Chapter Thirteen “ Seeing the Light
Miniature disasters and minor catastrophes
Bring me to my knees
Well I must be my own master
Or a miniature disaster will be
It will be the death of me
I don't have to raise my voice
Don't have to be underhand
Just got to understand
That it's gonna be up and down
It's gonna be lost and found
And I can't take to the sky
Before I like it on the ground
And I need to be patient
And I need to be brave
Need to discover
How I need to behave
And I'll find out the answers
When I know what to ask
But I speak a different language
And everybody's talking too fast!
‘Miniture Disasters’ by KT Tunstall
The week after the battle passed very quickly for Hermione. She’d been so busy, she hadn’t even glanced at the prophecy once.
Now, seven days later, life at the Order had almost returned to normal. It had happened faster than, a fortnight ago, she would’ve thought possible. But the Order were as tough as elastic, and they would never allow themselves to be defeated.
That couldn’t disguise the fact that there were six less places at dinner, and six beds never filled at night. Hermione felt as though the Death Eaters had punched six ragged holes in the web of the Order. When they were fresh, each rent oozed blood and seemed agonizingly painful. Now, the wounds were beginning to mesh round the edges. They still hurt, but the pain had receded slightly, making it at least bearable. Though no hole would ever completely heal over.
Hermione knew, like the rest of the Order, that the only way to keep sane was to be constantly doing things. And she did. Nearly everyone abandoned their usual posts and were assigned jobs to do. Hermione’s most difficult task had been informing families of the death of their loved one. It had been so hard trying to sit there without showing any emotion while Christina’s mother sobbed, and Francis Proctor’s sister keened like a dying swan.
Hermione shuddered. Thinking about those things wouldn’t help anyone, she reminded herself.
But, though the week had seemed very, very long while she’d been living through it, the Order was finally running smoothly again.
That was why this evening, instead of staying with Ron or Harry or Ginny in the Common Room, she’d sneaked off to the library armed only with a pen, her copy of the prophecy and a large bar of chocolate. She settled into a comfortable chair, and laid her equipment on the desk, graffitied with centuries of student’s names.
Now, where to start? Hermione picked up her pen, and began to read the prophecy again, scribbling down any idea that came into her head.
***
Hours later, though Hermione had completely lost track of time, very little progress had been made. She still didn’t have a clue about Light, Air, Fire or Darkness. They could be anyone! With all the millions of people in the world, how could Dumbledore be so sure that she would know these four, vital people among thousands?
Hermione read through the clue to Light again. And again. M.H.M. What did it mean? Was it some sort of code, or an abbreviation? Her brain seemed to have latched on to that one, tiny mystery in the vast ocean of puzzles that made up the prophecy.
M.H.M. Did it stand for something? Those three letters seemed to buzz in her ears, and wouldn’t let go. M.H.M. Where could she find out what it meant?
A sudden spark of inspiration struck her. Hermione jumped up, and dived into the deep shadows of the library. She returned a few minutes later lugging a thick, but relatively new, leather-bound book and slammed it onto the desk. M.H.M. might not be in there, but it was worth a try.
The cover was a pristine black, with ‘Hertsky’s Collection of Magical Abbreviations’ printed in gold on it. Hermione flicked through the pages, urgently seeking the ‘M’ section.
She found herself muttering the letters out loud. “M.A.L.F. … too early.” Her eyes shot down the column. “M.B.R.A. … no. M.D.L. …no, as well.” Hermione’s impatience was growing. “M.K. Much too late.” She backtracked quickly. “Ah. M.H.A.S. … M.H.L. … M.H.N.N. … oh.”
Hermione realised she’d gone past it. Before she gave up, she checked the book again, just one last time. In case she’d missed M.H.M. by accident. That wasn’t likely, as it already seemed more familiar than her own name.
Sighing, Hermione shut the useless dictionary. She felt somehow empty, as if all the adrenalin and excitement inside her had evaporated, leaving huge vacuums of nothing. It was pointless feeling disappointed, Hermione reminded herself as she settled down to more reading through of the prophecy. That wouldn’t change a thing. But humans were such irrational creatures…
* * *
Cho’s evening, like most since the battle, was being spent in the Order’s hospital. Before the clash between the two forces, she’d reckoned that she had been pretty busy. But now she realised that she’d got off pretty lightly so far. This last week could only be described as frantic.
They’d seemed to have had hundreds of casualties, all desperately needing attention this very minute. Robert and Cho had been rushing around, trying to do the work of an army with just two people. That meant waking up horrifically early, and only finishing when you physically couldn’t stand up any more. Twice, Cho had simply collapsed into a chair in Robert’s office and fallen asleep, because her body has been too exhausted to carry her any further.
Robert was also not aiding her sanity. He was absolutely convinced, despite every one of Cho’s protests, that he was personally responsible for leaving her without help that one night. It was completely ridiculous “ no one could’ve known that there would’ve been such a battle in his absence “ but he insisted on blaming himself. Because of this, Robert had reached new heights of workaholism.
Every morning, when Cho staggered down to the hospital from her dormitory, she’d find Robert already there, plunged into some task or other. He never stopped or slackened his pace, except for quick meals delivered by the house elves. And each night, when Cho physically couldn’t work any longer, she’d crawl off to bed leaving Robert to carry on alone. Did he ever sleep? she had wondered sometimes.
If that wasn’t bad enough, there was the way he treated her. Apparently, while it was ok for Robert to work himself to death, it wasn’t for Cho. He seemed to think that she was a fragile sculpture, made from spun glass, easy to smash and impossible to repair. Quiet and undemanding, Robert never let her do anything that he could manage by himself. Instead of ordering her about and finding fault with everything she did, all he seemed to do was protect her, and make her life as easy as possible.
While once upon a time Cho would’ve found this a refreshing change, Robert was her friend now. Of course sometimes he drove her crazy, and he could be stubborn and impossible to please, but she wasn’t scared of him anymore.
And she could not and would not leave him to destroy himself. He was strong and capable, but Cho didn’t believe like Robert did that he never got ill. If he had carried on, she was positive that his body would’ve just collapsed from exhaustion.
So Cho had taken it upon herself to save Robert from the demon workaholic that lurked inside him. She had gradually taken over more and more of the tiring jobs he’d tried to do by himself. Hermione had been persuaded to help out a couple of times, when she wasn’t too busy. Cho had even attempted to make Robert leave the hospital when she went off to bed. But “ somehow “ he had just found himself more things to do, and she made no progress. it was as if he wanted to kill himself.
It was then that Cho stepped up her campaign. After an awful lot of persuasion, tears and arguing, she’d managed to make Robert agree to occasional, fifteen minute breaks scattered throughout the day. He had accepted, with one condition. She had to take them as well.
She was so relieved, she’d said yes without thinking. But really, Cho didn’t need them. She didn’t have a death wish.
Cho flopped into a chair in Robert’s office. Tonight she was so exhausted, she was almost glad that she could rest her feet for a bit. Her shoes pinched uncomfortably at her toes, so she slipped them off and let her feet rest against the chilled stone floor.
But, even though Cho was more tired than she would’ve believed possible before she’d joined the Order, it was still free time. Over the past week she’d had little to no chance to just…have fun, and think about something that wasn’t work. Cho pulled herself out of her chair, and decided to explore Robert’s bookshelves in detail. It was something she’d never done before, mainly because she thought that he would be extremely overprotective of them. But also because she had never expected Robert would have any books worth reading. Cho knew now that was completely unfair, and he wasn’t just a Healer, any more than she was just a nurse. And the more she learned about him, the more she realised what a complex, interesting, unexpected person he was.
There were lots of books about medicine and healing. But Cho also found ones about history, art, transfiguration and, surprisingly, one or two small volumes of poetry. It was something she’d never really thought about before, but books could tell you such a lot about their owner. They were filled with ideas he shared, people he admired, and subjects that inspired him. In them, Cho would find passages that would never be lost to him, whether they made him laugh or full of despair. And most of all, she would discover how intelligent and thoughtful he was, by the type of books he loved.
As Cho studied the contents of each shelf, she let her hand run along the spine of each book, creating a patter of sound. It reminded her of when she was little. On the way back from the park, she’d always slid her hand along the iron railings lining the pavement. She remembered delighting in the satisfying clackerty noise she’d created.
The last shelf was stacked with books written in French. This puzzled Cho, until she remembered some vague illusion Robert had made, about one or other of his parents coming from France. Cho’s mum had taught her French, and she remembered finding it quite easily, especially mimicking the pronunciation. She had enjoyed picking up new words, Cho recalled. It was extremely satisfying, being able to uncover new ways of expressing herself. Like unexpectedly finding a sweet in her coat pocket.
Her mum had always claimed that Cho could’ve been really good at French, if only she’d worked a bit harder. But, after a while, her interest had receded like the tide. Her lessons changed from being new and exciting to tiring, boring ordeals, like a dress which looks fabulous in the shop, but the glamour of it evaporates once it’s taken home. Maybe she should’ve persevered for a bit longer, rather than just giving up as soon as her lessons stopped being a novelty.
Still, Cho could read the language fairly fluently, providing there weren’t too many present participles. She cast her eye along the row of books, trying to spot an interesting-looking one. A smallish book with a forest green binding seemed to be begging her to read it. She pulled it off the shelf, perched on a table and turned to the title page.
“ ‘Cyrano de Bergerac. Heroic comedy in five acts. By Edmond Rostand.’ Right. Cho hoped she wasn’t meant to understand that. But at least it made one thing clear; it was a play, not a novel.
She turned to the first scene, and was soon no longer in an office in the twenty-first Centaury. The book was like a door that, when opened, revealed a twisting path. As she wound deeper and deeper, she began to forget her name and everything except the world she was visiting.
The play was set in France, at a time when dashing young men with plumes in their hats duelled with swords. Women were divinely beautiful and had minds as sharp as rapiers. Words fluttered and waltzed, and sparkled like the chandeliers hanging from the ceilings. There was ambition and jealousy and rage, but beside them stood passion and courage and fresh ideas that bubbled like spring water.
It was a love story. Cyrano was a complex mix of dashing chivalry, arrogance and tenderness. He was desperately in love with Roxanne, a lady more beautiful than life and liberty. But she didn’t know, and he couldn’t bring himself to tell her.
Because Cyrano was ugly as a gargoyle, cursed with a ridiculously large nose. Cho felt herself wanting to scream and scream at him for being so stupid. Of course Roxanne loved him. How could any woman resist a man who was honest and daring and passionate?
Cho had just reached the bit where Cyrano had resolved to tell Roxanne “ and take the consequences, whatever they might be “ when she was suddenly thrown back into reality.
“Cho? Are you alright?”
It was Robert. He was standing in the doorway, light from the hospital lamps surrounding him in a curtain of gold. His face was shadowed, and it was impossible to see his expression.
It took Cho’s dizzied brain, still stuffed with thoughts of Cyrano, France and Roxanne, a few moments to process the images that her eyes were sending. Then it all slotted into place.
“Oh no!” she cried, leaping up and “ belatedly “ shoving the book onto a random shelf. What had she done? Stupid, stupid girl. She’d read his book without asking his permission. Cho had always known he was territorial and peevish. Why did she have to ruin everything? She was in for it now. He was going to dissect her using only a blunt pair of tweezers and dissolve her limbs in acid…
“I’m sorry, Robert.” Cho hung her head so she wouldn’t have to see his expression. “I shouldn’t have read your books without asking.”
“Read them? Why shouldn’t you read them?” asked Robert distractedly, his mind obviously engaged on a more important problem. “You’re an intelligent girl, an independent thinker. I don’t know anyone who deserves to read these books more than you.”
Cho looked up, astonished. Robert had called her clever, and that was praise of the very highest coming from him. What was the world becoming? Next thing you knew, You Know Who would be swapping brownie recipes with Mrs Weasley, and Hermione would be teaching Death Eaters how to fly without magic.
“Oh…erm…ok.” Cho didn’t know how she should reply. She’d thought she knew Robert well enough to be able to “ roughly “ predict what he’d do. And yet here was another surprise, another aspect revealed. His personality was like a complex structure made from layers, some as flimsy as tissue paper, others hard and unyielding like granite. She wondered if she’d ever reach the core, and what she’d find there if she did.
“I didn’t want to disturb you, but I want to give old Mrs Philips an injection, and I think it might take both of us to have a chance of succeeding.” Cho grinned, remembering the ancient battleaxe who harboured a deep mistrust for all things medical.
Leaving through the door that Robert held open for her, he gave her an awkward sort of pat on her back. It could have filled a world with meanings.
* * *
“Hermione?”
It was hours since she’d first sat down and attempted to solve the prophecy. Since then, she felt like she’d aged a hundred years. Her muscles ached, as if they’d been squeezed through a mangle, and she could barely keep her eyelids from shutting. Hermione was drawing a slow squiggle at the bottom of the page, and she couldn’t summon the energy to stop.
“You in here, Hermione?”
Into her dim, shadowed vision stepped an incandescent figure who seemed to be made of sunbeams. Hermione blinked, and realised it was Ron, holding a candle aloft. His hair was the most vivacious colour in the whole library.
“There you are! I’ve been looking all over the place for you.”
“I’ve got…got to find a “ a link. Something to…”
“No, Hermione, you’ve got to go to bed.” Ron said firmly. “Come on.”
She mumbled a few feeble protests, but he swatted them away. “No. If you die of exhaustion, how’re you going to kill You Know Who?”
Hermione didn’t have an answer for that, so she groaned and pulled herself to her feet. She left the library with Ron, half stumbling and half being dragged.
Her perverse eyelids kept on falling shut, so she allowed him to steer her. “But it just…so hard. I don’t… who the other…are.”
You worry too much, Hermione. You’re smart. You’ll figure it out.”
Normally, she would have been both infuriated and secretly pleased with Ron’s blind faith in her intelligence. But now she couldn’t be bothered to feel anything. She leaned on Ron and let him help her up the eternal stairs to the Ravenclaw Common Room.
Inside, they were greeted by Myra Mix, who was lounging on a sofa with a bundle of parchment in one hand. “Ron, what’ve you done to her? Did you give her Firewhiskey, or something?”
“None,” he growled.
Hermione felt a faint sort of giggle bubble up inside her. Now that she was only a few minutes away from her destination, a secret reserve of energy kicked in.
“What’re you doing?”
Myra sighed as if the whole world was making her suffer “ on purpose. “I’m doing this survey. If I finish it, I’ll get a year’s subscription to ‘Teen Witch’ “ you know, the magazine.” Hermione did know. It was one of those rubbishy teen magazines stuffed full with drivel about celebrities and fashion advice. “Thought, judging by the length of it, I think they’re hoping most people will give up or die of boredom before they finish.”
Myra rolled her eyes and continued the survey. “Last name…Mix. First name…Myra. Other names…goodness, they’ve left me three lines. How many other names do they think I have? Helen…” She carried on, muttering under her breath.
Hermione ran back, all traces of tiredness banished. She felt like her blood was sizzling with anticipation. Had she just made the most important discovery of her life? “Myra Helen Mix. Is that your name?”
“Yeah,” she said, looking slightly alarmed. “Why?”
Hermione’s brain, which was saturated with tiredness, took longer than normal to process this new piece of information. Myra Helen mix. That was what M.H.M. stood for “ it was her initials. Of course! She ran over the prophecy in her head, and the verse on Light suddenly made sense, as if someone had translated it into English while she hadn’t been looking.
’Just a little girl scared of the dark’…
Hermione had a feeling she’d heard Myra saying something about that. Maybe when some of the girls had conducted a lengthy ‘Truth or Dare’ session in the dormitory.
‘Who grows and blends’…
A sentence which had always lost her was suddenly completely, transparently clear. ‘Blends’ meant the same thing as ‘Mixes’. There she had been, trying to find some sort of deep, physiological meaning, when all along, it had been as simple as a name!
“I have to see Dumbledore!” Hermione burst out with. She couldn’t tell Myra here, in public, and she needed to be absolutely sure that she was right.
“Couldn’t you save it until tomorrow?” asked Ron wearily.
Hermione was so excited, anything travelling at normal pace seemed as slow as a glacier. She grew frustrated with Ron’s sluggish behaviour. “I’ve worked out one of the Elements!” Hermione hissed in his ear. “Light “ it’s Myra!”
“Really?” Ron grinned, looking impressed.
“Yes “ but I have to take her to Dumbledore. I don’t think I’d be very good at explaining everything, it’s all so complicated.”
She raised her voice to address Myra. “Oh, and I just remembered, Dumbledore wanted me to tell you that he would like to see you. I think it’s important.”
Myra looked vaguely intrigued.
“I need to go and ask him about this…thing I’ve been working on, anyway.” Hermione was too sleepy to fabricate a temporary lie. “We could go now, if you like.”
“Yeah, ok,” Myra shrugged. “I suppose it can’t wait.”
Hermione let out all her trapped excitement and joy through a brilliant smile, as the two girls set off to find the Headmaster.
* * *
They reached his office quickly. Hermione turned to Myra, and, praying that Dumbledore would still be awake, asked,
“Is it ok if I go first? I’m sorry to ask, but there’s a message I need to give him. It’s urgent.”
“Sure, sure,” Myra flopped back against the wall. “I mean, it’s not as though I don’t have better things to do. I could be finishing my ‘Teen Witch’ questionnaire right now!”
Nodding and attempting a smile, Hermione hoped that Myra wasn’t as much of an airhead as she looked. She knocked on the door, bursting with energy, and was relieved to hear a pleasant ‘Come in’.
Hermione pushed the door open. She ran up to Dumbledore, who was sitting and his desk studying a map, and cried out, “It’s her! Myra I mean.”
“Miss Granger,” said Dumbledore mildly, adjusting his spectacles. “I am afraid that I do not have the pleasure of understanding you. Would you care to explain?”
“Yes! She’s Light, Professor. I’ve checked, and it fits all the clues. She used to be scared of the dark when she was young. Her surname is Mix “ and that means the same thing as ‘Blends’ doesn’t it. I thought it was something to do with her personality, but in the end it was just her name! And M.H.M. isn’t an abbreviation or a code, it’s her initials. Myra Helen Mix. It all makes sense, Professor.”
“Do you have a copy of the prophecy with you?” asked Dumbledore.
“Yes “ I think so.” Hermione produced a battered, crumpled piece of parchment from her pocket. She handed it to the Headmaster. He leant over it, reading intently for some minutes. This carried on for so long, Hermione was beginning to think that it wasn’t Myra after all.
Then Dumbledore looked up, and he smiled. “You know, Miss Granger, I think you are right.”
Hermione glowed. “I “ I brought her with me, she’s waiting outside. I haven’t told her anything, yet. Shall I -”
“Bring her in, if you please. We have many things to discuss, and it is already very late.”
Hermione fetched Myra, who looked very bored and a little drowsy. She tried to dismiss the cluttering thoughts inside her head, which whispered that Myra seemed to be a very strange person to pin the lives of thousands to. It wasn’t fair, and the girl might turn out to have hidden strengths. Hermione hoped so.
It took an hour to explain everything to Myra’s satisfaction. She seemed excited and, unexpectedly, enthusiastic as the two girls dragged themselves back to their dormitory.
Myra kept up a constant flow of chatter, and rarely required an answer. “Well, of course, when Dumbledore first told me, I thought, Is he senile, or something? But as he explained more, it actually started to make some sense. And it’s pretty cool that there was a prophecy made about me before I was even born. Oh! And think about how impressed all the boys I know are going to be. Well, one guy in particular.” Myra swept a look under her lashes, which managed to be both coy and hesitant.
Horrified, Hermione said, “You can’t just go around shooting your mouth off, telling every person you know about me, you and Draco! Myra, this has to be kept a complete secret. No one is allowed to know, apart from the few people that Dumbledore has trusted with the information, like Harry and Ron, for example. If You Know Who finds out about us, we’ll be assassinated before we’ve even worked out who the other Elements are.”
Myra pouted. “I suppose…if you put it like that. But I’m sure he could keep it a secret. He’s quite serious, really, and he’s so…” Myra paused, casting around for the word with the right effect. “attractive.” Hermione gave up. She wasn’t going to get any vital thoughts into her tonight. All her attempts were like imprints in the sand, vague shapes soon obliterated by the tide.
“I suppose he is quite messy and…unfinished. But I’m sure I could sort him out. Both our dads are friends, you see. That’s how we know each other. We met about a year ago at a family party…” Myra prattled on, not noticing that Hermione was paying her no attention at all.
* * *
“We’ve “ we’ve actually finished everything that we were supposed to do today,” croaked Robert. His knees buckled, and he collapsed into a chair. Cho mirrored him.
She was too exhausted to feel any particular emotion. “That’s…good.” Tonight was the first time they’d managed to complete all the massive numbers of tasks that running a hospital generated.
“So tomorrow we’ll…”
Cho didn’t hear any more. She felt so comfortable and warm, as if she were stretched out on a goose-feather mattress, not curled into a hard-backed chair. None of her surroundings made any sense, so Cho surrendered herself to sleep…