Inhale
And if you can’t bring yourself to heal
And if you forget everything else
Tonight, in this unbidden agony,
Please don’t forget us.
Hold your head high
Remember me,
Look to the sky
And inhale.
Hermione lay flat against the mattress, her arms sprawled out above her head. Her russet curls fanned out along the silky red pillow, glimmering in the late afternoon light that was shining through the window. Staring blankly at the ceiling, her thoughts betrayed her much-needed respite.
It was now just over a week since Ron’s sudden recovery. Madam Pomfrey had been stringently administering Sleeping Draught at what felt to be every five minutes. As such, he was only awake for a couple hours a day, and during those few hours he was too sore for any amount of activity.
Hermione’s visits to him had become brief. She couldn’t shake the unease in her stomach when she sat with him in silence” when she sat with him at all. They’d taken to avoiding each other’s eyes completely and held firmly to meager conversation. Horcruxes, Voldemort, the Order” none of it was brought up anymore. Hermione didn’t feel comfortable talking to him about it. He’d seen and heard enough recently, and was incapable of helping she and Harry in his current condition anyway.
At least, that’s what she told herself late at night when the guilt rose up in her. What she wouldn’t bring herself to admit was that she felt horrifying sick over the unfolding circumstances of their relationship.
She couldn’t believe she’d kissed him. She hadn’t been in her right mind as panic had taken hold with the remembrance of how close she’d been to losing him, and what’s more, how close she’d gotten to Harry. Both truths were equally frightening.
Harry.
The name hung in the forefront of her mind like a bipolar Christmas ornament, constantly dangling over the danger of falling and smashing into a million shards. She would feel the air being sucked out of the room each time he entered, like a vacuum of reality. One moment, the thought of him brought an irrepressible smile to her face, as a warm wave of comfort and affection washed serenely over her.
The next, however, she’d remember what they’d done. She’d remember the look in his eyes as he had left the room, and the rebellious tingling of her skin that swept her arms when she recalled their closeness. In those times, she wasn’t sure whether to let loose the grin of inexplicable contentment that threatened to claim her lips, or sob endlessly into her pillow in a final concession of grief, guilt, and above all, confusion.
They hadn’t talked about her kissing Ron. Then again, they hadn’t talked about anything besides locating and destroying the next Horcrux. Each time she would tentatively stray off topic, Harry’s eyes would grow distant and his entire mood would evaporate into a mask of inscrutable complexity.
And so she read. She read, and wrote, and researched, and mapped out possibilities. It was complete, trained focus. That’s what existence had become. No eye contact with Ron. No physical contact with Harry. No jokes, no laughter, and no resemblance of the ordinary teenagers they looked to be on the outside.
Focus. And that was all.
And it was driving her mad.
Sighing, Hermione flipped over onto her stomach, burying her head in her arms. There was too much to think about, but she had to let herself relinquish focus and just escape for a moment.
But her moment didn’t last long. A quick tapping emitted from the window above her head. Craning her neck, Hermione made out a round, hazy shadow with suspiciously white plumes pressing against the pane.
Reaching up, Hermione unlatched the glass and let Hedwig fly in, a flurry of soft, white feathers scattering across her lap.
The white owl hooted at her as a packet of papers fell on her legs, causing the feathers to jump away into the air.
“Thanks, Hedwig,” Hermione murmured, giving the bird a loving stroke on the head.
She laid the paper flat against the comforter, placing it between her elbows as she resumed her horizontal position. A twinge of hesitation stopped her hands as she realized it was the Daily Prophet.Whatever it said, it was sure to be the last thing she needed to hear at the moment.
But unwillingly, her memories fleetingly brought about an image of Harry and how much he must be enduring. Focusing on that made her even more lightheaded and worried than focusing on Horcruxes.
Gathering up her resolve, Hermione inhaled a lungful of fresh air before dutifully scanning the grim looking pages.
Death Eaters Attack Surrey and Edinburgh
Last night, in the quiet suburbs of Surrey and outer Edinburgh, Muggles and wizards alike awoke in the early hours to the green gloom of the Dark Mark rising eerily above the treetops. Without warning, hundreds were killed, hundreds more injured, and countless homes were left destroyed. Reportedly, the Muggle Prime Minister addressed the nation at noon today, vowing that, “these gruesome acts of terrorism against the people of Great Britain, and of the free world, will not go unpunished.” According to Gordon Knuce, spokesman for the Scrimgeour administration, “the Prime Minister has initiated thorough and efficient efforts to ensure that the general muggle public believes the attacks to be acts of religious extremists.” Still, even with all of “BBC World News” propagating this façade, the Wizarding community is left without the luxurious cushion of guarantees.
“We cannot definitively state that those responsible will be held accountable in the near future,” said Mr. Knuce, looking extremely harassed, towards the end of the Press Conference. “After all, one must take into consideration that these are Death Eaters we’re dealing with; it’s hardly a snap to catch them.” As of one o’clock this afternoon, Ministry officials have reported an estimated death toll of 310” and rising. With such a large number in mind, it is difficult to accept Mr. Knuce’s and the Ministry’s policy of “there are no guarantees.” Out of those 310, it is speculated that at least 200 were wizards and witches.
When asked what measures the Ministry is currently taking to apprehend the offenders, Mr. Knuce had this to say: “Our best Aurors are on the job. We have called in the reserve officers to act as reinforcements, and safety-lock charmed doorknobs are being distributed free of charge to magical citizens.”
One issue the Ministry refused to address, however, is the identity of the dozens of wizards and witches who were spotted on the scene of the attacks even before the Ministry’s Aurors had arrived. “They call themselves the ‘Order of the Phoenix,’” stated Knuce dismissively, “but they are not in official league with the Ministry of Magic.” Those few details are all he was willing to divulge; and yet, Melinda Scotchsten, a survivor of the Edinburgh attacks, offered this perspective: “Why not?” she asked brashly, “why aren’t they in league with them? My family owes their lives to the Order. The Ministry’s being thick. These people are heroes.” This view seems to be the general consensus among the civilians, as our initial polls indicate that 81% of those who survived attribute their safety to this mysterious ‘Order of the Phoenix.’ No members of the group have been officially identified thus far.
Still, one rather significant issue remains to be spoken of: Harry Potter. The so-called “Chosen One” was no where in sight during the attacks, and has not been seen or heard of since the late Albus Dumbledore’s funeral. “If he is indeed the Chosen One,” commented Percy Weasley, a staff member of Scrimgeour’s cabinet, “he has thus far done a remarkable job of invalidating himself.”
Scoffing loudly in an overt show of disgust, Hermione angrily furled the paper into a ball and threw it across the room. She sat on the bed staring at it, a furious fire burning her eyes.
Finally, she pushed herself from the mattress and aimed her wand at the crumpled sphere. “Fieruate,” she said sturdily, and watched in solitude as the form lifted high into the air before disappearing in a blazing blue flame.
“What was that?” came Harry’s voice from the doorway.
Hermione spun around. “Oh,” she said timidly, averting her eyes, “err, nothing important, I just got frustrated with an enchantment I’d been””
“Don’t bother,” Harry interjected softly, pushing off from the doorframe and striding slowly to the bed. “I’ve already seen the Prophet.”
Hermione felt her cheeks tingle with a new shade of pink. She shot Hedwig a look, as if the owl would have some idea as to where he’d gotten another copy of the newspaper; but Hedwig’s wide, glassy eyes only stared back in docile passiveness.
Hermione turned back to Harry and tried forcing a small, embarrassed smile. Harry didn’t return it; instead his hand patted against the cool steel frame of the footboard, pensiveness in his eyes as he regarded the floor. “Three-hundred ten,” he mumbled softly in a miserable, defeated tone.
Hermione’s face fell as an invisible rope pulled around her stomach, creating a nauseous pressurization in her abdomen. “I know.”
She eyed him with a pained expression, not quite trusting herself to say anything else. But soon, he released his firm grip on the metal post, and when he raised his gaze to meet hers, she saw a new, steely determination in them.
But before she could assure him for the hundredth time that he wouldn’t be doing anything alone, that she would be there to fight, Harry had turned away.
Hermione could tell he was going to leave. He’d been spending all his time researching a mysterious ‘theory’ he didn’t want to divulge yet” some way he thought they might be able to destroy the remaining Horcruxes.
But she couldn’t take the tense silence between them. It followed them like a shadow, only easing when they were deep in conversation about Voldemort and the War. And she understood why it was there. She understood why a heavy weight was slowly corroding the relative normalcy between them.
She feared it. It brought a fierce swell of aching anxiety with the mere thought of mentioning it aloud, but she didn’t think she could bear not knowing any longer. For all the fear she felt at his possible reactions, what scared her even more was the possibility of letting the weight drag them apart.
Her insides were a writhing mess when she visualized how he might act in response, but she had to know. For her own sanity, she had to do it.
“Harry,” she called, just as he’d reached the door.
He turned back around to face her, his expression questioning as he tucked his hands in his pockets.
“Look,” she said, bracing herself with a deep breath, “I” we need to talk.”
Harry’s eyes darkened, but his face was carefully trained as he watched her. He didn’t say anything.
Hermione dug deep into her reserve of courage to muster the will it required to keep looking at him directly in the eyes. Unbidden, the memory of his gentle lips played on the white canvas in her mind.
Willing it away, she glanced to watch his reaction” and she could tell… he knew. He knew what she was referring to. She could see it playing through his mind too.
But her complete inability to interpret even a fraction of what he was thinking brought cold nervousness to the surface of her skin.
Watching him stand there in rigid silence, so alone and isolated in the frame of the door, she suddenly felt like apologizing. But she couldn’t bring about the words, so settled on mild mumbling. “It’s just” I need to know what you’re thinking,” she breathed, pleading with him, “I need to know what you’re…” she swallowed. “…feeling.”
Hermione dropped her gaze to the floor as her last word throbbed in her head. Her heart began to hammer a fast, heavy beat against her chest. She brutally pushed aside all thoughts of Ron and all her confusion at not even knowing what she herself was feeling, and focused on steadying her nerves.
Finally, after what felt like hours of silence, Harry’s voice broke across the room, deep and uncertain. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Hermione’s stomach clenched painfully, a shaking sadness swarming within her. Yet somehow she forced her vocal chords to work. “What’s not a good idea?” she asked meekly, fearing his clarification.
She looked up and was further unnerved upon realizing he’d been watching her intensely. He was closer than she’d remembered him being a moment ago.
“Talking about it.”
Hermione’s teeth clung in desperation to her bottom lip. “Oh.”
Harry didn’t move. He stayed rooted to the spot, hands stiffly resting in his pockets.
“Why?” Hermione eventually asked, hoping she was imagining the quiver in her voice.
Harry licked his lips and glanced away, eyeing the wall for a silent minute. “Because I don’t know what to say.”
His quiet, breathy words lodged themselves in her throat. She felt tight and constricted, even more unsure now than she was minutes earlier. The tension, she thought vaguely, must be visible in the air.
She couldn’t do anything but watch him, trying to find a movement of his hands or a look in his eyes that told her what she wanted to know. Nothing came. So with a fight, she found her voice. “I only want the truth,” she muttered.
Harry looked tense. His body was unnaturally unmoving, like he was forcing every muscle to remain still.
As he refocused his eyes on her again, Hermione had to put effort into her breathing. His eyes… they were telling her something. Something, but” she couldn’t decipher what. He’d covered them with too many dark, impenetrable layers.
“I know,” he finally said, as light and quiet as a feather, “that’s the problem.”
Her mouth hung slightly open as her eyes bowed into a sad expression. She didn’t know what he meant by it. By any of it.
Harry saw the hurt on her face, and dropped his protective walls enough to show his own concern and confusion. “I” I wouldn’t even know how. It’s just”” he seemed to struggle with himself for a moment. Then, “It’s just not a good idea. I… I can’t,” he whispered, reaching out a gentle hand to lightly grasp her elbow. He found she was trembling, so little that no one else would have noticed.
But he did.
He snatched his hand away like he’d been burned, looking vaguely ashamed.
Hermione’s eyes were still averted, but had they not been she would have seen the flash of guilt and pain he couldn’t hide.
Sighing, he buried his emotions again and caught her gaze. “It’s not” please don’t take it as anything,” he breathed, willing away the wounded look she was sparing him. “Please, Hermione, I” can’t,” he repeated, sounding miserable.
His loss for any other words strengthened the pressure on Hermione’s chest as she swallowed thickly.
Harry bit down on his tongue to prevent from losing his resolve. “I’m not sure I’m ready,” he continued quietly, “If it helps… I don’t know what’s going on in your head either.”
Hermione looked up at him then, glossy brown eyes aching behind a haze of dark lashes. "All you'd have to do is ask."
She watched something flicker deep behind his guarded eyes. His breathing seemed to stop. Something was warring in the conclaves of his mind.
But when he finally spoke, his voice offered no hint of it. "And you'd know what to say?"
Biting her lip, Hermione struggled to speak, but the way he was watching her was disorienting.
"I…" she trailed off. Her left hand clutched around her right arm.
No other words came.
Harry smiled sadly, knowingly. There was still that unidentifiable look shining mutely behind his irises, but nothing else gave her any sign of what he was feeling.
Stepping back, he cleared his throat and attempted to regain a normal posture. “I’m going back to the library.”
Hermione still didn’t move. She didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say. She felt a swell of disappointment descend upon her.
He was slowly walking out of the room. But just before he disappeared, lost to the shadows of the hallway, she found her voice one last time.
“I’m sorry,” she offered, suddenly not caring that her voice had cracked. She wasn’t sure what she was apologizing for; but if he was feeling anything even close to what she was, she was apologizing for the guilt he was experiencing over what they’d unwittingly done to Ron.
To her surprise, Harry turned his head to the side and looked into the room over his shoulder.
“So am I.”
Hermione woke late in the night, a headache stabbing sharp needles behind her eyes. Hissing in pain, she rolled from underneath her covers and searched the nightstand for her wand.
Finding it, she cast a quick spell and sighed in relief as the edge was taken off the sting.
When she opened her eyes fully, they shifted through the dense darkness and immediately landed on Harry.
He was sleeping in the bed beside hers, the blankets a tangled ball at his feet. A small lamp was lit beside his head, and cradled in his arms was a thick, black book with yellowing pages.
Hermione’s heart gave a harsh, rogue thud before planting itself firmly in her throat. Why had he chosen to sleep in her room, of all places? Especially after the awkward conversation they’d had?
Gradually, she put her feet to the cool hardwood floor. Keeping her gaze trained on Harry’s face, she lifted her body off the bed.
Making every effort not to be heard, Hermione cautiously tiptoed over. Upon closer evaluation, she found his black hair matted to his forehead, covering his lightening bolt scar. Her eyes traveled to his, shut tight in slumber” but there was a deep crease between them, and as she surveyed it, she recognized what was happening: he was having a nightmare.
He was perfectly silent but for his steady breathing. Leaning down, Hermione cast a cooling spell to remove the sheen of sweat from his smooth skin. Then, with slow, deliberate hands, she pushed back his hair, sweeping her fingers through the silky stands before bringing them back to his forehead.
She glanced around quickly, satisfying her inane fear that someone may be watching. Turning back to him, she inhaled deeply before gently grazing her fingers along the crease formed between his eyes.
The soft padding of her fingertips worked tenderly as they massaged his temples, flattened his wrinkles of sleeping worry, and swept down his jaw line, soothing away his agonized expression.
After a few moments, the muscles in his face relaxed. He rolled over, one arm hanging off the side of the bed, leaving the book he’d been nursing behind. Curiously, Hermione flipped the heavy tome onto its back and read the fine, gold print scrawled neatly in the middle: Dark Creatures, Darker Magic.
Startled, Hermione’s eyes widened as she wondered where he would have found such a book. Of course, her mind reeled, we’re in the House of Black, they would keep such things in their library.
Flashing Harry one last look to ensure he was still sound asleep, Hermione gradually lowered herself on to the bed. She flinched when the mattress gave a squeaking lurch.
She stopped, barely keeping herself from collapsing as her muscles grew sore from her half-sitting position, until Harry made no move and she resumed her slow descent.
Finally, her back against the headboard, she was able to put the large volume in her lap and slide her fingers beneath the cover. Opening it, a great waft of horrible smelling dust erupted into the air like an invisible volcano, causing Hermione to quickly bring her shirt over her nose.
Managing to ignore the thick, yellow dust, she turned towards the back of the book where a particularly worn page was earmarked. Peering at the dull black print with concentrated eyes, she read.
The Dementor” Chapter eight discussed the creature itself; this description, however, will be pertinent to the Dementor’s uses in Dark Magic. It is common knowledge that wizards have used the Dementors’ powers to sustain” and take” life since before the Dark Ages. It is not widely known, however, that “Alexander the Great” studied Dark Magic under his tutor, Aristotle, who is credited with first discovering the art of creating Horcruxes. After Alexander witnessed the murder of his father” King Philip II” he vowed to become immortal, and used his schooling from Aristotle to create the first documented Horcrux. However, before he could return to Macedonia, Alexander died a mysterious death. Dark Scholars have long wondered how this was possible, if he indeed had created a Horcrux. It has become a widely accepted theory, however, that an unknown Persian Wizard dubbed “Achmeden,” spying on Alexander through his ranks, discovered his secret to success and employed the use of a Dementor to bring about his fall.
The rest of the page was barely readable with its fading print, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Hermione was too stunned to continue. She stared so long at the last sentence that a watery build up was gathering along her lower eyelids.
Blinking, she remembered to inhale. She turned from the book to Harry’s sleeping form, then back again. It all suddenly made perfect sense.
She was too awake to try and sleep now. Carefully leaning to the end of the bed, Hermione grabbed the blankets and tucked them comfortably around Harry’s body.
When her hand grazed his bare chest in the process, she flung it back to her side. She cursed herself as a shot of electricity ran the length of her arm.
Regaining composure, she stretched her legs and lay back on the pillow. Careful to avoid contact with her best friend, Hermione propped the book on her knees and resumed her wide-eyed reading.
It felt like she had just fallen asleep when the sound of a door being thrown open and hitting a wall startled her awake.
Instinctively flinging off the covers, Hermione sat straight up in bed and shook the sleep from her head. As if sensing Hermione, Harry abruptly did the same.
Their eyes locked for a tense moment. Harry regarded her curiously, no doubt wondering how they ended up in bed together. But the question in his eyes was stifled by growing anxiety as his expression swiftly shifted to one of worried puzzlement.
“What was that?” he asked in a whisper.
Hermione shook her head, brining her gaze from his face to the door. “It sounded like the main door in the foyer.”
Suddenly, a blur of loud voices rose from the staircase and permeated their bedroom walls. Hermione froze. She could hear the distressed voices of Mrs. Weasley, Lupin, Pomfrey, and McGonagall.
Hermione’s head snapped up. “McGonagall?” she said shrilly.
She saw Harry’s lips thin and his green eyes go cold. McGonagall was supposed to still be at Hogwarts with Kingsley, looking out for Draco Malfoy.
Then it hit her.
“Hagrid and Slughorn!” she exclaimed, spinning around to face Harry fully. “Do you remember? They went to Hogwarts to find Professor McGonagall and Kingsley since they’d been gone so long…”
Harry nodded stiffly, his ears still strained to make out what the many voices below were saying.
Hermione felt a swell of fear as she realized” McGonagall was crying.
Capturing Harry’s gaze, her face paled. She couldn’t move. Harry’s face was expressionless, but its utter lack of color only frightened her more.
Something was happening.
Just then, before Harry could jump to the door, a thud of footsteps came closer before their own door swung open.
It was Ginny.
Her face was white and her eyes were as red as her hair, which was disheveled around her shoulders. She gazed between Harry and Hermione for a moment, her orbs quickly growing glassy, before she spoke in a frantically hoarse whisper.
“Harry…” she stopped, facing Hermione.
Harry stood instantly, straightening his glasses and instinctively untucking his wand from his pocket. “What happened Ginny?”
The young girl grasped the door handle for support, streams of tears finally emptying from her eyes and tracing her cheek bones. The voices grew louder and more strained from below, echoing off the wide halls.
Hermione stood and moved forward, feeling her heart pound wildly within her.
“Harry,” she repeated miserably, a sob obstructing her speech, “It’s Hagrid.”
Chills engulfed Hermione. She shook involuntarily as her eyes traveled to Harry’s face. He was rigid as a board.
“What about him, Ginny?” he demanded, not sounding as sturdy as he’d hoped. “What happened?”
Ginny let out a final sob before blinking up at them both.
“He’s dead.”
In this unbidden agony,
Remember me
And inhale.