Intersections

Chapter 17: Battles

It was early Saturday morning on January 24, and Hermione Granger was once again sitting in the living room of the Burrow, surrounded by Arithmancy notes in the still light of the winter dawn. She hadn't been able to sleep very well. Every time she closed her eyes, she would see Harry's bright green eyes, shining with adoration, and she heard his nervous confession - "I - I like you," and then his quietly murmured, "You're beautiful," and she'd wake up with a gasp, her cheeks flushed and her heart pounding as a strange thrilling heat ran through her belly.

Hermione shook her head slightly, forcing her eyes to stay open despite the exhaustion thrumming through her body. She was fifteen years old, and she knew all about desire, but she - she couldn't think of Harry that way. Though she cared for Harry deeply, she'd never really fancied him before. She was clearly having some sort of physical reaction to what he'd said. That was all it was - physical.

"Hermione?"

Speak of the devil. Hermione turned her head slowly, steeling her courage to meet Harry's gaze. They'd politely avoided each other at lessons yesterday; Harry, of course, had done brilliantly as usual, and had retreated back to his room to read - presumably - while Remus continued to tutor her at a slower pace, assuring her with a gentle smile that she was still picking up things far more quickly than the students he'd taught at Hogwarts. Hermione, though appreciative of the compliment, wasn't certain if he was telling the truth or lying to make her feel better. And though Harry had said he'd only learned magic ahead of time to impress her, she did wonder whether Harry really was simply more talented than she. Maybe she wasn't really meant to be in this world. Maybe...maybe she really did belong in the Muggle world, with GCSEs and A-levels and universities, not magical wands and Latin spells...

"Hermione?" Harry said again, frowning. "Are you all right?"

Hermione took a deep breath and nodded. "I'm fine. Why are you up so early?"

Harry shrugged, slowly walking toward her and perching on the other end of the sofa. "I had a nightmare."

"About Voldemort?"

Harry clenched his fists and hissed slightly. "Yeah."

Hermione worried her lip. "Was it your scar? Did it hurt?"

Harry seemed to go quite still. "My scar?" he repeated, his voice far too calm. "What do you mean?"

Hermione stared at him. "Your scar normally hurts when Voldemort's really angry...remember? And sometimes you can see what Voldemort's doing -"

Harry's body gave a violent jerk, and Hermione snapped her mouth shut, eyeing him warily. "What's the matter?"

Harry shook his head slightly, taking a deep, shaky breath. His face was pale. "Nothing. Nothing. I'm fine." He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and then seemed to relax, the color draining back into his cheeks as he turned to smile at her. "What have you been doing?"

Hermione sent him a glance tinged with suspicion, but she pointed to the sheets of parchment that formed a thin barrier between the two teens. "Arithmancy," she answered. "Look."

Harry picked up her notes and scanned them unseeingly.

"Today's date is marked by the number five," Hermione told him, trying to fill in the awkward silence that had started to settle between them. "That means that when you add up the numbers of the date - zero, one, two, four, one, nine, nine, six - that makes thirty-two. And then three and two make five." She picked up her so-called textbook, a book about ancient numerology gifted to her by her Witsford friend Matthew, and flipped to the middle, showing Harry the chapter titled "Five: The Turning Point."

"Some ancient cultures also believed that the number five represents the center, the turning point about which all things rotate or change," she read aloud, not knowing what else to do. Harry glanced at her, biting his lip, and she continued uncertainly, "The number five is sometimes associated with the intersection of the physical and spiritual, the union of male and female, and other opposite pairings like truth and lies, evil and good, and left and right. On the other hand, many cultures believe that five is a symbol of male power. In relation to astronomy," she finished, "ancient cultures associated the number five with the planet Mars, hence, the number five was often seen as an indicator of war."

Harry tilted his head, his eyes flickering. "That's interesting," he said. "I didn't know that astronomy was related to Arithmancy."

Hermione nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Remus told me that they're closely related. Both are about patterns - astronomy's about the patterns of movement in the sky, and Arithmancy's about numerical patterns that symbolize movement in the world."

"Interesting," Harry murmured again, and he set down the sheet of parchment he'd been holding, clasping his hands on his knees and straightening his back. Hermione watched him silently, her heartbeat unusually rapid. Harry caught her gaze and stood up abruptly, nearly knocking over the stack of parchment on the sofa. "I'm going flying," he said. "I'll be back in an hour."

"You shouldn't go out and fly by yourself," Hermione protested, though in some ways she wanted Harry as far away from her as possible, just so she wouldn't have to face this unbearable tension.

Harry's face immediately twisted into a scowl, and then, just as quickly, it lit up with a smile. "I won't be alone," he said, "because you're coming with me."

"What?" Hermione frowned. "I suppose I could sit in the garden and keep an eye on you -"
"That's not what I meant," Harry said impatiently. "I meant, you're going to ride with me. Behind me."

Hermione's eyes widened. "That's - that's ridiculous," she said. "We've never learned how to fly a broom with two people on it. Besides, I hate flying."

"You trust me, right?" asked Harry, his eyes sparkling. "I won't let anything happen to you, I promise. And it's easy enough to maneuver a broom with two people on it instead of just one - it's just a matter of adjusting the weight distribution." He waved a hand. "Very simple."

Hermione casted Harry a very doubtful look.

"Oh, come on," he wheedled. "It'll be fun. You need to get over your fear of flying. What if something happens and you need to fly away on a broom?" He glanced at the clock hanging above the hearth hanging above the mantelpiece. It was nearly seven o'clock. "I'm going to change clothes," he said. "You'd better get ready too." He grinned at her and ran out of the room, leaving Hermione staring after him in utter bewilderment.

Hermione sighed. Harry had made a good point. She did need to learn how to fly. She wasn't terribly frightened of heights, but she hated the lack of control she felt on a broom, when there nothing but air all around her and nothing to hold onto but a bit of wood. She supposed it wouldn't be so bad if she were riding with Harry. He was, undoubtedly, an excellent flier, and with him steering the broom, she could learn to stop being afraid of the air.

Feeling slightly reassured, Hermione gathered up her notes and went to Ginny's room, rubbing her eyes tiredly as she contemplated taking a nap later in the afternoon. A black-haired, green-eyed teenage boy watched her from the top of the staircase, his gaze thoughtful as he traced the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead and fingered the holly wand hidden inside the sleeve of his jumper.

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A passing car zoomed by, and Harry twitched violently, taking heaving gasps as he listened to the fading sound of the motor.

"It's just a car, lad. It's all right."

"Sorry," Harry muttered. "I'm sorry." He fiercely wished he had his glasses. The village around him was blurred into a mass of orange, grey, and green as the sun slowly lifted its head above the horizon, casting all of the buildings into a pale red light. It would be a pretty, quaint sight if only he could see properly.

"It's all right, lad. Just a little bit farther now."

Harry couldn't help but look over his shoulder every few seconds as Frank Bryce led him to the middle of Little Hangleton. The elderly man was hobbling along, panting and cursing under his breath as he gripped his walking stick with one arm and supported Harry with the other. Harry could stand on his legs and walk, shakily, for a few minutes, but he still didn't have enough strength to walk the entire length of the village, even though he'd eaten a decently sized breakfast and slept for quite a while. He hadn't had any visions last night, but he suspected that Voldemort and the Death Eaters were still looking for him; they had no reason to stop. He still wondered how they hadn't found him at Frank's house, especially since it had been so close.

Nervously, Harry patted Wormtail's stubby dark wand in the waistband of his jeans, ready to be drawn at a moment's notice. Frank, fortunately, had not seen fit to throw the stick of wood away when he'd found Harry; Harry made a mental note to thank him later.

A biting, howling wind tore through the street, sounding almost like Voldemort's screams of fury, and Harry shivered. He was wearing the same jumper and jeans he'd had on when he was kidnapped; Frank had taken the liberty of washing them while Harry laid unconscious. Frank had also lent him a very old, musty wool coat which rode up Harry's wrists by a few inches and hampered the movement of his shoulders. Harry didn't really favor it. It reminded him of being tied up by Voldemort. Still, he supposed it was better than trying to survive the cold with only a jumper.

"The Hanged Man," Frank panted suddenly, pointing upward. Harry blinked and squinted and the wooden sign swinging wildly above his head. If he were a little taller, he might have been knocked unconscious already. "It's the village pub," said Frank. "Looks like it's open early today. Lad, you don't mind if we stop in and get a drink, do you? My old bones are feeling the cold."

Harry bit his lip. He wanted to reach the telephone box as soon as possible, but at the same time, he owed Frank his life. And, frankly, they both needed a rest. "All right," he said hoarsely, coughing. His throat was parched. Maybe he needed a drink as well.

"Good lad," said Frank, and he pushed open the door of the crowded pub. Smoke and alcohol assaulted Harry's nostrils, and the noise and chatter that filled his ears seemed to die down as soon as Frank took a step inside.

"Morning, Frank," someone called, his tone one of forced casualness. "Who's that you've got there?"

"None of your business," Frank retorted, limping toward a table in the corner and dragging Harry with him. "Sit down, lad, let me get us some drinks. Why are you open early, Tommy?" he asked as he made his way toward the counter.

"My boy suggested it as a new 'management technique'," the barkeep answered. "Summat he learned from that fancy university of his. Keeps chewin' my ear off about 'target population' and 'consumer needs.' Boy's got a point. It's bloody cold these days, and most o' us are up and about in the morn..." As his voice trailed off, all of the attention in the pub gradually shifted toward Harry, till the only sounds in the room were the squeaks of Tommy's rag wiping across the counter and the quiet clunk of glasses being set down on wood. Harry stared at the splintered table, his cheeks flushing, and avoided everyone's probing gazes.

"What's your name, love?" asked a young woman gently.

Harry bit his lip and didn't answer. Sweat started to trickle down the base of his neck, and he struggled to breathe. It was too hot in here. He tugged off Frank's old coat and set it aside, trying to take in deep breaths of the polluted air.

"Are you all right, love?" asked the same young woman.

Harry shook his head slightly, his hands starting to shake.

"Is he mute, Frank?" called a hoarse voice from the back. "Gone silent, has he? Funny in the head?"

Some murmurs traveled about the crowd. Harry caught a pitying whisper of "poor lad," and felt his cheeks heat in anger. He was not crazy...

"Leave the lad alone," Frank snapped, pushing his way through the villagers and slamming down two frothing glasses in front of Harry. "Here you are. A pint of bitter each for me and you."

Harry warmed his hands along the glass, glad for the distraction, and looked down into the amber liquid with not a small amount of trepidation. The Firewhisky Sirius and Remus had served him had made him drunk and sleepy in an instant. He supposed that the beer wasn't nearly as strong as whiskey, but he didn't want to risk it.

"You all right, lad?" asked Frank with a frown. He jerked his head toward Harry's glass. "You don't want it?"

Harry shook his head and pushed his glass across the table.

Frank eyed him for a moment, and then shrugged, gulping down his own as the door to the pub opened once more, letting in a gale of freezing air that made gooseflesh break out onto everyone's skin.

"G'afternoon, gents," the barkeep called. "What can I get you?"

Harry chewed his lip uneasily as the two tall men gave their order. There was something oddly familiar about the way the thickset, dark-haired one. He caught Frank's eye and quietly began to put on his coat, standing slowly so as to not draw the villagers' attention away from the new guests. Frank also stood up, gripping his walking stick and offering his other arm to Harry. Harry took it and held his breath, keeping a hand on the hidden wand, as they slowly made their way to the door, receiving a few covert, suspicious glares along the way.

"...lad looks white as a ghost..."

"What happened to him, the poor thing? Can't even stand up properly..."

"...awful suspicious, that Frank Bryce..."

Frank ignored them, a scowl deeply embedded onto his face. Finally, he pushed open the door, and they made their way onto the pavement. Harry visibly relaxed and ran a hand through his hair. "Where's the telephone box?" he asked.

"Just around the corner, lad, in the village square. We're almost there." Frank patted Harry's arm comfortingly and led him down the street. "Did you recognize those men in the pub?"

"Not really," Harry said. "I just didn't have a good feeling about them."

Frank nodded and grunted, taking Harry around the corner. Harry shifted uncomfortably in the too-small coat, relief lighting his features as they finally reached the distinctly red telephone box that made up the centerpiece of the village plaza. Next to it stood a rather ugly statue of some historical figure and one or two benches half-covered by bushes. Taking a few coins from Frank with a nod of thanks, Harry clambered inside the box, shutting the door against the cold, and dialed the Dursleys' number.

"Vernon Dursley speaking."

"Uncle Vernon," said Harry, coughing a little as he shook his arms out of the old wool coat, "it's me. Harry."

"You!" Uncle Vernon bellowed. Harry winced at the volume, pulling the receiver away from his ear. "What do you want, boy?" hissed Uncle Vernon.

"Er -" Harry hesitated. "Professor Dumbledore said that you and Aunt Petunia were expecting me. I'm supposed to go back to the house."

"What are you going on about, boy? We never received any message from that freaky old - oh, hello dear." Uncle Vernon's voice dropped off suddenly. "Yes, it's the boy. What? Why? Oh - oh, yes, dear. Oh, all right! Boy!" Uncle Vernon shouted. "Are you still there?"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," said Harry, rubbing his eyes. His legs were starting to feel a little shaky, and he leaned against the wall of the booth.

"Where are you? We're coming to pick you up. Give me the address, I haven't all day."

"I'm in a village called Little Hangleton. It's in Yorkshire," answered Harry.

"Yorkshire?" Uncle Vernon thundered. "Do you know how far that is? Why the ruddy hell are you in Yorkshire? Do you think we've got all day to pick you up? We have things to do, boy! Places to go! People to see!"

"It's not like I meant to be here," Harry snapped, rubbing his temples against an impending headache. "I was kidnapped."

"Kidnapped? Got yourself into some kind of trouble, did you? I always knew you were -"

But what Uncle Vernon always knew Harry was, Harry never found out, for the windows on one side of the telephone box suddenly cracked ominously with a screeching clink. Harry dropped the phone and whipped around, drawing Wormtail's wand, and gaped. Frank was deliberately and rhythmically pounding his walking stick against the glass windows of the box. Harry flung himself toward the ground as glass shards exploded around him, shouting "Protego!" just before one hit his eye, and reached a trembling hand toward the door. Panting, he managed to get a grip on the latch, but was forced to drop back down again as Frank swung his walking stick toward another set of windows. "Protego!" Harry screamed, his heart pounding in his ears, and he lunged for the door again, twisting the latch and swinging the door outward. Distantly, he realized that this was the first time he'd ever attempted the Shield Charm, and he thanked his lucky stars that he'd got it right.

Harry crawled out of the box, coming face-to-face with Frank's wrinkled brown trousers. He looked up in dread, expecting Frank to attack him, but Frank stood still and dropped his walking stick, staring down at Harry with an eerily blank expression. Harry scrambled to a standing position and thrust Wormtail's wand out in front of him with both hands, backing away from the old man, his stomach twisting with horror. He couldn't believe Frank had just tried to kill him. Breathing heavily, Harry tried to clamp down on the hopeless despair that was threatening to overwhelm him. He was alone, he was helpless, and his one source of aid had just tried to take his life...

"You can't outrun us, Potter," came a familiar, drawling voice to Harry's right. "Come with us quietly and we'll spare the Muggle."

Harry's eyes flickered toward Frank and his heart seized with fear and horror. Frank's expression was still blank, but his head was tilted upward in an awkward position, as if someone had forcefully bared his throat to slit it. Harry felt sick at the sight. As he watched, Frank's head was jerked backward even farther, and something like pain flickered behind the old man's worn, wrinkled eyes. Harry's heart caught in his throat, and he let out a strangled noise borne of fear and desperation.

"Leave him out of this," Harry pleaded.

"Drop the wand, Potter, and the Muggle won't get hurt," the drawling voice said quietly.

Harry tore his eyes away from Frank and gritted his teeth, turning in the direction of the voice, and began to lower his wand.

"Good boy," drawled the voice, amused. "Now drop the wand on the ground, Potter, that's it..."

Harry concentrated on keeping his pace steady as he lowered the wand till it was pointing toward the ground. He made as if to release it - and then in a flash, he jerked his hands upward. "Stupefy! Expelliarmus!" he shouted, aiming in the direction of the drawling voice. Without bothering to see if the spells worked, he whirled toward Frank. "Stupefy!"

Frank's eyes rolled in the back of his head, and he slumped slightly something small and wooden hit the small of Harry's back.

"Stupefy!" Harry shouted again, pointing the wand slightly above Frank's shoulder, and then dodged as the spell flew back toward him. "Expelliarmus!" cried Harry desperately. "Stupefy!"

A wand soared towards Harry, and he caught it with his left hand as both Frank and his invisible captor fell to the ground with loud thumps. Harry bent down and picked up the elm wand that had hit his back, sticking it into the waistband of his jeans, and holding out the other two wands, he unsteadily walked in the direction of the drawling voice, hoping that the Stupefy spell had actually worked. His feet hit what felt like a knee, and he ran his foot along the length of the body, feeling some kind of fabric move beneath his trainers. Unceratin as to whether the man was actually unconscious, Harry pointed Wormtail's wand downward and said, "Stupefy!" once more.

Harry dropped to his knees and crawled toward Frank, letting out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding when he felt a faint, weak pulse beat against his icy fingers. He pulled Frank's body off of the invisible Death Eater and set it gently down onto the ground, running a hand through his hair and taking a deep breath. No matter what Frank had just tried to do, the man had helped Harry when Harry had it most, and Harry would not just leave him to die. Fortunately, there was a telephone box two feet away from Harry that he could use to call an ambulance. Unfortunately, it was destroyed.

Taking a deep breath, Harry surveyed the damage around him as he blinked in exhaustion. Broken glass littered the once neat plaza, catching Harry's blurred gaze as they glitttered in the winter sunlight. Harry squinted, hoped that no one else was around, and pointed Wormtail's wand toward the box. "R-reparo," he said quietly, trying to keep his hand steady. He heard the sides of the box unbend themselves with a weird creaking noise. Harry repeated the spell until all of the glass windows had been reassembled, then dug some spare coins out of his pocket and weakly stumbled into the booth, pocketing the wand in his left hand while keeping Wormtail's in his right. He leaned against the box and dialed "999," holding the receiver with a shaky hand.

"999, which service do you require?" came a cool female voice.

"Ambulance, please," Harry said, fighting exhaustion.

"Stokes calling 01624 422 537..."

A few minutes, or seconds, later, another deeper voice came on the phone. "Glenda from Emergency Services. Please state your name, location, and the nature of your emergency..."

As Harry finished his call, he sighed and stepped out of the telephone box, finding the unconscious Death Eaters again by feeling along the ground with his foot. He cast another set of Stupefy's on them, and then a Full Body-Bind for good measure, listening to the invisible limbs snap shut with a sense of numb exhaustion. He then sat down on the ground next to Frank's prone body and curled his knees to his chest, fighting to stay awake as he waited for the ambulance to arrive in twenty minutes.

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"Harry, I don't like this," Hermione cried, her hands clutching the front of Harry's woolly red jumper as they sped towards the blinding sunrise. "I thought we were going to fly at lower heights!"

"Relax, Hermione," Harry shouted, "you're cutting off my air."

Hermione loosened her grip a little and stared at Harry's narrow shoulders. "I think we should go down now," she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. "I don't like this...Harry, take me back down, please..."

Harry twisted his head to look at her, his face shadowed against the sun. The lenses of his glasses covered his green eyes, tinting them with red light. Hermione's stomach turned uneasily at the sight. "I'll fly slower," Harry said softly. "Just let me show you how brilliant this can be." He turned around and smoothly pushed the broom forward at a steady pace, strands of his untidy black hair gently brushing Hermione's face. "Is this better?" he asked.

"Yes," said Hermione quietly.

"Good. I'm going to fly around in a circle, all right? Slowly. Tell me if you want me to stop, and I'll stop right away."

"All right," said Hermione, taking a deep, calming breath. The icy wind stung her nostrils, and she sniffled involuntarily as she unconsciously tightened her hold on Harry's waist.

Harry tensed but didn't protest. "Ready?" he asked. "One - two - three..." And he used his gloved hands to turn the broom gently to the left. Hermione convulsively clutched the edge of his jumper. Harry hissed in pain, and Hermione reluctantly released her fingers as he slowly steered them through the now-orange sky.

"Isn't it beautiful?" he asked softly.

Hermione lifted her head and looked around. She could make out the faintest edges of blue and purple above them, dotted by thin, wispy clouds that brushed the horizon like tiny pink veils. The sun, slowly rising higher and higher above them, cast long shadows on the ground, so that the only other thing Hermione could see was Harry's soft, jet-black hair. Hermione felt her eyes wet irrationally with tears. "It's beautiful," she agreed in a whisper.

Harry turned his head and smiled at her, his gaze full of some emotion she couldn't identiy. "Ready to take a ride?" he teased.

Hermione nodded, returning his smile. "Take it away," she said, and she leaned forward slightly - just in time to a sickly green light rise up in the sky. Hermione frowned, confused, and then her eyes widened in horror as the light resolved itself into a horribly familiar shape - a skull with a snake hanging out of its mouth, the same shape she'd seen when her parents' office had exploded in London. "Harry!" she cried. "The Dark Mark!"

Harry's head whipped around, and she felt his body seize up with fear. "Hold on!" he shouted, and he plummeted downward with a shout. Hermione's scream was lost in the wind that howled past her ears as they dove directly toward the center of the paddock, where lights and hisses and curses warred tumultuously in the air.

"Harry, turn! Turn! Now!" Hermione shouted.

"No!" yelled Harry, and he let out a laugh so insane that Hermione nearly lost her grip on his waist. A jet of white-yellow light sizzled past Hermione's ear; she screamed and ducked as they hurtled toward the ground, throwing her arms out in front of her face as she crashed into the grass. She could smell something burning; she looked down and realized, with a jolt of shock, that the end of her plait had been singed.

"Hermione!"

Hermione's head shot up, and she let out another shriek, rolling to her left as a streak of purple light shot toward her.

"Hermione!" shouted Harry. He was crouched down beside her, and he had his wand out, a mad grin lighting up his face. "Hermione, do you trust me?"

"Wh-what - yes, of course!" cried Hermione, as a pair of boots rushed past her and nearly trampled her head.

"Good," said Harry, and he stood up, seemingly unconcerned by the myriad spells flying around him.

"Harry! Get down!" Hermione screamed.

Harry shook his head. He was laughing, madly, and the sound chilled Hermione to the bone. He lifted his wand, pointed it at the house, and shouted something that Hermione could not comprehend. There was the sound of breaking glass, and then something large and glittery flew directly into Harry's outstretched arms. Clutching it, he dropped back down to the ground and threw it in front of Hermione. Her jaw dropped open in confusion. It was her astronomy model, the one her friend Daniel had given her as a Christmas present. "Harry - what -?" she asked, wondering if Harry had gone mad. "What is this?"

Harry's eyes were narrowed into a calculating gleam. "You need to take it."

"What - why -?"

"Just take it!" Harry yelled, looking quite demented. He pushed the model toward her roughly, his red gloves leaving little pieces of lint against the glass. "You need to take it!"

Hermione stared at him, alarmed, and flinched as a booming explosion sounded to her left. "All - all right - I'll take it!" she shouted, and she reached out a hand toward the model.

"REDUCTO!"

The roar came from somewhere above Hermione's head. The beautiful model exploded, its pieces flying out onto the grass and piercing Hermione's outstretched palm. She let out a cry of terror, her hand flaring with fiery pain, and then a loud thud beside her drew her attention. Harry had fallen to the ground, unconscious. He lay crumpled on his side, his cheeks torn by the sparkling, jagged glass, his glasses bent against his face. "No!" she screamed, launching herself toward her friend. Some of her blood dripped onto his skin, but Hermione didn't care. "H-Harry!"

"Hermione, no! Relashio!" A strong gust of air forcefully threw her body away from Harry's; a pair of strong arms caught her, and she struggled, desperately trying to get back to Harry. "Hermione! Hermione, listen to me -" The man grabbed her wrists. "Hermione - Protego!" - a white shield erupted around them, and red light bounced off of it, and she still couldn't reach Harry, she needed to reach Harry!

"Let me go!" she screamed.

"No!" The grip on her wrists tightened to the point that she could feel her bones grind together. "Hermione, it's Remus - Hermione, listen to me! It's not what it seems - whatever you do, don't lose this--" Something was pressed into her bleeding hand; Remus pushed her toward the ground; Hermione felt a jerk behind her navel as Harry's face began to elongate, his features shifting and dripping like a famous oil painting Hermione had seen in her youth, like something out of her nightmares -

And then the world was swirling around her, and the screams and colors of the battle were fading, and she was landing on her knees in a place that stank like garbage, sobbing, bleeding, alone.

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