Her Worst Memory by babyeinstein12
Chapter Notes: Hello again! Please review when you're done! One more chapter is on the way after this.
The whispering rain was still tapping on the windowpanes when Harry climbed into his bed. As he lay there, he ignored Ron‘s light snores and stared up at the white ceiling, pensively pondering what had happened between himself and Hermione outside a few hours ago.
The anger and self-pity then very abruptly flared up inside him, suddenly driving all other emotions away. Before Harry knew it, he let out a loud, skeptical snort. She doesn’t know anything, he thought irritably, turning over onto his side. He allowed his mind to wander back to the years when he didn’t know about magic--when he lived with the Dursleys, and when his only refuge was the dusty, cramped cupboard under the stairs. His cupboard was the only place he felt safe, even if it was full of spiders. At least the spiders didn’t beat him up everyday like Dudley did. In there, he wouldn’t be Dudley’s punching bag. In there, he wouldn’t have to hear another one of Uncle Vernon’s foul verbal assailments. He wouldn’t have to cook and clean for Aunt Petunia. All he would do in there was wonder what his parents looked like and think of that dream he had about the flying motorcycle…
In his warm bed, Harry could feel his eyelids growing heavier and his thoughts getting duller. He just now noticed how tired he actually was. He buried his face into his soft pillow and closed his eyes, listening to the soft snores from the next bed and the gentle rhythm of raindrops against the window…
*****
Harry was walking on a playground. Even though he never saw this playground before, he felt like he was supposed to be here. Little children were running around, chasing and screaming at each other like they were supposed to. None of them paid him any mind; they just proceeded in playing their own games. Harry’s green eyes scanned the playground quickly. He knew he was looking for something, or someone, but he just didn’t know what he was supposed to be looking for. Was it an object? Perhaps one of playground equipment? Or maybe one of the children?
Then he saw it, right there in front of him. He saw her.
There she was, looking to be only about six or seven years old, sitting at a green picnic table, all alone. Harry couldn’t mistake her for anybody else. He eyed her bushy brown hair and large front teeth and all the ridges and curves on her body that made her her.
“Hermione…” Harry said quietly, standing stock-still in the middle of the playground and staring at her small figure.
The girl called Hermione was slowly munching on a peanut butter sandwich, looking at all the other children. A book was the only thing keeping her company as it lay on the table, propped open. But instead of concentrating on her book, she appeared to be lost in thought, wistfully watching the other children play with each other. Then, a toothy smile started to light up on her face as she saw a certain group of children sitting by a large oak tree. There was clear desire in that smile, clear longing. It looked like she desperately wanted to be part of their group. Harry then realized with a jolt that Hermione had no friends of her own. She looked awfully lonely, sitting there by herself, with only a single book to talk to.
“What are you staring at, beaver?” a high-pitched, scathing voice called out suddenly. Harry spun around and saw a little boy by the oak tree looking over with disgust at Hermione.
“Sorry,” Hermione whispered back, immediately lowering her head down to her lap and keeping it there. Pain was written upon every inch of her face, Harry noticed.
Filled with love and compassion, Harry walked over to where she was sitting and grinned at her. But Hermione didn’t pay him any attention. She didn’t look at him once; she still had her eyes glued down to her lap.
“Hey, Hermione,” Harry said softly, plopping down on the other side of the picnic table.
He still didn’t get any answer. Now he was starting to get very slightly annoyed.
“Hermione?” He waved a hand across her downcast face, but she did not react. Then he reached over and tapped her on the shoulder, but took it back suddenly, as if scorched. His hand went right through her!
Harry then realized that he wasn’t at the playground at all, at least in person. The Harry of this time was probably right at this moment hiding from Dudley far away in another schoolyard. Disappointment filled him up, for he had no way to comfort Hermione now. He didn’t feel the least bit intrigued about his newly-found invisibility. He got up from the picnic bench and looked around, trying to get a better look at the boy who was just mean to her.
“Hey, beaver!” the boy by the oak tree yelled again, his voice dripping with malice, “Is that your hair, or is it a big electrified dustball?” The others with him laughed.
Harry felt his hands clench and his body shake with fury as he listened to the boy taunting her some more in the midst of ringing laughter. “Don’t you talk to Hermione that way,” he muttered, still in full mind that nobody could hear him.
Meanwhile, little Hermione was sitting at the green picnic table, resolutely keeping her head down, the peanut-butter sandwich laying forgotten beside her. “I-I brush my hair e-everyday,” she stuttered, still staring intently at her lap. “My m-mummy thinks it’s very pretty.”
“Well, I don’t,” a girl piped up bluntly. “It’s the ugliest thing I have ever seen.”
“Who cares what your mummy says anyways?” the boy said. “She’s obviously lying.”
“And where else do you think the beaver got it from?”
Without another word, Hermione wretchedly got up from her picnic table and began to collect her things. Harry barely noticed his hammering heart pounding within his chest as he stared over at her miserably, racking his brain for any idea to help her, but able to come up with none.
“Leaving so soon?” the mean boy called, running over to her. “Oh, and what’s this?” He snatched the book away from the table before Hermione could reach it. “The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. That sounds fascinating, beaver.”
“I think it’s beautiful,” Hermione said defiantly, yet unable to cover the slight falter in her voice.
Harry couldn’t help admiring her courage, but despair still overtook him at seeing her all alone, with no one to help her. There didn’t seem to be a single person that had the intention to tell the boy off.
“Yeah?” the boy retorted. “Tell me what you like about this stupid book.”
“It takes me into another world,” Hermione breathed, her brown eyes bright. “It’s really magical and fanciful and”
The boy didn’t let her finish. Before Hermione knew it, he started tearing the book up right in front of her eyes and hurled the ripped pieces and pages back at her face. With a whimper, she got down on the dusty ground where the book had fallen and started picking all the bits up. “That was from the library,” she whispered, her voice straining as if she was on the verge of tears.
Before Harry knew it, he took a furious swipe at the boy, but he only felt thin air as he saw his hand sail right through the boy’s head. A heavy groan of frustration escaped his lips as he tried again and again, but to no avail. He then swore loudly, hoping against hope that someone would hear him, yet nobody did, and the seven-year-old Hermione remained on the ground, picking up her beloved pieces of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe at the boy’s feet, looking pitiful and bewildered. “Oh, Hermione…” Harry murmured, overwhelmed with a sudden wave of affection toward that little bushy-haired girl scrabbling at the ground. “I never knew...”
He watched Hermione get up from the ground, her face streaming with open tears and her pretty school dress caked with dust and dirt.
“Do you think that book is beautiful now?” the boy asked maliciously. Some of the other children by the oak tree laughed.
Harry noticed that some of the schoolchildren, apart from the ones by the tree, were watching the scene hungrily, and he felt anger toward them for not trying to help Hermione. “What the hell are you waiting for?” he yelled at them, still holding the knowledge that there was no chance of catching a listening ear. “Do you see what he’s doing to her?” He thought he would positively burst from his worry and affection towards Hermione. He swore again, staring wildly around the playground, desperate.
“Go away, go away,” Hermione moaned, clutching the book pieces to her chest. She hastily wiped her eyes with her arm.
“No, I don’t think I will,” the boy answered, shuffling through Hermione’s other things and throwing them away carelessly on the ground.
Harry was looking on the scene anxiously. “Fight back, Hermione,” he muttered urgently. “Don’t let him treat you like this.” But he knew in his heart that Hermione’s security and confidence vanished a long time ago. With a jolt larger than the last, Harry suddenly realized that the horrible sights he was seeing now were a daily routine for Hermione. "When I get back to my own time," Harry thought desperately, "I’ll make it all worthwhile for Hermione. I’ll show her how valuable she really is."
Then the haunting words came back to him, the words of Hermione in the rain: “I’ve suffered too. I thought you knew that.” That seemed like years ago now. As Harry watched little Hermione at this moment, with her innocent face soaked with tears and her dress tainted by the dirt, he couldn’t help but feel his eyes prick at the extent of her suffering. A single, salty tear escaped his right eyelid and crawled slowly down his cheek.
“Let go of my things,” Hermione said in a trembling voice to the boy. “And leave me alone.” But her voice didn’t have any spirit; it already sounded defeated.
“Why should I?” the boy said, his face contorted by his hate. He grabbed Hermione by the front of her collar and pulled her up roughly. “You deserve it. People like you shouldn’t step foot into our school, you filthy little bookworm.” And then he struck her across the mouth hard. Hermione let out a cry of pain. The onlookers cheered. And Harry stood there, unnoticed by all, with more tears sliding down his face. His anger with the boy was laid aside; he had his eyes and mind only on Hermione. Righteous anger wouldn’t help Hermione out of this state. How much she was suffering… How much she was crying… How Harry longed to take her from the boy’s clutches and hold her forever, saying to her over and over again that she’d be all right, that she was with him now…
Hermione was openly sobbing now as she cowered under the boy, a fresh bruise disfiguring her tear-stained face. “Mummy… daddy… help me…” she murmured, as the crowd of bystanders continued to cheer.
“I’ll help you, Hermione,” Harry said in a choked whisper, barely holding down his own sobs in his throat.
“No one will help you now, beaver,” the boy panted, his eyes alight with excitement. And to Harry’s horror, he raised a hand and struck Hermione again.
“NO!” Harry bellowed, harsh sobs rising from his throat and running off from his lips. “Hermione, I love you. I love you, I love you so much. I’m sorry… God, Hermione, I’m sorry!” He never felt this helpless ever. It was torture for him to see all these terrible things happen to her and not being able to do anything about it.
“Come on,” the bully barked to some others. “Let’s beat her up.” And he dragged her away by her hair, with a couple other people following him eagerly. Harry glimpsed at Hermione’s face, and what he saw broke his heart.
She looked completely defeated. She allowed the boy to continued dragging her by her hair and didn’t resist to him at all. It was as if she experienced this everyday. And she did, Harry realized. She suffered like this every single day.
With tears still streaming down his face, Harry ran to her. He ran faster than he ever did before, driven by the adrenaline coursing throughout his body and the pure desire to get to Hermione, to bring her somewhere safe. He didn’t care that he was invisible. He just wanted to be with her. He just wanted to comfort her.
“Hermione!” he yelled desperately, feeling his heart wrench upwards as he saw the boy disappearing with her around a corner. All hope rapidly left him, and he dropped down on his knees, feeling unnaturally fatigued. He felt like he lost his Hermione forever. So he just knelt right there and cried.
And then he opened his eyes.