was already on his way outside before she could finish. He hoped that Hannah was just
being a *girl* instead of a concerned friend.

But he was no stranger to the concept of nothing good coming out of a meeting with Albus
Dumbledore.

*He knew it had been a bad idea to let her go alone.*

He found her by the edge of the lake, sitting on a rock with her legs folded underneath her and
her arms protecting herself from the bitter wind. He stopped, the dead leaves crunching under his
weight and immediately started to shed his robe with the intention of placing it on her
shoulders.

“Hello,” she murmured as he draped his robes over her shoulders. “I suppose Hannah came and got
you.”

“Yeah,” he responded, sitting beside her. He didn’t know whether or not he should put an arm
around her or was it okay for him to be just *there*. He swallowed nervously, wanting
desperately to ask what was wrong. This was far too new for him.

“Is everything o—okay?” He stumbled awkwardly.

Hermione finally turned to face him, tracks of tears present on her wind-kissed cheeks. “I’m so
bloody stupid,” she whispered fiercely.

*Something was wrong.*

His eyes went wide. “Hermione?”

He watched her stand, his robes falling into a silent pile where she had been sitting. She began
to pace, her arms still folded against her chest and her bottom lip trembling against what looked
to be her attempts not to start crying again.

“How could I’ve not seen this coming?” She whispered to herself. “How could I have not
known?”

Harry stood and reached for her, bringing her into his arms and turning her so that they faced
each other. He cradled her face between his hands.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Hey, you need to calm down and tell me what happened. What did Dumbledore
say? Or was it Ron? Did he do something to you?”

A bitter laugh escaped her lips as her gaze fell. “I wish. *Oh Merlin*, do I wish it was
that simple.”

“Then what happen?” He caressed her cheek softly. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”

“You know I went to see Dumbledore,” she whispered, pulling away from his embrace. He ignored
the coldness of her unconscious dismissal of his offer of comfort as he watched her edge closer to
the calm waters of the lake. He watched her quietly, waiting for her to start again.

“I—He—My parents want to *withdraw* me from Hogwarts.”

Those words hit him like a ton of brick.

He felt a wave of nausea threaten to drown at the possibility of losing *her*.
*Leave*, the all-too familiar voice began to whisper inside of his mind. *I told you she was
going to leave*.

“You’re leaving,” he spoke more as a statement that a question. He nearly collapsed into his
seat on the rock. “When do you go?” He asked numbly.

She whirled around, her eyes angry. “You stupid git! I promised you that I wasn’t going anywhere
and I intend to keep that promise. I’m just—these are my parents! And he—I don’t know anymore. But
what I do know is that *I’m not leaving*.”

“They’re your parents, Hermione,” he whispered. “I can’t make you chose.”

She rubbed her eyes and let out a shaky sigh. “They're my parent, Harry- I'm just so
furious, and at the same time I'm just so sad. Because this isn't about
understanding...This is about not *wanting* to understand.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he whispered shakily. He was completely unnerved by her
vehement confession, but couldn’t help the selfish relief from consuming him. “I want to help.”

A sad smile formed on her lips. “You are. You’re listening.”

He found the strength to approach again, reaching out and grasping her hand within his. “What
did Dumbledore say?”

The air around her began to change. She was struggling, it seemed, with a terrible and grave
decision. He suddenly felt like a lost little boy, hoping desperately that someone would tell him
the truth about what was going on.

“What did he say, Hermione? I know there’s more to this.”

“Aeternus Eternus,” she recited as if she were answering in a class. “Latin for eternal,
everlasting, or without end. It’s a potentially dangerous potion that can be used in marriage
ceremonies that binds the two souls together. It’s a double edge sword, though. For if one dies,
the other will follow.”

She turned away from him and quietly continued. “He also said that it was something that your
mum intended to do, but failed to succeed in…”

*My mum—A binding potion? Dumbledore wanted them to—a binding potion? Was she out of her
mind?* He began to shake. “No,” he hissed. “Hermione, *no*. I can’t let you—*no, no,
no!*”

“Harry, please—”

He shook his head, violently ripping his hand from hers. How could Dumbledore even fathom
something like this? How could even ask Hermione to—

His eyes widened.

He knew.

Dumbledore knew. Dumbledore knew that Hermione could never say no to anything when it came to
him. *You stupid git*, he screamed at himself. *This is your fault. You got her in this
mess.*

“Your parents are right,” he began, his voice hollow and his hands trembling. “You’ll be safer
and happier away.”

Her hand grabbed his arm and jerked him back to face her. “Don’t do this,” she warned. “Don’t
shut me out. Don’t think that you’re doing me a favor. I’m quite capable of making my
decisions.”

“Well then, what the bloody hell do you want me to say?” He exploded. “Because I obviously can’t
say or do the right thing! I am not going to ask you to *die* for me!”

“Don’t you get it?” She sobbed out, tears starting to roll down her cheeks. “I want a
*chance* to fall in *love with you*! I want the awkward first dates and the sloppy
kisses. I want—I—I don’t want some stupid potion, but this—this is not our choice. I want a choice.
I don’t even know what love’s supposed to be—but if this keeps you safe, *then I will do
it.*”

He swallowed, unnerved by her passionate convictions. He turned to face her again, cradling her
face between his hands as he had done before. He pressed a kiss against her forehead. *I don’t
deserve you,* he mused. *I don’t deserve what you’re trying to do for me.*

“Hermione,” he whispered. “Why are you doing this?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “All I know is that I have to. Because either way, Harry, *I
will follow you.*”

“I don’t—” he began to protest.

She shook her head. “No. No more. I don’t need you to try to convince me otherwise. And I
certainly don’t need Albus Dumbledore trying to *guilt* you—me into something—”

He was unconvinced and grabbed her by the arms, steadying her before she went into another
tireless rant. “Let’s ignore the fact that there’s a war, Hermione. Let’s ignore the fact that your
parents want to—want—”

He paused and swallowed. He couldn’t bring himself to say *those words*. He could no longer
hide or try to ignore the value of Hermione anymore. He couldn’t lose her.

“But we can’t,” she whispered brokenly. “We can’t have normal, Harry. I’ve come to terms with
that. But if I have to go through life without you—I don’t—I don’t think I could bear living the
rest of my life with just half myself…”

“That potion—this *thing*—*It’s forever*, Hermione.”

She nodded, biting down on her bottom lip. “I know.”

Harry brought a shaking hand to cup her chin and force her to look at him. “Are you sure? Some—”
He caught himself before he could utter anything. “If anything happens to me, you could—”

“I know.”

His hands feel to his side and the guilt began to eat away at him. He had to tell her everything
now. From beginning to end and everything in between, he owed her this much. There were no excuses
now.

“Sit down, Hermione,” he murmured. “I need you to listen.”

Her eyes were wide, but she complied and returned to the rock where she had first been. His
hands were trembling violently now and the fact that she was focused on him so intensely didn’t
help either.

“Harry?”

He sighed. “Remember when we went to the Department of Mys—” Harry cut himself off and laughed
bitterly. “Of course you do. You were in the bloody Hospital Wing for nearly dying. I’m so stupid,
I—”

Hermione stood, her eyes dark with worry. “Harry,” she whispered. “Just tell me.”

He swallowed and then blurted, “The *prophecy*. It—It was—Dumbledore knew—knows all about
it. Before we left for the summer, he told me everything.”

“What did it say?”

Her voice was neutral and quiet. He hated the fact that he couldn’t read her or find some clue
to what she was feeling. *You’ve done it, Potter. You’ve finally pushed her away. Might as well
put the final nail in the coffin.*

He looked down and began to repeat the words that had—*will* haunt him for the rest of his
life.

“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches,” he whispered, the familiar
sensation of emptiness starting to eat away at him. “Born to those who have thrice defied him, born
as the seventh month dies…and the—the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power
that Dark Lord knows not—either must die at the hands of the other for neither can live while the
other *survives*.”

She was silent and unmoving. Harry watched her, completely terrified that she would turn around
and walk away, leaving him alone in this mess. The wind began to pick up around them and forcing
the dead leaves of the cold ground and into a chaotic dance.

Then she spoke. “Come here.”

His eyes were wide. “Hermione?”

She shook her head. “*Come here*.”

He stepped forward and she wrapped her arms around him in a desperate embrace. She was shaking
and silent, but the warmth of her embrace seemed to radiate that all too familiar strength he
always associated with Hermione.

“I can’t ask you to die for me,” he whispered, stroking her back softly. “Too many people have
died for me. I won’t put you through it—I refused to. Maybe it’s best if you just go back home and
to the safety of the Muggle World. Maybe it’s best if you forget about me.”

She pulled back and shook her head, her eyes bright with tears. “Do you honestly think that I’m
going to listen to you?”

His lips threatened to curve into a smile. “No,” he sobered. “But I don’t want you to do
anything you don’t want to. I don’t want you to think—think that you’ve got to sacrifice your life
for me.”

Hermione was quiet for a moment. She stood on the tips of her toes and softly brushed her lips
against his. A small, comforting smile lingered on her lips.

“We’ll be okay,” she whispered. “I’ve lost faith in a lot of things, Harry. But I’ve never lost
faith in *us*.”


The weight on his shoulder was slowly beginning to ease. “In that case,” he murmured. “I want
the left side of the bed.”

“You can—”

He watched as her eyes widened and an endearing blush began to spread across her cheeks as the
implications hit her. For a moment, he felt like a *normal* teenage boy. He would get through
this. He would get through this with her.

“Harry Potter!”

*We’ll be okay. We’ll get through this.*

He began to laugh and she followed. It felt good to laugh and to be in the moment, pretending to
be ignorant for a just a minute.

However, neither of them noticed a silently dangerous Ron Weasley watching them.

Neither of them had noticed *it* had just begun.

->-

Author’s Notes:

I apologize for the lateness of this chapter. *smirks* I spoiled you guys with the quick updates
and the temporary resolutions. You should know by now that I like keeping people on their feet.
Consider this chapter the calm before the storm. The *really, really* *big* storm.

*looks at check list*

Okay, the prophecy quote is from page 841 of OtoP. The English major’s always got to quote her
sources, you know?

Two serious announcements… Well, no not really. One serious announcement and one
*announcement*…

The first concerns the updating. Next week is my final week of classes and then there’s exams
following after that, I can’t promise steady updates because I will be deliriously stressed about
stupid things. But I will *try* to keep with my weekly update.

Second announcement. *smirks*

Goldy, the author of the fabulous fic Lines Crossed, has decided to become my partner in crime
and we’ve started a yahoo group. *However* it takes too much effort to think of a really witty name
for the group, so we’re holding an opening contest for a name for our group. If your name’s the
coolest out of the lot, we’ll give you a nifty prize. So go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/kaze_and_goldy/
and join. Why? Because I told you so.

Finally, as always, thanks to my darling beta, Chaosblades for keeping my sanity in check and
putting up with the stuff I’m too lazy to correct. And to you guys, for making the stress bearable
by reviewing.

Review please!



