CHAPTER ONE: DEMENTORS' KISS
Harry and Ron sat on chairs next to her bed, hesitant to wake her. She had barely made it through the ordeal alive. Madam Pomfrey diagnosed her with a broken shoulder blade and ankle. She’d fixed this overnight, however the pain and bruises left could not be magicked away.
“I think we should just let her be, mate.” Ron suggested.
“I don’t know… she’d want to know what happened immediately, you know that…” Harry replied, though somewhat nervously.
Ron gave him a quizzical look, as if he weren’t sure it was best to do this now. However, they had no room for argument when she stirred in her covers, faced them, and spoke lightly,
“Ron, for once listen to Harry.” She whispered, the pain evident in her voice. Yet she managed a weak smile.
“Hermione, you look horrible…”
“Thanks Ron, you’re quite cute yourself.”
“Oh, come off it, you know what I mean… really, Hermione, we can come back.” Ron said.
Harry reached across to the nightstand, pulled out a tissue, and began gently wiping the blood droplets off her cheeks.
She blinked heavily, the soothing touch somehow extending to her shoulder, ridding the pain.
“I hate it when I’m left in the dark.” Harry said, more to himself than anyone else.
“Right, me too. So…” Hermione used her elbows to slowly push herself into a sitting position.
Harry and Ron flung from their seats, eager to make sure she could manage.
She smiled brightly at them for a moment, but her face suddenly fell into a deep frown. A second later, and to the surprise of Harry and Ron, her hazelnut eyes filled to the brim with tears, a few escaping the confines of her eyelashes and spilling onto her bloodstained cheeks.
“He- Hermione, what is it? What’s wrong?” Ron asked concernedly.
“It- It’s just I, I really thought…”
Harry and Ron gave each other a furtive glance, unsure what to do.
“Well…” she continued, her voice meek with mixed embarrassment and relief. “When we were watching the teachers fighting all those Death Eaters, I felt like- like I knew one of us wouldn’t make it out alive. I was so sure I’d turn around only to find one, or even both of you lying dead… and I…” her voice faded into silence.
“Hermione…” Harry whispered, “We’re all fine, don’t cry, really…”
“And I wouldn’t know what to do if…” she cut off, crying madly into her pillow now, as if perhaps it had the means to comfort her. “…if one of you died. What I mean to say is… well, I prayed it would be me. Right before we dashed out, I prayed that if one had to go, it be me.”
Harry’s and Ron’s mouths were hung faintly open, but their eyes narrowed in deep distress and alarm. Harry’s eyebrows were slightly raised, in what Hermione recognized as minor disbelief.
“Hermione, I don’t want you to ever say- or do- anything like that again… I, I can’t believe you! And what would we do if you’d died? You think that be easier on us somehow? I…” Harry cut himself off, uncertain what to say next. He glanced around the room for the answer, but found none. Though Hermione, it seemed, had it.
She flung her arms around him, burying her face in his neck, crying uncontrollably. She squeezed and never wanted to let go. Harry squeezed her back, careful of her hurt shoulder, with his eyes closed for fear that his own tears were becoming increasingly obvious. He felt her love surge through him like soft waves of power, and he refused to let her go for a long time. “It’s ok,” he kept muttering, “It’s ok.”
Minutes later, she forced herself to let him go, but immediately flung herself upon Ron. He seemed quite taken aback, but embraced her nonetheless. She pulled herself away, head down, and whispered in what she thought to be too quiet to hear, “I love you guys.”
“I love you too, Hermione.” Harry replied, taking her hand in his.
“Yeah, me too. Don’t worry, we’re all here. No one died, actually…” Ron went on.
“Oh! How’s Professor McGonagall? And Snape? Are they alright?” Hermione gathered her strength and wiped her tears away with the back of her shaking hand. “What ended up happening? The last thing I remember is that dreadful Lestrange woman pointing her wand at me.”
“Yeah, well, she got you pretty good, cause Madam Pomfrey says you broke your shoulder blade and your ankle. They’re fixed, of course…” Ron said.
“Well, that’s only because Lockhart isn’t here to completely do away with them. Better broken than gone,” Harry tried to tease. He got a small laugh out of her, but she continued to stare at the floor. “Anyway,” Harry continued, “McGonagall is fine, she’s resting in her quarters though. She should be back to teaching in less than a week. Snape, however, got quite the blow. He had broken ribs, a broken elbow, and a ruptured lung. Pomfrey had to work quick on that one… but he’s alright. They were both really grateful for our helping them… I’d never seen Snape so… civil. It was unnerving. McGonagall battled with some tears when she hugged us, and she really wants to see you, actually.”
“Oh,” Hermione breathed relief. “Thank God they’re ok. I was worried for them too. I could tell something was up with my back, though. It feels bruised, it hurts to lay on my left side,” she said.
“Yeah, Pomfrey said it would be black and blue for at least a couple weeks, straight through Christmas, no doubt… and you’ve got to take some potion to speed it up, or else she says the fracture will come back,” Ron informed her.
“Oh, splendid. Bet it tastes like honey.”
“Well anyway, like Ron was saying, no one died… which of course, is good in a sense, but that also means the Death Eaters got away unscathed,” Harry continued. He thought it best to sound practical and matter-of fact, so as to not provoke more tears. “But, after you were shot down, I swear…” anger rose in his voice at the memory of it.
If Hermione had been dead, Harry was willing to do whatever it took to put Lestrange in as much pain as possible. He looked in the distance, remembering his mad determination, and must have done so for quite some time, because Hermione said,
“Harry? You alright?”
“Yeah, fine… anyway, I was just about to give her a good Crucio, when I was knocked out or something. It was the strangest feeling, more like there wasn’t much feeling at all. I mean, I knew what was going on… least I thought I did. I thought I was dying, see,” He was cut short by Hermione’s gasp of air. He looked to see her hands covering her mouth, and trembling hysterically.
“No! Hermione, really, obviously I’m fine, but I’d thought I’d died, but the weird part was, I didn’t much care… the only thing I truly felt was an odd tingling in my legs, and then there was just blackness. Same with Ron, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, just like that, only I did care… sorry, but you’re morbid, mate. I knew I was dying and I was having a fit inside.”
“Well, we woke up about… what was it, four, five hours later? And Dumbledore was standing here in the infirmary with Moody and Hagrid. Hagrid was a disaster, total wreck… he nearly broke my neck hugging me when I’d come through. Anyway,” he continued, “Seems Dumbledore shot around some charm or another. We don’t know much about it, only that he didn’t like having to use it with us there. Supposedly, if your soul is filled with evil or sin, you’re blasted really hard and repelled from the spot. If you’re good, it just knocks the wind out of you. I reckon it did a bit more than that, though,” he finished.
“Oh, wow… I can’t believe they just popped up at Hogwarts like that. How did they, anyway? In Hogwarts, A History, it says there are serious anti-Dark arts spells put all across the grounds… and it’s unplottable. How on earth did they just trot on in, let alone find it?” Hermione wondered aloud.
“Well, we’ve asked Dumbledore that,” Ron began…
“But all he does is reassure us that the castle itself can’t be breached. So, we’re really not sure Hermione. Though, Voldemort went here too, so he at least knew how to find it,” said Harry.
“Oh hell! I’ve forgotten!” Hermione yelped.
“What?!”
“Dumbledore! Is he furious with us?”
“Oh… that,” Ron staggered.
“No.” Harry put simply. “He wasn’t mad at all, seemed as if he expected it, honestly. Which was curious, I thought. Ron and me were just talking about that…”
Hermione laid back down, face turned towards the ceiling. Why wasn’t Dumbledore angry? In the past, he’s always understood, always thanked us… but he always warned us to be careful and not go looking for trouble. ‘But that’s precisely what we did,’ Hermione thought. What was different now?
“Oh! I know!” she exclaimed.
“Do you? Mind filling us in?” Ron retorted.
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? This time it’s all different. Before… with the Sorcerer’s Stone, with the Chamber of Secrets… all that, it was different, because Harry was too young, because it wasn’t time for the prophecy to be fulfilled yet. Those years were sort of… errr, stepping stones, I suppose you could say, to what had to happen in the end, which is why Dumbledore understood the circumstances, but didn’t exactly encourage our involvement,” she paused for breath, and saw the revelation cross Harry’s eyes. He understood what she was saying, though Ron sat, eager to hear more, as if he’d been completely out of the loop for the past six years.
“So,” she continued, “Now, he thinks it’s time. Now he knows that you know about the prophecy, so he expects that you’ve come to terms with it by now, and so he expects that you’re going to be on the foreground and in the action of the battles. He wasn’t furious because your involvement is necessary, Harry. Because this time, your part in it all is crucial, essential. Before it was more… coincidental. He was alright with it because you’re ready now, because the second war is here… and because he knows it.” Hermione concluded.
Finally, it all seemed to piece itself together for Ron. Harry nodded a bit, his eyes glazed, staring into oblivion. Hermione wished she hadn’t been so blatant about it. She could only imagine what it must be like to know you had to either kill, or be killed, by Lord Voldemort, nonetheless. Which got her thinking…
“But that still doesn’t explain why he wouldn’t be angry with Ron and me. I mean, truthfully, we have no place in any of this. If we hadn’t been friends, we’d be just regular bystanders to it all, with nothing fateful about our involvement,”
Harry looked at Hermione with mounting sorrow, for she’d never understand that, “I need you,” he said. “That’s your place. With me. Dumbledore knows that just as much as he knows anything else about this war. That if I’m going to have to win it, I’ll need you… both of you. That’s why he wasn’t angry.”
Hermione and Ron looked at one another, and their emotions were identical. One could see the love, respect, and trust they had for Harry, just by the twinkle in their eyes. Harry seemed to think his last statement was well-known truth, not anything terribly sentimental, but how wrong he was. Hermione reached across for his hand, gave Ron a knowing look, and said,
“And we’re here, always. Snape’ll marry, errr… Malfoy,”
“Which, actually, isn’t all that unlikely,” Ron interjected.
“…before we’d let you do any of this alone.” Hermione pushed forward, ignoring Ron. She smiled at Harry, eyes alive with compassion, and shook her head at how ordinary, yet exceptional, of a wizard he really was, but also at how remarkable and perilous his situation continued to be.
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A week had passed since the day of the Death Eater’s spontaneous attack on Hogwarts, and the time had come for the students to decide whether to spend the holidays there or at home. It had been a long, ongoing argument among the trio, but in the end, Hermione won in convincing them to go to the Burrow without her. She had to stay so that Snape could administer her daily potion, but she didn’t want Harry and Ron to hold themselves back for her sake; she knew how much Harry loved the Burrow.
The night before the Hogwarts Express was due to take them to platform 9 ¾ for the Christmas holidays, Hermione sat on Ron’s bed in the boy’s dormitory, watching them pack their belongings.
“Hermione, really, it’s not too late. Say the word now and we’ll stay… I really hate that you’ll be the only Gryffindor staying behind. Who’ll you talk to?” Harry was relentless in his fight to remain at Hogwarts for her.
“I’ll have loads of homework to do, Harry. I’ve missed so much class, it’ll be a wonder that I get it all finished by the time you get back anyways. I really want you both to go, have a good time,” she replied.
“Well, alright then. I still don’t like it,” he said.
“Anyways, Hermione, what fun’ll we have? You know how it’ll go. The Order are so caught up now, in… well, you know, their business… that Mum and Dad won’t be around much, except maybe on Christmas day. So, it’ll be Fred and George in charge of the house, which doesn’t say much for our safety, come to think about it,” Ron snorted with the thought of those two trying to run a household.
“You know it’ll be great, Ron. Fred and George, I’m sure, will supply the entertainment, and the two of you can practice Quidditch till the early hours of the morning…” she trailed off, secretly hurt that she had to stay back alone, for the first time ever.
“Well, look- Dad sent post this morning, he says him and Dumbledore had a chat with Mum. She’s been convinced that Harry needs to know what’s going on, seeing as how…” he hesitated, unsure how to word exactly what Harry’s part was in all this, other than either the hero or the chap buried six feet under. “…right. Well, that means we’ll know everything that’s going on now, so we’ll send word every day to keep you filled in.”
“Yeah, post every day, can you imagine? Hedwig and Errol won’t be too happy. But we’ll make sure you don’t feel alone,” Harry added.
The three walked down to dinner, talking rapidly about what the next phase in this war would be, when Hermione caught sight of Goyle running into the Great Hall, sobbing. She pointed him out to Harry and Ron, who gaped in wonderment at what could make Goyle, of all people, cry in public.
“What in bloody hell?” Ron spoke.
“Hurry…” Hermione said, grabbing their robes and pulling them out of their state of shock. “It must have been something major.”
When they entered the Great Hall, flocks of owls were flying overhead, clearly grasping the Daily Prophet.
“What on earth? The Daily Prophet isn’t issued at night…” Hermione pointed out.
The three sat at the Gryffindor table and joined the rest in staring up at the ceiling, anticipating their own copy. Just then, a loud thud announced the arrival of Hermione’s. She gave the owl a knut and frantically turned to the front page. It read:
SPECIAL EDITION: DEMENTORS PERFORM KISS ON FOUR DEATH EATERS
“Wicked!” Ron shouted.
“Not wicked, Ron… you know what this means?!” Hermione retorted.
“Yeah, it means we’ve knocked up four notches in this war… ahh, four down, only… what do you reckon, 30 more to go?” Ron looked to Harry.
“No, you prat! Oh, this is terrible…” Hermione looked up to see Neville and Seamus staring at her, their expressions of anticipation clear.
“It means the dementors have ignored Ministry of Magic orders! If they’re not under the Ministry’s control, they’re nearly as dangerous as the Death Eaters!”
“Well, how do you know the Ministry didn’t order the Kiss, eh?” Ron piped up.
“Because, I read! Have you by any chance looked at who the Death Eaters were, Ron?”
“Errr…”
Hermione slapped the paper down on the table, the huge black and white picture of Azkaban swaying eerily on the front page. Just below the title headline, in bold black lettering, read the names of the noted Death Eaters, none of which had been sentenced the Kiss: Macnair, Crabbe, Goyle, and Lucius Malfoy.