A Dose Of Reality

A Dose of Reality

Part Three: The Merging

It was still dark when they reached the library; a dust infested room with a thousand year's world of knowledge held captive between the thick covers of its volumes. Unlike the common room, it was dimly lit with the most minimal of torches around its edges despite the time of day. However, it remained deserted, and that suited both Harry and Hermione down to the ground.

Harry was right to presume that, even in this universe, the librarian wouldn't be up at 6:30 on a Saturday morning. They quietly sneaked into the cold, heartless room and felt secure enough to remove the cloak. Harry took the floating material in his hands and neatly folded it into the pocket of his robes as the pair of them delved into the endless shelves in their search for a solution.

'What are we exactly searching for, Harry?' asked Hermione in a quiet squeak. 'The only reference we have in here is, oh, oops!' she got distracted as she knocked one of many copies of Moste Potente Potions to the floor with a dull thud that seemed to be magnified many times in those early hours. They both froze, holding their breath as they listened intently to anyone being made aware of their unwelcome presence. After a moment, Hermione continued. 'The library is full of Dark Arts stuff. This place just oozes pessimism.'

This obviously got Harry thinking. Suddenly, he dashed down toward the back of the library with Hermione hot on his heels, heading straight into its familiar depths and almost being consumed by it. Surely if the Dark Arts were prominent, then he'd find all the books he'd need in...

'The restricted section?' Hermione said, completely puzzled. Indeed, it looked as if these books hadn't been opened for the best part of a century. Most of the covers were covered so thick with dust the titles were barely visible, their gold writing fading upon the mahogany spines of the books. Harry used the sleeve of his robes to clean the untouched volumes as his face became buried in a frown of concentration, scanning the text for a useful point of reference.

'What we need,' he began, pulling off a carefully selected text or two, 'is some sort of medical reference book. Something to tell us what we're dealing with. Just a list of symptoms, probably from a Dark Arts book, and hopefully a cure among this lot.' Magical Miracles by Angelina Sniffles fell to the floor with a clunk. Harry continued his search.

'So...' said Hermione from behind him, 'You want to find some sort of illness that starts off like a fever - lots of colours, shivers, sweats and so on. Then it goes on to entice a trans-dimensional coma and places the victim in a dream-like alternate reality where your worst nightmares are on the rampage, causing such an extent of despair that if given into, will cause a form of involuntary suicide?'

'Yeah, that's it...' Harry said absently. Suddenly he looked up. 'What?'

Hermione grinned. She held a particularly large volume open in her lap.

'I think I've got it.'

Harry, despite the direness of the situation, couldn't resist smiling back.

'Now that's more like it!'

***

They'd taken up shifts: Ron, being the heavy sleeper he was, guarded over Harry's form in the daylight hours while Hermione took over in the stillness of the nights, Ron sleeping soundly as she tormented herself in the silence the darkness brought. There were so many things she wanted to say to Harry, so many comforting words that were forming into sentences in her ever-weary brain, but none of them she could seem to utter. She just held his hand, as before, trying to convey exactly what she was feeling through the language of human touch. She'd never felt so inadequate.

It wasn't as if this was the first time Harry's life was in danger: Rescuing the Philosopher's stone, death defying Quidditch matches, the Dementors... all those times, she hadn't had time to stop and think, to ponder upon the effect his possible death would cause upon her seemingly small and insignificant life. Her brain always went into autopilot, concentrating on the task at hand. Whether logical riddles or the complicated consequences that short-term time travel could potentially have upon the space-time continuum, she'd made them primarily occupy her thoughts. She knew that if she stopped for just a minute, a second, she'd crack. It was the same during the Triwizard Tournament. Her heart was in her throat as Harry had swerved past the Hungarian Horntail. Despite her unwavering confidence in his victory, she still dug her nails into her worry-stricken face as he flew ever closer to the dragon's lethal spikes. But it was the third task that drove her closer to the edge. Able to see little despite her prominent position in the stands, the eerie silence that followed Harry and Cedric's unexpected departure were probably the worst of her life. No one else in the crowd seemed to notice. They were just caught up in the excitement of the task as Fleur and Krum were rescued from the maze - they presumed Harry and Cedric were still there, wandering in circles for their hopeless search for the cup. But somehow, unexplainably, she could tell something was horribly wrong, and that Harry was in danger. It was as if she was in that graveyard alongside him, but completely unable to help. Only when Harry re-appeared on the outskirts of the maze did she come back to her senses, when she saw Cedric's body... an involuntary tear rolled down her cheek as she squeezed Harry's hand tighter at the horror of the memory. Voldemort's return hadn't been the most pleasant time of her life at Hogwarts.

But now he lay beyond his own help, in a dream-like state only his unconscious mind could control. Although Madam Pomfrey's potion supposedly made him more receptive to outside voices, all they could do to draw him out of his trance was to be there. She needed to speak to him. She needed to tell him everything, remind him what he was missing. She needed to tell him the truth. Her heart was beating as loud as thunder in her chest as she reached over and swept his hair out of his face, now clammy after hours of pain and sweat, horribly cold. She paused over that infamous scar, burning hot compared to the rest of his poisoned body that shuddered uncontrollably at her delicate touch. She sighed, closed her eyes, and slowly began to speak.

***

Ron was sitting back in the dimly lit common room. He often got up early, even in mid-winter. Sometimes he saw sleep and isolation as one and the same thing: A blissful escape from the horrors of the day, where he could daydream about a life that didn't involve daily sessions with the spiders or stone cold lumpy soup. He often thought about the Hogwarts his parents described in his elaborate bedtime stories, the one he'd hoped to attend. Where reputations were made and lost over a game of Quidditch, trips to Hogsmeade in the early summer evenings, a game of endless adventures and forever friends. Ha. Like that would ever happen.

They hadn't banked on Voldemort's intervention when that little fairytale was written. They hadn't banked on his literal take over, the ministry, the school, and to an unknown extent, the Muggle world. Clever move that - putting the entire Government under the Imperius curse so that the Muggles would remain quiet and co-operative. The Muggles never took their politicians seriously in the first place, so it made little difference. They never were satisfied.

And that was how this sorry state of affairs was formed. The Dark Lord still wanted to educate the youth, but under his own Dark flag. The lucky were to join him in the Death Eaters, the co-operative at favoured positions in the dictak that now masqueraded as the ministry and left peacefully to their own devices. The unlucky, stupid and rebellious often wound up dead or mysteriously missing. Ron merely survived by attempting to fit in that middle category. He kept his head down, his light side contacts quiet, and simply prayed his peace wouldn't be disturbed. But that was never going to happen, especially if Hermione Granger had anything to do with it.

For now she entered the common room, her sudden appearance startling Ron into rising from his seat to meet her gaze, a previously absent twinkle in her eye light with a renewed passion that puzzled Ron for a second. He'd always, deep down, liked Hermione. He liked the idea of her companionship. But the divides the Dark Arts caused which ripped the school - even internally the houses - apart, always prevented too much free relation. They all had to keep themselves to themselves, for fear of unforeseen accusation. However, that was a line about to be crossed.

'Ron, I need your help.'

Her bluntness cut through the dawn air like a piercing knife. There was a need for expansion.

'What makes you think I'll be able to give it to you?' Ron asked, raising an eyebrow of a questioning nature. 'If you need to test out some potion on me, you're out of luck. You are lovely and all, but I don't fancy spending the weekend puking my guts up.'

Ah, the familiar sarcasm. Hermione smiled. According to Harry, some things hadn't changed in this universe. She tried to be brief.

'Don't worry, you can keep your bodily fluids in their rightful place. I just need you to listen to me. It's about Harry...'

'What about him?' he snapped back, looking around the room to make sure no one had sneaked in. 'You're not doing yourself any favours by hanging around with him, you know. Don't think we haven't noticed. You of all people should realise it's a major case of survival of the fittest round here, and hanging around with Potter hardly helps. Darwinism in action...'

'No, you don't understand. The Harry that is currently sitting in a History of Dark Arts classroom is not the Harry we knew last week. Something's changed. Why else would he attempt to talk to you? And me for that matter?'

'I just thought he'd finally lost it. My heart goes out to the guy, it really does. But Herm - '

'Ron, please listen. Harry hasn't had a personality transplant overnight. It's something else. I had a really long talk with him the other night and he spelt out a few home truths. He's made me realise we have an option. We can sit here and feel miserable for ourselves for the next three years, hoping to get from one day to the next, or we can sit up and find our own path.' She looked almost close to tears as she took a step closer. 'I just don't know how to explain this without you thinking I should be locked up in St. Mungo's. He's made me realise things need to change round here. We shouldn't have to stay awake at night worrying about what the hell those gits who call themselves our teachers will inflict on us the next day. And we can't sit around waiting for Dumbledore. We need to get on the offensive, and helping Harry is just the first step. But I - we can't do this alone. We need your help. I don't want to leave you behind. You just have to trust me.'

'Trust is a very strong word.'

'It's the only thing we've got.'

The pair of them were silent for a while, unsure what to make of the sudden change of attitude. For Hermione, it had been uplifting, as if a whole world of opportunity was open before her at the hands of a virtual stranger, a classmate whose isolation caused much curiosity but little contact had suddenly become like a beacon in the night. Harry was safely drawing her little ship into shore. For once, there was a choice: Either hold onto the faint possibility of there being something better, or settle down for a life of depravation and regret. Ron was merely confused; Hermione was speaking in riddles that were normally attributed to the more studious like Neville. She was making little sense, but what he could make out seemed certainly more appealing than being a coward and simply taking everything his enforced road threw at him. He was a fighter, and finally he felt the urge to fight back. He was quickly resolved and rose slowly from his chair.

'My brothers are going to kill me...'

Hermione cracked a smile so foreign to her features it was as if the dam of insecurities had come crumbling down. It wasn't her imagination. She wasn't the only one unprepared for second best. The dream team were back. Before he could change his mind, she grabbed Ron's arm and dragged him out of the common room and into the early morning light.

*

Harry had explained the situation with such ease and elegance it was as if it had come from the pen of an experienced novelist. Ron suppressed his amazement to his usual raise eyebrow as Harry trawled through the mountains of evidence to support his theory. Harry smiled to himself as he imagined his own Ron's reaction to such a tale, his mouth wide open with amazement and some form of childhood innocence he maintained through the tricks and jaunts of his many siblings. Harry supposed that in this world, you had to grow up fast.

They had to keep their liaisons secret: Harry was never going to be flavour of the month with Malfoy Senior or Snape. For the first time since his unexpected entry to the nightmare, Harry was pleased the common room was deserted so early on in the evenings: It allowed the musketeers to collaborate their findings. No one ever took any notice whether he was there or not. Hermione said she was normally the last to leave as the insomnia that plagued her in Harry's reality became magnified many times in this one. Ron, being pureblood, was generally left to his own devices, as long as he kept out of trouble. A clean slate was essential for such research into the Light Arts.

'This stuff isn't half as bad as you'd think...' he said one night, about a week into their midnight crusades. 'I mean, some of the spells are dead useful, and not half as strenuous.'

Hermione frowned. 'What do you mean? And shouldn't you be looking up some sort of reversal spell for Harry's hallucination? If you're caught trying to widen your inventory then we're all done for...'

'No,' said Harry suddenly, 'Ron's right you know. The reason you struggle in lessons is possibly that you're not cut out for it.'

'Oh, nice. You're joining in the taunts now as well? I know I'm about as good with my Imperius curse as a vegetarian in a slaughter house, but - '

'What I mean,' Harry said quickly, 'is that you may not be good at the Dark Arts as it's simply not in your nature. The problem here is that even the most simple spells are used for ill deeds, and it's knowing that which slows you down. My Hermione hates to break the rules, to cause harm to anything that she doesn't deem as deserving it. The day she uses Avada Kedavra on a pure and simple whim, Snape and I will be going on our honeymoon. You are much more like her than you realise.' Harry stood up and handed her back her wand, previously disarmed from her by Ron in the style of a professional hit-wizard. 'You thrive on spells that are useful, which have more of a purpose than to hurt or kill. You need to know that the spell, no matter how simple, will be put to good use. You're a light sider and you know it. Harness that ability and you'll be the best witch in the school.'

She looked at him, and then at Ron, unsure of what to do. Ron simply leaned forward and placed a muggle pencil in front of her at the table, giving her a reassuring look. With a look of fresh determination on her face, she raised wand on high.

'Wingardium Leviosa!'

And with hardly effort at all, the pencil rose into the air. As softy as a feather, it glided across the room, Hermione delighting in making it swerve and dive through the echoes of her voice, until it softly came to rest on the table where it originated. The change in her was instantaneous, reminiscent of when she first discovered her unique abilities. The same warmth that flows through your fingers when you discover the perfect wand, a partnership for life, for mischief and magic, together forever - it was exhilarating. She smiled widely at her companions; ready to explode with happiness at the hope such a simple spell had given her. If she hadn't believed Harry before, she definitely did now.

Ron whooped and punched the air with enthusiasm as Harry gave her a congratulatory pat on the back. She blushed furiously at their little outbust and returned to the book she'd been franticly scanning. They'd been at it for a few days now, Harry sneaking out every night to get another book out of the restricted section, normally only used in Advanced Defence against the Light Arts. Now that had been a strange lesson: Learning how the spells he normally took for granted could be reversed to cause as much devastation as possible - burying people in mountains of stationary with a banishing charm for instance. Harry still had the stab marks from Draco Malfoy's particularly sharp quill. Some things never changed.

Harry was incredibly shocked by the transformation occurring in his two partners in crime in the days after the pencil incident. Hermione was almost recognisable as her old self, engrossed in a battered and fire tinged copy of The Standard Book of Spells Grade 7. Always ahead of herself, thought Harry typically. They already had a vague idea of what they were searching for. Hermione had hit the nail on the head with the definition of Harry's condition, something she later likened to the lesser-known Alternous curse. Apart from a list of symptoms, they hadn't made much progress, as study time was limited to the unearthly hours of the night when peace was ensured in the poor, pathetic light of the Gryffindor common room. Although their extra-cirricular activity was benefiting Ron and Hermione, Harry was rapidly beginning to lose all hope for his own plight. As Ron gradually slipped into a raucous slumber in the chair in front of the fire, Hermione went over to Harry and perched on the table opposite.

'Tell me about it.'

'Huh?'

His Hermione was certainly far less cryptic, and that was saying something. She rolled her eyes, aggravated. 'What's bothering you.? Why you've been staring into space for the past half hour while Ron's been shaking hands with the sandman.' They both grinned as they glanced at the sleeping figure of the red head, snorting occasionally as his chest rose and fell with his soothingly rhythmic breathing.

'I suppose...' he began, unsure how to exactly phrase the issue, 'I suppose I'm just finding this whole thing a little strange. It feels too real to be a dream, too complex. I'm not even sure if that other world exists now, I've gotten so used to this one. I'm beginning to wonder if you were right in the first place. Whether a Death Eater really did sneak in and fry my brains.' He sighed heavily and sat back in his chair. 'It would make more sense than this.'

'Harry, don't give up on us just yet. That's something your Hermione would say, right?'

Harry smiled weakly at the memory. 'Yeah, that's right. She'd set up camp in the library on a permanent basis if she had the chance.' Harry's head hung low as he closed his eyes, a lump forming in his throat. The previous world felt like a memory of childhood to him, coming in fading bouts, incomplete yet hideously alluring. He wanted to hide in them, to close his eyes and return to them, an innocent time where everyone was in on the secret, somewhere where he didn't have to put on this act, where not everyone depended on him. It was like wanting to live in a dream.

'Tell me about her.'

Harry snapped his head back up and looked at Hermione. 'Who?'

'The other woman. Your Hermione. She sounds like my kind of girl.'

'Well, for starters she's far less confusing. If there's something on her mind, she comes out with it straight, or tuts as if it were obvious - unless she finds the library too much of a temptation. I remember this one time...' He paused, thoughtfully for a moment. 'I'm sorry, but this is too strange. I'm talking to you but I keep thinking I'm talking to her. You two are so similar. I can't explain it...'

'I think I know. Your Hermione exists in me as potential. Just like when you met people for the first time, you pick up on certain parts of their personality. You're so in tune with your Hermione that when meeting me, you refused to see anything but her. It's taken time to adjust.'

'But you are like her. You're slowly turning into her...'

'That's because you've drawn it out. You're an undesirable influence, Potter,' she smirked, playfully ruffling his already messed up hair. 'My mother wouldn't approve.'

He smirked back. 'Get back to your books, Granger.'

However, the continuance of their playful banter meant they failed to notice the pair of watery eyes in the darkest corner of the room, registering their every move.

***

'Harry, I don't know whether you can hear me. I don't even know why I'm trying. You know me, I'm a little dubious of Dumbledore's guesswork at the best of times, but I suppose I've just got to trust him. He said I should talk to you. If you were wondering why your stomach feels like it's been living on Hagrid's rock cakes for a week, it's just the potion Madam Pomfrey gave you. Nothing to worry about. It'll help you get better. I hope.

'Nothing much has happened here. Most people have gone home for Christmas. Ron and I were going to stay anyway, so it makes no odds. Snape was a git as usual. Given us a complicated essay about antidotes. Revision he says. Ron says outright torture. For once I think I agree with him. Must be a sign I'm growing up. I've got a secret feisty side. Heh heh.'

She paused for a moment, still holding his hand. It felt pointless to go on: It was like talking to a brick wall. Nevertheless, she squeezed it tighter as she continued.

'Harry,' she said softy as Ron murmured in his sleep. She didn't want him to hear this. 'I know you spend all your time being the hero. I know that's what's expected of you. Just because of a scar on your forehead. I know that you'd give it all up in an instant, just to be normal, or whatever acts as its closest equivalent. And I know that everything seems to happen to you and that this is no exception. But I also know you. I know you can't act any other way. And I'm not asking you to change, just not to give up on me.

'I hate being dependent on you. When I was younger, I always said I'd never rely on anybody. I'm too much of a burden, even for myself. But the reality of it is that I don't know how we'd cope without you. It seems like you're the wall everyone uses to shelter from the storm. And if the wall collapses... I just don't want to think about it. A lot of people depend on you Harry. Please wake up. If not for them... at least for me.'

She began to whisper, fiddling with his fingers as she spoke. Tears were beginning to grace her pale face, trembling in the moonlight as she sighed. She took a deep breath.

'You're always the one telling me I should believe in every possibility. And after Pettigrew, Moody, Quirrell and the rest, at least I can do is believe. I have so much faith in you, Harry.' She didn't even attempt to halt the flow of tears, now free-falling into the bed. 'I have faith. You're going to wake up. You're going to open your eyes and wonder what we were all so worried about. Wherever you are, I know you can hear me, I...'

'Hermione?'

Hermione felt goose bumps forming all over her back as Harry groaned, a noise so alien to the usual muteness of the room it made her jump. His eyes flickered for an instant, but didn't register. She gasped and then regained her composure, squeezing his hand encouragingly, willing him to wake. Come on... come on...

But nothing. It was over in an instant. Later, she wondered if she imagined it as the silence yet again engulfed them while she continued on her watch deep into the night. Maybe she'd hope to provoke a response, longed for her name on his lips like nothing in the world. So much so that her weary mind misled her. That was probably it. She was getting irrational in her puberty. But still she sat there, listening, hoping...

*

'Hermione, time to swap.'

Ron's voice was sleepy and unemotional in the morning, as Hermione lazily raised her head from where it lay at the side of Harry's bed, the sheets still damp from her secret tears. She tried, in vain, to rub them dry before she stood up and faced Ron. As soon as she spoke, she regretted it.

'I heard Harry speak last night.'

Ron looked at her, wide-eyed. 'What?'

'He spoke. I was talking to him, and he groaned, and...' she stopped herself. No he hadn't. She'd imagined it, was desperate for it. She was tired, and the night was just playing tricks on her. She regained her composure and sighed heavily, giving in to her doubts. 'That was it. He groaned. Probably nothing. Just thought I'd mentioned it.'

'Oh, right,' muttered Ron, unconvinced. 'Just get some sleep. These late nights aren't doing you much good. Party animal. Chin up old girl.'

He sat down in the chair Hermione had been occupying as she retreated to the bathroom attached to the dormitory. Plunging her face in a basin of cold water, she brought her dripping features up to the misty mirror, Ron in the background loudly reading the latest Quidditch results. She looked at the reflection and a stranger looked at her back. Someone who'd been to the ends of the earth, her complexion grey and lifeless, her hair matted and frizzy beyond control, someone on the verge of tears. It wasn't her. She got her wand out her pocket, quickly tidying up her bushy curls, hoping for an improvement. None. See what he does to you? She thought. She had to get out of there. She needed some air.

'Hermione, where are you going? What are you doing?' cried Ron as she whipped past him, trying to conceal a fresh wave of tears. Once she reached the window, she opened it.

'Just stepping out for a bit,' she managed to mutter, grabbing Harry's broom that lay unattended on the windowsill. And in a flash, she was gone.

***