Far Away Journey

Far Away Journey: Chapter Four

Hermione's feet throbbed from walking for such a long time despite the short break at the café. Looming before her was a building of rusty red bricks; it was weathered down by the harsh winters of Boston. The railings around the area looked as though you could peel off layers of paint like tangerine skin. French windows lined the walls in even rows, reflecting the sunlight and the reflections of neighboring buildings. She didn't recognize herself as she passed by these windows, feeling estranged in a body that she used to find her uniqueness. The magically altered hair worked its way out of her scarf, which was bundled around her neck, and the wind tore by, making it whip around her face like long, brown tentacles. Will stopped in front of the building, and briefly asked Hermione to wait while he spoke with the doorman standing outside the building. The young witch watched from a distance, and hoisted her backpack even higher onto her shoulders since the weight was bothersome to her new physique.

Finished speaking with the man, her guardian walked toward her, smiling. "We're here. Say hello to the Boston Suite Hotel."

"Finally!" she exclaimed, and immediately sprinted into the warmth of the building amid the bustle of people trying to cram through the revolving doors. Will trailed slowly behind her, and dropped her bags as soon as his feet rested on the soft, violet carpet.

People chatted among one another eagerly in the lobby with suitcases and bags gathered around their feet. The receptionists were lounging behind the information counter, their eyes glazed over with boredom. Hermione's eyes wandered around in a circle throughout the hotel as she made her way toward the receptionists' counter. Looking behind her, she saw Will bent over her bags, rubbing his hands together, and blowing his breath into a hollow fist.

"Please, hurry!" Hermione whined.

"I know. I know. Just hold on a sec," he panted as he began lugging her things toward the counter. Surprisingly, none of the staff came to help him. He trudged up to the receptionist, a man with oily, jet-black hair, and a tan complexion shining with facial oil. The man was leaning against his chair, tilting it backwards as he rocked back and forth on it. His uniform buttons looked as though they were going to pop from the sphere of his belly any moment. His beady eyes stared at the ceiling. Hermione eyed the man suspiciously, wondering if he could get in trouble for behaving in such a manner.

The receptionist grunted.

"Excuse me?" Will asked, his voice light.

At this point, the man seemed thoroughly engrossed with picking at the grimy brown stuff under his fingernails. Hermione tried not to gag, and ripped her eyes away from that repulsive sight. "Just one more," the receptionist muttered absently, his eyes locked to his fingers as he held his chubby hands inches away from his face.

"Sir," Will began again, this time with more charisma, "this young lady has a room booked at this hotel. I'd like to check the reservations, and please give her the key." Letting Hermione's bags rest on the floor, he leaned forward against the counter, his fingertips touching one another and occasionally tapping the oak.

The fat man looked down at Will and Hermione, his eyes narrowing into the beginnings of a frown. Sighing, he flung his hands onto the computer's keyboard, and began to type rapidly. "Name?"

"Hermione Granger," Will said.

"Why don't you let the girl do the talking? She must be retarded or something," the man murmured under his breath as he scanned down the page on his computer. "Granger, is it?" He scratched the back of his neck, and then waved his hands around furiously as though to ward off some mosquitoes, even though there were none. Perhaps he finally realized that he smelled awful, and tried to wave off the stink with his hands. A huge stench of vomit, garbage, and infected bathrooms wafted from his body.

Having heard the disdainful side comment, Hermione glowered at the stranger. "I can talk perfectly fine, thank you very much."

"Okay," the receptionist said, ignoring Hermione and passing Will one electronic card used to unlock the door. "Now, get out of my sight." After typing a few more things onto his computer, the man then resumed his previous position, and continued to pick at his nails with his hands resting over his huge belly. Uneasily, his pupils shifted between puffy eyelids. He cast a furtive glance around the lobby to make sure that the man and the young lady were completely out of sight. As he exhaled, his shoulders sagged. After digging a Nokia cell phone out of his blazer's pocket, he began to punch in numbers hurriedly. Beads of sweat broke out across his greasy nose.

Someone picked up the phone.

"Hello, sir?" the receptionist asked, his voice considerably less gruff.

"Is the girl there yet?" The astringent voice on the other end was masculine.

The receptionist faltered. "I-I'm not sure, sir. Actually, a girl and a man just checked in. Well, just the girl; she's the only one booked for this―"

"Describe her," the voice commanded curtly.

"Uh...let me see. She had brown hair, really straight brown hair just below her shoulders, white, medium height, a little curvy, not all that bad looking, real nice teeth...but not a beauty. Oh, and her name is Hermione Granger."

"Hemione Granger," the voice repeated quietly. "Straight hair? Nice teeth? Curvy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Curious..." the voice mused thoughtfully. "You mentioned that she was with a man."

"Yes, sir."

"His name?"

"I'm sorry, sir. He didn't say."

"THE BASTARD DIDN'T SAY HIS NAME?! WHY DIDN'T YOU ASK HIM YOU SHITTY HUNK OF LARD?!"

The receptionist held the phone a foot away from his ear. With a quivering voice, he replied, "I-I-I..."

"I-I-I," the voice imitated in abnormally high pitches. "You what?"

The man tried unsuccessfully to loosen his tie. The room was getting unusually hot, and his lower lip trembled as he spoke into the mouthpiece. "I c-can describe his ap-ap-pearance."

The voice on the other end sneered, "Go ahead."

"Well," the man began, fumbling with his tie, "he had light-brown hair, pretty tall, ummm...brown eyes, pinkish cheeks."

"I'm afraid that's not good enough you nitwit," the cold voice stated. "DOES YOUR LITTLE, FREAKING MIND KNOW HOW MANY DAMNED TALL MEN THERE ARE IN THE WORLD WITH FREAKING LIGHT-BROWN HAIR, BROWN EYES, AND PINK-FREAKING-CHEEKS?!"

Silence. Blood-shot eyes began to water on the man's face as he clutched the Nokia in terror.

"Well. You're work is finished here. You're fired." The phone hung up with a swift click and then a dead dialing tone.

----

He didn't know why he was reacting his way. It could have been anyone, but he sensed that this situation was different. The voice was far too familiar. Harry's heart was beating so loudly that he could hear the rhythmic beating inside his head. Getting louder. And louder. The palms of his hands began to perspire as he drew his hands into locking fists; the skin over his knuckles was stretched white. His peripheral vision caught a glance of the slender fingers resting over his shoulder. Slowly, cautiously, he turned around in his chair craned his neck to see who was behind him.

Hermione.

His eyes locked with hers. The overtones of her voices seemed to magnify in his ears, echoing in his mind as though he were trapped in a cavern. She had a serene expression on her face that was just almost blank of emotion except for the familiar, I-know-everything glow in her eyes. The room seemed as though everything was melting into a blur of psychedelic colors. Walls seemed to grow taller, and the ceiling seemed to spiral like a whirlpool. Falling off of the chair, he knelt onto the carpet with a hand pressing against his forehead at the lightning-shaped scar, trying to squeeze out the pain shooting like darts through his head. Deatheaters. Hemione's tear-streaked face. Screams. The death spell. Overlapping images from his nightmares flashed in quick succession within his mind. He couldn't remember what happened afterwards except for a sudden, all-consuming darkness.

----

After taking the elevator, Hermione and Will arrived at the fourth floor of the Boston Suite Hotel. The hallways were decorated with various paintings and flowers hanging from the walls. Splashes of color gave life to otherwise forlorn corridors with white wallpaper edged with royal blue, and cool, fluorescent lights. The two of them paced down the hall, their shoes making no sounds on the carpet, until Hermione stopped in front of room 415. Digging the electronic card out of her pocket, she slid it into the slot over the doorknob, took it out, and gently pushed the door open, revealing a small room.

"It's so cozy," Hermione whispered to herself as she entered. The room was plainly furnished, yet there was homeliness to it. Dropping her bags at the door, she bounded to the bed, and flung herself over the flower-patterned covers. The sunlight from the window showered over her face, bathing her in its warmth. Stretching luxuriously, she sighed at finally being able to rest.

----

Madame Pomfrey was proud that the infirmary was redundantly clean. Basins, bottles, and glasses shined. Sheets, blankets, and pillows looked as creamy as vanilla. Rays of sunshine pervaded the atmosphere and reflected off the polished floor. Unoccupied beds lined both sides of the room in two columns except for one in the back. Tucked behind his blankets, a young man was reclining against a mountain of pillows with his eyes cast down, looking at his hands. Lines of fatigue etched through his skin, and dark circles shadowed his eyes. A dull pain throbbed in his head. Even though he had been unconscious for several days, he felt as though he had been awake for a hundred years.

"Good morning," the nurse beamed. She walked over. A sympathetic smile glittered over her lips as she looked at the young man. After placing a tray with bottles and a glass on the bedside table, she handed him his glasses.

"Thanks," Harry said, and quickly slid the glasses over his nose.

"You got yourself into quite an inhospitable situation here, young man," Madame Pomfrey commented as her hands deftly poured a dirt-colored solution into a glass. "Fainting like that. You're lucky you didn't bump your head or break any bones when you fell from your chair. Don't you ever forget about that incident with Lockhart a few years ago! Growing bones: that's really unpleasant." She smiled, and wrinkles around her eyes formed like intricate laces. Putting the bottle back on the tray, she handed the glass to Harry who stared at the clumpy, brown liquid as though it came from the sewers.

"You know," he began nervously, "I'm actually feeling a lot better. A lot better. This is really unnecessary." When he tried to get up, the nurse immediately pushed him back into his blankets...gently, of course. Harry flopped back against the pillows like a rag doll, feeling weak and tired.

"Hmmm," she said knowingly. "You see how feeble you are now? Even if I let you get up, you'd only get more injuries when you fall from this bed! Now dear, drink up. Believe me, you will feel much better afterwards. It's a revitalizing potion that will ease your headaches. Besides, it's full of nutrition."

Harry grimaced, and took the drink with both of his hands. For several seconds, he looked at the half coagulated mixture in the glass, unable to make himself do it. The smell was insufferable. It looked like mud. It even smelled like mud. The stink of rotting insects, bark, and old water entered like acid through his nostrils as he lifted it to his lips. Glancing warily at Madame Pomfrey, who gave him an encouraging nod, he dumped the entire glass of potion down his throat in a matter of seconds. After taking the glass from Harry's limp hands, the nurse set it down on the tray, and patted the disgusted young man on the back.

"I can't believe I just did that," Harry breathed. He tasted the remaining guck on his tongue and winced. "That was the nastiest thing I ever drank."

"That was the healthiest thing you ever drank," the nurse corrected him, taking the tray away. "Now just rest. You'll feel better in no time." She stopped in her tracks, just before going through a threshold, and gave Harry a stern look. "And don't get out of bed until I say you can." Then she disappeared into another room.

Harry sighed, rubbing his temples in resignation. "Why am I here?" he muttered, feeling frustrated at not being able to remember what had happened to him. "She said something about falling off a chair." Suddenly, everything began coming back to him a stream of energy. The memories became reality in his mind, and he felt goose-bumps travel up and down his arms as one particular image planted itself within his mind: Hermione.

"She's back," he whispered in a far-away voice, forgetting everything that Dean had told him about the fake Hermione. His eyes were delirious and raving with energy. "She came back for me." Shoving all the blankets aside, he began to climb out of bed, but he realized that something was missing. Several things, actually.

Harry looked at himself. "Where are my clothes?" His eyes scanned the room, but couldn't find them anywhere. Groaning, he began reaching for his blankets when he heard the door creak open.

"What are you doing Harry?" Ginny cried out, blushing furiously beneath her freckles.

----

Snowflakes drifted down from the gray sky. Hermione was perched on the interior window ledge as she watched them float by her frosty window. The nausea of homesickness filled her insides like acid. She had no companions in this new place except for Will, her guardian, who only came by once a day to check in on her and make sure that she was still breathing. It was only her third day in America, yet she was bored out of her mind because she had been snowed in since the day before. The roads were brimming with ice and snow. Power outages went out. Reading books killed her time. And. She managed to write back to her friends.

Friends, thought Hermione. I need them now, more than ever. Coming here was a mistake. It's snowing day and night. The food sucks. People make fun of my accent.

Frowning, she stomped away from the window and rolled onto her bed. "You know what?" she said toward the ceiling. "I don't have to stay in here. No one's forcing me to do anything. I can do whatever I want." She paced toward the closet and pulled on a pair of boots along with a wool coat, hat, gloves, and scarf. "God," she scoffed at herself, "and I'm supposed to be clever. Why didn't I do this earlier?"

After grabbing a purse and her hotel key, Hermione flung open her door only to find the least expected person standing there.

The receptionist who gave her the keys to her room on her day here stared at her with beady, little eyes. He stood there like a big, black balloon in his parka and sweatpants. The snow began to slide off his plastic boots. His belly rolled in front of him like a kettledrum with his pudgy fingers laced across it. Hermione wrinkled her nose as the horrendous yet familiar smells radiated from his body.

"What are you doing here?" Hermione demanded, feeling a sense of intense dislike toward the man. "Will told me you got fired."

"Nah," the black marshmallow lied. "The boss let me take some time off from work."

"So you're saying you are on vacation."

"Hmmm, something like that." He avoided meeting her eyes.

"Okay, whatever," Hermione replied skeptically. "What do you want?"

"Nothing much, just wanted to hang out like you young folks do." He burped, and a gaseous smell puffed out of his mouth. Hermione stepped backwards, holding her breath. However, the man shuffled closer to her, a pleading look in his eyes.

What a sketchy guy, Hermione thought. "Um," she began, "I'm kind of busy right now. I just don't have―maybe some other time." More like maybe never.

"You have time. It's snowing outside, and it's cold. Heck, I don't think you should go out. I don't even want to go outside."

"Look, I have an appointment," she lied. "A...dentist appointment. Because...I have a toothache."

"You have perfect teeth," he commented.

"That's just the front. If you saw my molars...well." She took a slow step out of her doorway, and pretended to look at the time. "Awww, what do you know?" she asked. "I'm really running low on time, and I've got to go so―"

Abruptly, the man yanked her forward by the arms until her face was merely inches away from his. Pinning her arms to her sides as he held her, he glared into her eyes. She saw the blood vessels bulge out of his eyeballs. His breath almost made her swoon as he talked, revealing yellow teeth. "Don't speak bitch, or else," he ordered before Hermione could make a make a single sound. Spit flew onto her face.

She nodded vigorously.

"Good. You know, we can either do this the hard way or the easy way. Personally, I don't give a damn which direction we head in since I'll get what I want either way. But you," he trailed off, putting his greasy face next to her hair and inhaling deeply. "You...want the easy way since because it's less possible for me to result to shall we say...one-sided pleasure affairs." A deep chuckle escaped his throat as a lopsided smile oozed over his lips. He moved his face farther away, and told her, "It's all in your choice."

Hermione shuddered from anger and fear. She felt her hands her hands clenching into fists as her muscles tensed throughout her entire body. Shooting the man a gaze of needles, she said through gritted teeth, "The easy way."

"What? I'm afraid I have a bit of extra earwax stuck here. Louder! I can't hear you!"

"THE EASY WAY!" she shrieked into his ear.

He spat onto her face, making her cringe and look away in disgust. "That's it, you bitch. Do you want everyone in this damned hotel to hear? I knew you'd choose that: the easy way," the man gloated, tightening his grip on Hermione's arms, and coercing her to walk backwards into her room. She shoved and protested, trying to scream, but he covered a hand over her mouth, muffling her screams.