The Bermuda Trap

When I woke up, I was in bed, safely tucked underneath the covers. Alarm shot through me, and I flipped back the covers and slid out of bed, landing on a fuzzy rug. Rug? I don't have a rug here; I've only ever put my slippers here. I shook my head, thinking I must be imagining the softness of the flooring. But when I moved to turn up the covers, they were different. They were a light green shade, whereas I'd always had white ones. And the walls, they had never been that funny beige colour . . .

I opened my bedroom door (which I never shut, regardless, because James might need me in the night) and walked down the hall, taking in all of the small changes with confusion. The pictures on the wall were different. I didn't recognize any of them. Our wedding picture was there; I'd put that picture away four years ago. But there were others, too. One especially caught my eye. Inconspicuous, to all who didn't know, but it was there. To me, it stood out. It was . . . No, it can't be. It can't be. He . . . he never saw James. He suspected that I was pregnant, but he never actually found out that I had the baby. He never saw James. He wasn't there! He wasn't!

But he was there. In living colour. The picture that stood out so remarkably for me was a family one. Harry and I, lying on the floor in the sitting room at Christmas, with James between us. All three of us were laughing, and our smiles shone vividly through the glass. I had never taken this picture. I backed away, down the hall towards the kitchen, shaking my head because I knew this wasn't right. I knew this was the way it should have been, not the way it was. Not the way it turned out to be.

My head hit something solid; I had backed into a wall. I looked forward, straight into the kitchen, as the smell of fried chicken with peppers, one of my favourite dishes, wafted into the hall. All of the lights were on in the kitchen, and there were a few bowls beside the sink. I pushed myself forward, through the kitchen door, and was once again confronted with change.

All of my dishes were a pale yellow colour. I had bought them at a sale the Christmas after James was born. The table was set, but not with yellow dishes. They were clear glass, simple and unfussy like the plain white duvet I had previously had on the bed. Not only the dishes, but the table, too, was different. Harry and I had found a wonderful old harvest table, at least eight feet long, before we were married. Now I kept it in the dining room which adjoined the kitchen, and adjusted the size according to how many guests I had. This table was a basic rectangle, constructed from walnut, with high-backed chairs.

Too high for James . . . I would never have bought that table until he was older . . . why the hell is it here? Placing my palm against my forehead, I closed my eyes, sheltering them from the light, and focussed on the touch of my hand. It was real. I was real. This house appeared to be real. Blood rushed into my head, and I could feel my heart pounding.

"But it isn't, is it?" whispered a small voice in my ear.

I jumped, opening my eyes to the bright light, whirling around in the centre of the kitchen, looking for the source. I was alone with the fried chicken and peppers.

My head was throbbing; the adrenaline coursing through my body was causing me to shake; I felt the scars come up, come out of their hiding places and try and attack my memories. Trying to figure out what was going on was taxing all of my energies. I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my palms and walked into the dining room.

There was a rug underneath the table. I hated rugs underneath the table. I myself spilt food sometimes, and James would have made a complete mess of it. I was far too practical to buy a rug I'd spend all my time cleaning.

The front door opened and closed, and then opened and closed again.

"Sweetheart, I'm home!" called a familiar voice. It was comfortable. Gorgeous. Soft. Low. But there was no conceivable way that I could be hearing that voice when he was gone. When he didn't really exist. When for the past six years, I'd been trying to pull myself out of the hole he had left and move on with my life.

"Hermione?" he called as he hung his coat up. I heard the squeak of the closet doors. "Hermione, are you in there?"

I backed up, staring manically around the kitchen, looking for a way out. I slid my hands blindly over the chairs, the table. A dish slipped off and crashed to the floor.

He ran in. His eyes were so compassionate. So perceptive. And they were looking straight into mine.

When I woke up, I couldn't breathe. I was alone in my bed, under my familiar white comforter, sun pouring through the window. I had imagined it.

On the bloody twenty-third of July. On the day.

'Imagined' was probably the wrong word.

Received a vision, Trelawney would have said.

Load of shit, Harry would have said.

I couldn't help but side with Harry - Trelawney had always been an old fraud.

I leaned my head against the wall. It was so strange to be sitting here, calmly accepting the fact that Harry was gone, that he was never coming back. That he would always be a memory, and nothing more.

I glanced at the clock; it read 4:33. The sun wasn't even up yet, but there was no way I was going back to sleep. Sliding off the bed and into my slippers and housecoat - which I wore by force of habit - I left my room, checked on James, and headed for the kitchen. My knees shook slightly as I remembered this day six years ago.

No, I scolded myself. No, you cried last night. Last night you mourned, today you'll remember with James, tomorrow you will move on. Absently pulling a mug out of the cupboard, I flicked the kettle on and gazed out at the sunrise. It was so distorted in the city - Hogwarts was a whole different story. There the sky was painted brilliantly with colour as the sun rose; pink bleeding into orange, purple shot with gold drifting into blue. In London, all I could make out was a fuchsia haze with some lighter bits. It could have been the sunrise; it could also have been smog.

With a rushing whistle, the kettle finished boiling. I looked around the kitchen, remembering my dream about Harry. It had seemed so real, so poignant, so clear . . . but it was just another memory clawing at me, trying to shred all sanity and all hope of moving on.

And then there was Draco. That about summed it up - he was just there, floating in the fuzzy part of my focus. The kiss had been . . . unexpected, strange, wonderful. But still just a kiss. It hadn't been a promise, it wasn't meant to be an invitation, and it certainly hadn't been a proposal. But did he know that? Anyway, it wasn't fair to him, nor to anyone else, particularly James, that I couldn't let go of Harry. It wasn't even fair to Harry, because my continual attachment to him would keep his spirit earthbound until I could move on. My selfishness was getting in the way of my reason. It was time for a change.

There was only one room on the upper floor - I had reserved it for James when he might want more space. With my mug of tea in hand, my housecoat pulled unnecessarily tight, I ascended the stairs with it in mind. Currently it held all of the things belonging to Harry I hadn't been willing to part with, but which I couldn't bear to see on a daily basis. My hand ran along the hall rail, my breathing coming faster and my throat feeling tight.

The door was at the end of the hall. A dim white colour, the paint had faded and cracked from years of neglect. The door handle was as old as it was ornate; it was a lion's head, yawning to friends, baring its golden teeth at foes. My eyes stung, and I turned the handle. It was stiff, creaky; to me it sounded defiant. The lock clicked, the door swung back, and a dark, musty room opened to the dim light of early morning. I felt the wall to the right side of the door and found the light switch - the bulb had burnt out. I pulled my wand from my housecoat pocket and pulled aside the curtains, eradicating the smell with a quick spell.

Dust puffed up in clouds in the ever-strengthening sunlight. As my eyes slowly adjusted, the room swam into focus. On the wall behind the door hung Harry's Quidditch robes. Once a bright red and gold, they now hung lifeless, not faded but dirty. Behind them, on the closet door, was a poster of the English Quidditch team. The players flew around the pitch, continually beating the French team by at least three hundred points. The wall opposite the door contained two windows. Directly below the windows stood two trunks - one was Harry's old school trunk, and the other held a set of Quidditch balls engraved with the Chudley Cannons logo (a wedding present from Ron). The right hand wall was covered in photos, certificates, newspaper clippings and posters. He'd arranged that shortly after we bought the house. Harry had insisted this be the "bonus room", essentially a place for us to house all of our magical items not suitable for display in a primarily Muggle household.

The wall opposite of the windows held a large desk, book shelves, a cabinet and some extra chairs. I took a few tentative steps into the room, brushing off the chairs by sheer force of habit. Underneath the rickety green rocking chair sat his favourite pair of shoes. I ran my hand over the books filling the shelves - all the ones he'd kept from school, all the ones he'd bought about Quidditch. A swirling orb, which could only be a crystal ball, sat precariously on the desk. This relic from Divination class was surrounded by piles of scrolls - all maps, documents and summonses that he had kept from his involvement with the Order. Lying across several chairs was his cherished Firebolt, covered in a thick layer of dust. Beneath it sat his broom polish, tail clippers and navigation devices.

The cabinet was next, full of a variety of items ranging from brass scales to an oddly transfigured rubber duck. Behind his glass vials on the third shelf up was an autographed photo and letter from Victor Krum, now a world-famous Auror as well as Quidditch player. Krum had sent Harry a letter about a possible position on the Bulgarian Quidditch Team as soon as he graduated from Hogwarts - the picture was mine, something I'd received two months into sixth year. I never did find out why he sent it; nor did I want to.

Harry's sneakoscope sat dull and silent on the highest shelf, next to the sock he had previously muffled it in. His watch lay beside the moving, laughing, happy group of seventh-year Gryffindors. I picked up the photo with a bittersweet smile - remembering times not nearly so evil as the ones that would follow. By the end of our seventh year, we had lost four classmates. We would lose so many more.

The room even smelled of him. I thought that it was merely a fabrication on my part, but when I opened the closet I nearly dropped to my knees. There, some of his clothing was neatly stacked. What wasn't there I had given to charity. That had been a wrench.

The centre of the room was piled with boxes - things Harry hadn't yet unpacked when he'd gone missing, boxes of photos, and items belonging to his parents which he had only recently acquired from his maternal grandparents' house.

They had died before Harry's birth, and Lily and James had inherited their house. In it, Lily and James had kept multiple items which they did not want to take to Godric's Hollow with them. This abandoned house in the country now belonged to Harry, and therefore to me, but I had no idea where the key was. The deed was stashed somewhere in Harry's vault in Gringotts, along with the fortune left to him by his parents. Upon Petunia's death, Harry received the house as inheritance (it had been tied up with Petunia because she had been Harry's legal guardian). But that was four months before we were to be married. I don't think he even went to the funeral, let alone visited the house now belonging to him.

On top of the boxes were various long, thin, brown paper packages, all containing broomsticks. Hanging off a standing mirror was the suit Harry had worn for our wedding, carefully stored in a garment bag. Beside the mirror, four boxes of letters spilled on the floor. I was sure that nearly every letter ever written to him was there; a detailed, if slightly edited, version of his life. The one I picked up was from Sirius. Another catch in my throat, even though he'd been gone for over 10 years. I pulled a box over to the rickety green rocking chair and began to read.

How long I sat there I don't know, but I had gotten halfway through the first box of letters before James found me. He was so quiet I almost didn't hear him come in.

He yawned, one fist clamped tightly on the arm of his favourite teddy.

"What 'cha doing, Mum?"

I looked up, shaken out of my thoughts, and smiled at my son. "I'm going through some of your Daddy's things. Do you want to come and see as well?"

He nodded and climbed up on my lap. I grabbed a packet of photos and reviewed them, one by one.

"Who's this?" I quizzed, a very vibrant, very alive picture in my hand.

"Mum," he answered happily.

"Good one. Now, who's this?"

"Uncle Ron."

"Mmhm. This one?"

"Auntie Ginny and Dean."

"Now this is a hard one. Who's here?"

A small, determined frown of frustration creased his forehead. "That's," he began. "That's Uncle Ron. And Dean. And . . . is that . . . Daddy?"

I nodded when he looked up, my eyes dry, mouth sad. It was starting to hurt less. Mostly a dull ache now, not an open, throbbing wound. But today - regardless of how much I'd healed - today would always hurt like hell. "You don't know the other people?" I asked, knowing the answer.

"No."

"That's Neville - he was a really good friend of your Dad's," I continued, shifting James to my other knee.

"Oh." James's face became slightly puzzled. After a moment, he spoke again. "Did he die too?"

I nodded, my eyes glassy now. "Yes Jamie, Neville died in our seventh year, fighting in Hogsmeade. Remember the Wizarding town I told you about?"

"Yes," he said before sliding off my lap to examine the contents of an open box, losing interest in the photo and its remaining inhabitants, Seamus and Charlie.

Pushing my hands on my knees as I stood up, I glanced around this room which teemed with memories. It was time to clean it out.

"Jamie?"

"Yes Mum?" Now, he was kneeling amidst bottles of ink, old quills, packets of letters and hundreds of moving photos.

"Would you like to tidy this room today? I'm going to organize Daddy's photos, and you can help put his brooms on the wall.

James spun around, his eyes bright. "Will you use magic?" He was so excited he was vibrating.

I smiled at our boy, and my son. "Yes Jamie. But you have to get dressed first."

"Okay!" His chiclet teeth grinned at me for a moment before he tore out of the room. His footsteps echoed as he sprinted down the stairs, landing with a thud, and tore around the corner.

I followed Jamie at a slower pace, grabbing my mug before proceeding to the kitchen. I felt like having oatmeal today.

The room upstairs was looking much better, thanks to a few skilful cleaning spells and some well-needed organization. Now the centre of the room was clutter-free, all the photos boxed and stored in the newly enlarged closet, every letter meticulously filed by a wave of my wand, and Harry's brooms hanging on the wall above his Quidditch robes.

Currently, the animated boxes of letters were jostling for position in their section of the now walk-in closet. Jamie was yelling while running in circles, enrobed in a Chudley Cannons nightshirt, my old dragonskin gloves and a Gryffindor tie (the latter clashing violently with the nightshirt).

All I had left to do was move furniture. Careful to avoid my screaming, psychotic five-year-old, I levitated a cushy armchair to sit between the windows. The bookshelf I had relocated to beside the closet. The cabinet was still magically filing all items not thrown out in alphabetical order - the books James and I had done already. The desk was ordered, free of clutter. I had arranged fresh parchment, ink and quills on the surface, and tucked up the green chair under it.

In the centre of the room sat a table I had conjured. Surrounded by chairs, yet big enough to hold three cauldrons, it took precedence over the other items in the room. After altering a few pieces of furniture, I realized what was missing: a fireplace. One look at the wall of photos, a few elegant wand movements and several muttered Latin words, and a blazing hearth sprang up, throwing a cool breeze across the room in what was becoming a very sticky July day.

James came to a dead stop. "M - m -" he tried, but words failed him. It was, I had to admit, pretty big magic.

"What d'you think?" I asked him, crouching down to meet his eye level. Saucer-eyed, he contemplated me for a moment, but remained silent.

"Alright?" I prompted, taking his gloved hands in mine. Jamie only nodded before burying his head in my shoulders. After a moment, he pulled away, voice recovered.

"That . . . that was pretty cool, Mum. Can I do that?"

I smiled even wider, pulling him towards me in a tight hug. "Someday," I whispered in his ear. "Someday. Sooner than you think, and a lot sooner than I'd like."

I let go of him and cast my eyes around the nearly completed room.

"Now, Jamie, if you help Mum tidy that wall," I said, pointing at the photo-caked one, "then I'll do some magic, and you can help me." He didn't look convinced. I pulled another card. "And, I'll help you get a box of things together for you to dress up in at home."

His eyes sparkled. "Like fancy dress clothes?" he queried.

"Sort of," I answered, leaning against the table.

"So you could make me play clothes? Like, whatever I want?"

"Maybe. You'll get some of my stuff, some of your Dad's stuff, and you might - might - get some things that I've transfigured for you. But only if you help."

He was already taking down pictures, tacks in a pile on the floor.