The Bermuda Trap

The drive home was quiet too.

I was terribly unsure of what to do about Ian. He was nice, settled, secure . . . but I wasn't about to make any decisions until after tomorrow. Then - then I'd re-evaluate.

We didn't get home directly. Traffic was hell. It was three o'clock - an hour after we left - when I pulled in front of our house. James slid off his seatbelt and pelted out of the car, through the gate up to the front door, picking the spare key out of the flower pot. He was struggling with unlocking the door, but I knew he wanted to show me he could do it. I lingered by the car, taking in the rest of the yard.

The short stone wall that barricaded our lot from the sidewalk was broken only by a creaking metal gate. I had always wanted something like this. Something imperfect. Something picturesque and lovely and totally unlike the house I grew up in.

That's why either of the two gigantic oak trees, on both sides of the walk (slightly staggered, varying distances from the flagstone path) were ideal for a tree house. I had always thought Harry and James would construct one. With a rope ladder and everything. But Ron would have to. There always had to be a substitute.

Of course, I had charmed the lawn to stay at one height all year long. And to be a brilliant shade of emerald green. The flowers, however, were the result of my hard work. I refused to use nothing other than Muggle methods on the riot of colour blooming throughout the yard, both front and back. Harry would have liked to mow the grass. He would have liked the idea of being the perfect family man. Of having a son with living parents.

Nuts about security, he was. He put so many spells on our house, I'm not even sure Dumbledore could remove them all. That's why the front key was in the flower pot. Harry, James or I could access the key, but no one else. And lord only knew what would happen if anyone tried to break in.

"Got it!" James swung open the door in triumph, grinning at me as I walked from the car to the front door. I smiled back at him, my arms folded across my stomach as I inhaled the thick, sweet, almost visible warm afternoon.

"Nice job, darling," I replied, ruffling his hair with my hand as I entered the house. James ran down the hallway, his footsteps echoing off the walls and wood floor. I closed the door behind me; it shut with an encouraging thud.

"Jamie," I called as I made my way into the sitting room, the first left upon entering the house.

"Yes Mum?" he answered, shouting from his bedroom.

"Bring a book to the sitting room and I'll read it to you."

"Okay," he answered once again, sounding slightly more cheerful.

I settled myself on the white sofa in front of the window. The curtains hung limply in front of the glass, as though they too were drained from the overbearing heat outside. There was a clattering of footsteps down the hall, and Jamie ran through the French doors leading to the sitting room, nearly knocking his elbows into the glass panels.

He tackled the ottoman, chucking his book at me simultaneously. I caught it, glanced at the cover, The Velveteen Rabbit, and smiled in spite of myself. It had been my favourite book as a child. Now it appeared to be one of Jamie's favourites as well.

"Nice choice, sweetie," I said, patting the cushion beside me.

James hopped up onto the couch and snuggled in beside me. "Thanks Mum."

I tipped my cheek to touch the top of his head, and he wrapped his small hands around my arm, settling down for a good cuddle and hopefully a nap.

Looking at my son out of the corner of my eye, I couldn't help but think how much he looked like his father. Yet so much like me. He caught me looking at him, and his face broke into a grin. I smiled back at him, and began to read.

"There was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be; his coat was spotted brown and white, he had real thread whiskers, and his ears were lined with pink sateen. On Christmas morning, when he sat wedged in the top of the Boy's stocking, with a sprig of holly between his paws, the effect was charming . . ."

A creak in the hallway woke me out of a shallow sleep, and it took a second for my eyes to clear. James was lying across my lap on his back, his mouth wide open, eyes shut, hair stuck at a very strange angle. I moved my head, stretching my arms as I looked around for the source of the creak. There was nothing visible; the entire sitting room was empty. A kind of comfortable silence had fallen over the house, cloaking everything in a sort of unspoken complacency.

I took a deep breath in, deciding that I must have been imagining the sound when there it was again. A creak, as though someone was stepping down the hallway. My heartbeat quickened, and I slid James off my lap, cast a protective spell on him, and got up to investigate.

Pausing in the doorway, my wand out, I steadied myself. It had been so long since I'd used defensive magic. It wasn't that I was afraid it wouldn't come back to me; I didn't doubt my abilities. It was just that I wanted to know why - something in me rebelled at needing to use it now. Now, six years after the war. Six years after I'd been left a widow. Six years.

My heart was racing - it was useless to try and slow it down. My mind whirled with thoughts of Death Eaters as I jumped in to the hallway to confront the assailant in my house, wand extended.

It was only Draco.

"For Merlin's sake, Hermione, what on earth are you doing?" He was panicky, his eyes wide and afraid. I'd have been afraid too with a wand at my throat. I withdrew it and placed it back up the sleeve of my cardigan.

"How did you get in?" I hissed, waving my arms about. "How in the hell did you get in?"

He smiled grimly at me. "Spare key," he said softly, holding it up as evidence. "You gave me one. Remember?"

I nodded, signalling that I remembered. "I wasn't sure of who was here. And I just thought . . . with it being tomorrow that, well, they might want to be rid of us as well. No just rid of Harry. They'd want to try and finish the job," I ended, pushing down the knot in my throat.

"Hermione, they're all gone. There's no one else who'd want to hurt you, who'd want to hurt James. Hell, they've all been killed. Some by me. And I'm not a fan of killing. I'm not like some of those Aurors who get a rush when they let loose a burst of green light. If it had been my choice, I'd have never taken a life. But some lives had to be taken in order to defeat Voldemort, in order to ensure the safety of everyone." At this, Draco grabbed my hands in an attempt to stop me from wringing them, and held them tightly. "All you need to remember," he whispered, his voice thick, his eyes trained on mine, "all you need to remember is that we're here for you. I'm here for you. And you'll get through this."

I turned his words over in my head, trying to make them fit in the jigsaw puzzle of my marriage and my family. I knew they were right. I knew that I would be okay. I'd somehow survived the last five years, hadn't I?

"The . . the first year was the hardest," I murmured, turning to gaze at my feet.

"I know," began Draco, a stilted laugh spilling from his lips, an ironic smile twisting his face. "You wouldn't talk to any of us for three weeks." His tone became grave. "You really worried me. Everyone else too."

I half smiled, running my tongue over my teeth. "It doesn't get any easier, you know. It just hurts less often."

Draco pulled me closer, tucked my head under his chin, and wrapped his arms around my shoulders.

"All the grief counsellors, all the Professors, Ministry officials, school mates, the so-called sympathetic public . . . they all said it would get easier. Or, if it didn't get easier, that I would somehow accept it. But I haven't. I've just learned to live with it," I trailed off, my eyes pricking. "Damn, I miss him. I just - I wish he was here, right now. Why did he have to go? Why did he have to leave me - leave us? Is there a reason, a real reason, why he had to go?" I hunched my shoulders under Draco's embrace. And why couldn't they find him? Why couldn't they just find a single scrap of evidence that he had... had died?" I looked up for a second at Draco's translucent gaze, then dropped my eyes in hopelessness. "Because that's the worst part. I always have that little bit of hope, there's always that slight possibility that he might still be out there somwhere," I sighed, a lone tear tumbling down my cheek, "And that's what's killing me slowly, every day." I took a deep breath to steady myself, but an unexpected lump in my throat burned my eyes, and it took all of my courage to not cry.

There was silence for several minutes as Draco took in what I had said, and I chewed over my words. Then, just as I moved to look up at him, he bent his neck to see my face.

And he kissed me.

It was damp in the garden; a perfect evening for hamburgers, so James and I barbequed a few. He was off in the sandbox, playing with his sandcastle in the cloud of scent wafting from the rose hedge. I took a sip of my iced tea, swirling the ice cubes around in the glass so they rubbed against the sides and made a whirring noise. Initially, I was focused on the noise I was making, but my thoughts soon drifted to the afternoon. When Draco had kissed me.

Well, he hadn't kissed me. Our lips kind of met, and then he'd pressed forward, deepening it. And I'd kissed him right back.

It had been bound to happen, though, right from the beginning. He'd been there for me after Harry's disappearance on that fateful twenty-third of July, stood by me like the brother I'd never had. Harry had never even known I was pregnant, making his sudden loss doubly hard to bear. And James had been born the following March. My son had been only four months old on the first anniversary of his father's death, and in all that time it had been Draco who stood in for my husband.

I had to face it now. Tomorrow would be the sixth anniversary of his death. Anniversaries were supposed to be celebrations - full of delight in the passing of another wonderful year in the company of one's spouse. But for me, anniversaries always meant solemn remembrance, tears, and memorials. Last year had been the biggest one. Five years since the end of the War. Five years since the Ministry had been corruption free (or so they said). Five years since the last wizard had died in battle. My husband. The Daily Prophet had wanted an interview; they had done a five-page spread on war veterans and their families. Two pages for Harry, they'd promised. I had torn up the owl and had Ron deal with them. Needless to say, they hadn't bothered me this year.

The Ministry never sent a representative to beg my appearance at a public memorial either. On the first anniversary of the destruction of Voldemort, now officially celebrated on July 24^th, I received several flowery letters requesting my appearance at the first public memorial. Of course, I hadn't thought about why they wanted me there, initially. They persisted until the day before the memorial, when I nearly hexed them out of my house. (I later found out that foreign dignitaries, namely a very suave Italian model-turned-wizarding-ambassador named Vencentio de Griandi, were in attendance. He was in the market for a wife. Oddly enough, he had no idea that the Ministry was trying to play match-maker with its favourite war widow, and sent me a very, very nice apology along with some outrageously expensive shoes and an invitation for me to stay at his villa near Florence whenever I was in the area, with any guests I desired.)

I had wanted to keep James away from the unnecessary evils of the Wizarding world as long as I could. I hadn't wanted him to be like Harry, not understanding why he was a wizard when he started Hogwarts, so his magical exposure was monitored by Molly, Ron, Ginny and myself. Charlie's twin girls, Sarah and Natalie, got along splendidly with him, as did George's boy Alexander. Dean had great fun taking him to a community Quidditch match every other Saturday. James had already itched to be in the air when Ron and Ginny showed him their old Comet Jr. 620, a broom that topped out at six km/h and three feet high.

And I had always imagined Harry teaching our son to fly.

It wasn't as though I hadn't dealt with the loss; quite the opposite, really. Every day I had been confronted with memories of Harry. Every day I had moved on in little ways. But recently I had caught myself thinking "What if Harry was here" or "Harry would know what to do". I hadn't even done that after he went missing. Probably because I thought he'd come back safe, just like he always had before. Now I was stuck in that rut again, that day-before-the-day I received the notice. And I had no idea why.

Dear Mrs. Potter, it had begun.

We regret to inform you the first sentence had started. And I'd known what to expect even before I finished it.

We regret to inform you that your husband, Harry Potter, was reported missing in action shortly before 11:30 last night, and is now presumed dead. Everything that could be done to locate him was attempted, but no results were achieved. It is through his gallant actions that Voldemort's reign was ended and peace was restored throughout the world. If there is any way we can assist you through this difficult time, please contact the Ministry's Veteran's Affairs, headed by Alan Wolder.

Sincerely,

Admiral Jason Higgins, Wizard Fighting Forces Chief-of-Staff

It was almost more of a rally-the-troops condolence, not a genuinely heartfelt one. I still had that note. It was in there with the Daily Prophet clippings Molly had given me. The ones that weren't offensive, but comforting. They were in a box in the attic along with thousands of letters of condolence. Most of them I hadn't even bothered to open, but somehow I could never bring myself to bin them. So they sat there, collecting dust just like the memory of Harry collected dust, until I cried for him again and it was once again washed clean.

Memory is one thing. Relentlessly hanging onto a life that has long passed is another. Now, I had to draw the line. In fact, I had the feeling I had drawn it long ago; all that remained was to find it, step over it, and move into the next phase of my life.

Determined not to cry, I took a sip of my lemonade and steeled myself for a few hours more. James would be asleep soon, and then I could let go.

Let go of Harry.

Let go of my dead marriage.

Let go of the ghosts . . . and wash him clean.