The Bermuda Trap

I'm not sure when I realized he wasn't coming back. It could have been when I no longer paced by the front window when there was word of survivors leaving "confined quarters".

I figured, well, maybe when Ron finally came back, torn, battered, scarred and exhausted . . . then Harry'd come back soon after, also battered, scarred again, exhausted--but alive.

But he didn't.

The realization could have sunk in when James was born, and Ginny and Ron were the only ones at the hospital. Or maybe, and most likely, it was when James asked why he had to take his uncle to the father-son barbeque. That was, in all probability, the moment I missed him the most.

It was a beautiful July afternoon. The park was only several blocks from the house, so Draco and James took advantage of the weather and traveled on foot. James sat contentedly in the red wagon as Draco pulled him down the sidewalk to the park. When they came back, he asked me.

"Mummy," said James, looking determined to get an answer this time.

"Hmm?" I replied with a mouth full of lemonade. I sat my glass back down on the patio table, and looked at him.

"Why do all the other kids get to bring their dads to the picnic, and I don't? Why does Uncle Draco have to come with me?"

He was so innocent, so calm, so cute with his black hair all messy just like Harry and hisdarkbrowneyesjustlikemine . . .

You have to breathe . . . you have to breathe and then you have to get your sorry act together and tell your son about his father. Look at him! He doesn't understand! How can you let him not understand his father, his father's story, what could have been his story if his father hadn't saved him. . .

Fired with emotion, I gathered my son in my arms and rocked him, crying. Footsteps fell on the freshly stained deck; squeaky footsteps. Draco's shoes must have had rubber soles. A cool breeze whispered through the poplars in the backyard.

Draco's tentative voice rang throughout the silence. "Hermione? Is everything alright?" Through my blurred vision, I glimpsed a sliver of pale hair, out of place from its usual position behind his ears. James was warm and comforting in my arms, but he pushed my hand to one side and looked at me with concern.

"Mum, why are you crying? I just asked you a question," he asked me, puzzled, as he brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. James's serious brown eyes held my gaze as my vision cleared and my tears halted. He really was a combination of the both of us. Messy, jet black hair shot out in every direction, long black eye lashes framed his dark, velvety brown eyes, the kind of colour every child's teddy bear should be. A sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his determined nose, which was placed squarely in the centre of his face, gave him the exact appearance of his father when he smiled.

"Please, Mummy, don't cry. I don't have to know-" began James in a quick, worried tone. But I cut him off. I had delayed telling him for so long. Harry would have been so angry with me. His only son not knowing his story. It was either now or, or, or . . . when?

When would I pick up the courage to get Harry's story out of my system, to tell his only son his legacy. No, legacy wasn't right. Harry wouldn't have cared for that particular word. Legacy implies great deeds done for humanity, to help save the world. It was Harry in a nutshell, for those who didn't know him. But it just wasn't Harry. Harry didn't want to be the hero. Harry didn't want to be the adored, loved, champion. Harry didn't want to be at the front of public events all the time. But he was dealt the card. Fate likes to deal difficult hands. Harry's was almost impossible.

He just didn't fit with . . . legacy.

"C'mon James, let's go get your mum some more lemonade. She'll tell you when we get back," intervened Draco, grasping James with one hand, and my lemonade glass in the other. He steered him through the patio doors, into the kitchen.

Alone, I collected myself, or tried to. I delved down, trying to remember the last time I had seen Harry, the last time I had touched him, held him, trying to fabricate his memory to help me now. But how could I remember what I could never forget? He had said he'd be back soon. He told me he loved me repeatedly, trying to justify leaving me; I knew why he was leaving, why he might not come back, why he had to . . . yet it didn't matter. He was my soul mate, if you believe in that kind of thing. My other half. Without him, attempts to be complete failed with wretched misery. With him, I was complete . . . and now it hurt to say his name . . . .

Taking several deep breaths, I readied myself for the confrontation with my son. I had put it away for so long. Away, where I thought we'd be safe. The last time I had willingly faced Harry's absence was the third year anniversary of his disappearance. And even then, I had shrouded myself in my glass case in an attempt to become impenetrable. Shiny, gleaming and transparent. Glass is breakable. It is destroyed with devastating consequences. Broken glass can kill, maim, injure. . . cut hands, cut feet, face, blind. But no. No injuries. No scars. Break the glass and expose truth. My son had just shattered that case, so delicately built up over the past six years. A five-year old had broken my resolution when even my best friend couldn't. That five-year old had brought my reality back in sharp focus.

"Hermione?" It was Draco. I jumped in my chair, shaken from my own selfish thoughts. I had a son, and here I was wallowing in thoughts about how I would cope. What about how he would cope?

"Hmmm?" I breathed, looking slightly dazed as I glanced up at Draco's face, awashed with worry.

"He's in the bathroom. Are you alright?" Upon sitting down, he continued in a gentle tone. "You must've known you'd have to tell him sometime. He's old enough to handle it. He'll take it like his father."

I smiled at the reference to Harry, and my eyes seared with new tears. "Yes, I'm fine now. I've just been trying to . . . to think about what Harry would have wanted . . . . what I want . . .and what James needs. It's just so hard to try to tell James what Harry is - was -" At this, I couldn't go on. My throat swelled with emotion and confusion. It was so hard to know what to do when you didn't know what was happening . . . .

"Oh, Hermione," was all that he said as his arms enveloped me in a fierce hug. "You know you've got us all for help. Just send the word, and we'll be there."

He smelt good. Clean. Like soap, but a little stronger. Some kind of nice aftershave. I threw Harry's out four years ago.

I pushed back my tears with a sigh and answered. "Draco, it was just the way he said it that sent me over. He was so innocent, so calm. I can't believe that he doesn't know . . . . "

Releasing me from his embrace, Draco held me at arm's length, his hands still on my shoulders. And then he looked me straight in the eye. "Hermione, you have a son. As you've said before, he is your responsibility, but you know you always have people to help you. Now, you know what you have to do. Go do it. Harry's counting on you." I nodded, resolving not to cry in front of James again, blinking my eyes clear.

The scampering of feet told us that James was on the deck before we even saw him. No squeaky footsteps this time: James had sandals on.

"Mum, come with me. I want to swing," he said insistently, tugging on my shirt. I nodded, a sad smile on my face as I turned to follow my baby boy off the stairs and across the lawn to his swing set. He was already sitting down, trying to gain momentum by himself. Unfortunately, to no avail.

"Push me, Mum. Push me!" he shrieked, laughing as he kicked his legs from front to back. A worn pattern in the sandbox showed just how much he used the swing set. One his father wasn't there to help pick out, build, install or paint. One his father would probably never see. Crouching down beside him, I took one of his small hands in mine. It was rough from playing in the sandbox, catching gnomes at the Burrow, scraping on the street while playing tag with his friends.

Fighting to control myself, I bit my lip and forced myself to look my son in the eyes. I took a deep breath, released it, and promptly followed through with my resolution. To tell James everything that happened.

"Jamie, sweetheart, you know what you were talking about before?" I began, my voice wavering slightly.

He nodded with a curious look upon his face.

"About your dad? Well, I'm going to tell you everything about him now, is that alright?" James nodded once again, this time to show his approval.

"James . . . your father was Harry Potter," I started, hoping that I'd be able to continue so matter-of-factly. "He was involved in a very great battle against a very, very bad man named Voldemort. Do you know who he is?" My son shook his head now, and continued to gaze at me with rapt attention. "Well, he was an awfully mean person who didn't like Muggles. And your dad and many other people wanted to change that. Your Uncle Draco was one of them." At this, I found a hand placed on my shoulder, steadying me, giving me reason to go on. "Now, before you were born there was a time when your dad and Uncle Draco and Uncle Ron and Uncle George went off and fought against this evil man. And they won-" I bit my lip hard, trying desperately to keep the tears from dripping down my face. He can't see me cry. He can't see me cry. Not about Harry, not about Harry, think of Harry, think of Harry. . . .

Draco's hand squeezed my shoulder, and I swallowed my tears and continued. "They won, and some of them returned home. Your Uncle Fred didn't, sweetheart. He was a wonderful person. He died in battle, and he's buried with the rest of the fallen. Uh . . . would you like to go visit him sometime?"

A frown made his forehead crease. "How can we visit him if he's dead?"

"Well, we can go and see where he's buried and bring him flowers. Or talk to him. Whatever you like, Jamie," I answered patiently, trying not to dissolve into tears.

"Okay. But not today."

"That's fine sweetheart. Just fine. Now, there were some people who fought in battle and were never found."

"Are they dead too?" asked James, his interest peaking. I took another deep breath.

"I don't know Jamie. I just . . . don't know. Your dad was one of those people who fought, but was never found," I finished, relieved to have finally said it.

James considered this, gazing at his feet for a minute, his mind probably thinking something--about him, or me. Finally, he looked up at me and replied very carefully, "So, is Daddy dead?"

I closed my eyes tightly, wishing with the fiercest of all hopes possible that Harry could be here. Right then. And never leave me again. I wished I could at least know. But I couldn't. No one could. I wasn't asking to know everything, just one thing. Just one, simple question as to whether Harry was alive or not. But that's life. It shoves shit at you and makes you deal. Get over it, move on. Questions are always going to be there. Just let it go, Hermione.

"I don't know, sweetheart. No one knows. He's never been found."

"So, what's going to happen to him?" asked James once again, a child-like innocence gleaming off of him. All I could do was shrug. And then I sat down in the sand and began to cry.