Gryffindor Angel

Gryffindor Angel

"Well done, Ha -"

But the Death Eater Hermione had just struck dumb made a sudden slashing movement with his wand from which flew a streak of what looked like purple flame. It passed right across Hermione's chest; she have a tiny "oh!" as though of surprise and then crumpled onto the floor where she lay motionless.

"HERMIONE!"

Harry fell to his knees beside her as Neville crawled rapidly toward her from under the desk, his wand held up in front of him. The Death Eater kicked out hard at Neville's head as he emerged - his foot broke Neville's wand in two and connected with his face - Neville gave a howl of pain and recoiled, clutching his mouth and nose. Harry twisted around, his own wand held high, and saw that the Death Eater had ripped off his mask and was pointing his wand directly at Harry, who recognized the long, pale, twisted face from the Daily Prophet: Antonin Dolohov, the wizard who had murdered the Prewetts.

Dolohov grinned. With his free hand, he pointed to the prophecy, still clutched in Harry's hand, to himself, then at Hermione. Though he could no longer speak, his meaning could not have been clearer: give me the prophecy, or you get the same as her...

"Like you won't kill us all the moment I hand it over, anyway!" said Harry.

A whine of panic inside his head was preventing him thinking properly. He had one hand on Hermione's shoulder, which was still warm, yet did not dare look at her properly. Don't let her be dead, don't let her be dead, it's my fault if she's dead...

"Whaddever you do, Harry, " said Neville fiercely from under the desk, lowering his hands to show a clearly broken nose and blood pouring down his mouth and chin, "don'd gib it to him!"

Then there was a crash outside the door, and Dolohov looked over his shoulder - the baby-headed Death Eather had appeared in the doorway, his head bawling, his great fists still flailing uncontrollably at everything around him.

Harry seized his chance: "PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!"

The spell hit Dolohov before he could block it, and he toppled forward across his comrade, both of them rigid as boards and unable to move an inch.

"Hermione," Harry said at once, shaking her as the baby-headed Death Eater blundered out of sight again. "Hermione, wake up..."

"Whaddid he do to her?" said Neville, crawling out from under the desk again to kneel at her other side, blood streaming from his rapidly swelling nose.

"I dunno..."

Neville groped for Hermione's wrist. "I can'd bind a bulse, Harry!" With a trembling hand, he felt along the side of her neck. He looked up at Harry with a stricken expression and shook his head.

"No. It's not true. Please, don't let it be true." Harry's voice was ragged with fear.

He quickly lowered his head to her chest, feeling warmth, but no rise and fall. There was softness, such softness - he didn't know she would be so soft, but there was no answering drub of a heartbeat. All was still. He looked down at her face, turned slightly from his as the weight of her large ponytail pulled her head to the side. Her lips were so pale, still parted slightly as though in surprise, and her eyes were only partially closed. He looked closer, then recoiled. They were empty - completely devoid of the warmth and intelligence of Hermione's spirit. Empty - like Cedric's had been.

The room shifted, it's layout coalescing into an overbright, high-resolution tableau. Time stopped, and there was no sound save the roaring in his ears as he gazed with disbelief at Hermione's motionless form. My fault, MY fault. It's all MY fault... the damning litany spiraled through his thoughts in counterpoint to the roaring now. His eyes tore away from Hermione and flitted to Neville who was still holding his mouth and nose as tears mingled with the blood on his face. As if in a dream, he turned back to see Dolohov and his fellow Death Eater beginning to stir, and in that dream-like state, he quietly rose and walked over to where their prone figures lay. He looked down at them, feeling no anger, no sorrow, no emotion at all - there was only the cold surety that these men needed to die. Now. Slowly, his wand came up until it pointed directly at the middle of Dolohov's back. His hand was steady, and the words Avada Kedavra whirled in his head. Instead, he heard his own voice, as though from a distance, saying "Stupefy!" They slumped to the floor once more, and Harry turned his back on them, returning to Hermione's side feeling dizzy and unwell. Suddenly, Harry's knees gave out. He sank to the floor beside her and gingerly gathered her to him, awkwardly brushing sticky tendrils of hair away from her face. There he sat, cross-legged, her head cradled on his chest, and began to rock...

That was how the members of the Order found him after they burst into the room. Two pairs of hands, one gentle, the other gripping too hard, grasped his shoulders.

"Oh, my God..." was all Sirius Black could manage as he looked into the eyes of his long-time friend Remus Lupin over Harry's matted, sweat-dampened hair.

* * * * * *

They portkeyed back to Number 12 Grimauld Place. Lupin had gently released Hermione from Harry's arms and Sirius was now in a pose similar to that of Harry's at the Ministry. He rocked back and forth, cradling Harry's head on his chest, roughly rubbing his back. Harry, dry-eyed and stricken, murmured, "My fault. All MY fault..." over and over again. Sirius's eyes prickled, and his nose stung as he fought the urge to scream at the unfairness of it all. Why was this boy chosen to suffer? Why were his friends targeted to die? What in the cosmic schema had they all done to deserve this life? Sirius shut his eyes, and made gruffly soothing sounds he was sure Harry couldn't hear.

"Sirius."

It was Dumbledore - when had he arrived? And why the hell did he have to sneak up on people that way? Anger leapt inside of him - anger on Harry's behalf, and on his own - anger at the senselessness of losing a brilliant young witch like Hermione Granger - and anger that Dumbledore, with all of his formidable power, hadn't been able to prevent any of it.

"Just what the hell is going on, Sir?" Sirius managed to bite out from between tightly gritted teeth. "Maybe you can explain to me how Voldemort is able to penetrate Harry's defenses - because, as I understand it, he has been studying Occlumency."

Dumbledore suddenly looked very old and exceedingly tired. His eyes, normally such a bright and twinkling blue, were wide and dull with sorrow.

"Apparently, Harry was no longer meeting with Severus for lessons following an incident that occurred shortly before Easter. I am afraid that neither of them saw fit to tell me."

At this news, Sirius went still and his eyes glittered with deadly intent. His voice was cold and resolute.

"I'll kill him."

In an instant Dumbledore's face hardened with stern authority.

"You will do nothing of the sort, and I will not tolerate that kind of talk among Order members. I know your history with Severus makes it difficult for you to be objective in this Sirius, but you will put it aside for the sake of unity within the Order. Do you understand?" His eyes held Sirius's for a long moment, and neither man would look away.

"Yes, Sir - for the Order, Sir."

Dumbledore heaved a heavy sigh as his gaze shifted to Harry, who had stopped speaking altogether.

"Harry is going to need your strength and guidance in the coming days, Sirius. I do not doubt your love for him, but I need to know that you are equal to the task. Can you set your differences with Severus aside for Harry's sake?"

Sirius had the good grace to flush with shame. He looked down at the stricken face of the boy in his arms and felt his eyes fill. When he was able to speak, his voice was gruff with emotion.

"I can, Sir. I'm sorry."

"Thank you, Sirius. A dreamless sleep potion, I think. I will have Poppy Pomfrey bring some when she comes to check him over."

Abruptly, Sirius looked up at Dumbledore with a questioning expression.

"No, Sirius. I don't believe I'll take him back to school just yet. He needs to be where he feels safe and cared for - and for all intents and purposes, that is here with you. Can you and Remus manage? Molly is not available for the time being." At these words, his face became sad again, and alarm bells went off in Sirius's head.

"Oh no. Ron...Ginny?"

"They will survive. Ginny has sustained no more than a broken ankle, but Ron was badly injured. It will be a bit before he is strong enough leave the hospital wing. He too will have to work through his grief at the loss of Miss Granger, but it is for Harry's emotional state that I feel the most concern." His hand shook slightly as he tenderly reached forward to brush Harry's hair from his eyes.

"I know you are angry, Sirius. We will talk soon. The blame for this..."

The light of the kitchen fire played over the deeply etched contours of his face, and his voice suddenly had a fragile quality, like the rustling of an ancient piece of parchment.

"...well, the blame for this can be traced back to the mistakes of a foolish old man who couldn't bear to see his overburdened young charge endure any more anguish. I can see that now, but at the time, my instinct was to protect him from the knowledge of his destiny - to let him be a child for just a bit longer."

"Have you looked in his eyes, Sir? He is a great many things, but he was never a child."

Dumbledore nodded as though the action caused him pain, and stood straight once more.

"I will check on him tomorrow. Poppy will be here within the hour. For now, stay with him - get him into bed. Talk to him and try to get him to respond. If you cannot, just remain close by his side until he can process what has happened. When he does, he will need you."

Sirius nodded, but his attention was focused wholly on Harry, who had begun to mutter again, still wearing the same stunned expression with which he'd arrived. "...My fault...it's all my fault."

Sirius had never been a praying man, but he prayed now, fervently, for a miracle that would ease Harry's grief. Curiously, a feeling stole over him - almost a sense of destiny - that things would be alright.

***

Harry didn't have anything to wear - not one damn thing. All of his Muggle clothing was cast off from Dudley's wardrobe and fit him poorly. All of it was casual, a ragged assortment of jeans, T-shirts, sweatshirts and flannels. He had one pair of frayed and dirty trainers, and he held a shoe in his hand as his rage grew. He just wanted something nice to wear to Hermione's funeral. He owed her that much, since it was his fault that she was dead. This thought prompted the now-familiar urge to sleep. It was becoming a habit - to go through a few motions of normal living, think of Hermione and be overwhelmed with a crushing fatigue that could only be answered by sleep. Remus would be coming in less than half an hour to pick him up for the funeral, but he couldn't stay on his feet for one more minute. He just needed to lay his head down for a bit. The relief of escape poured through him as he slipped into a trance-like doze. It had been like this the summer after the Tri-Wizard Tournament, too. That is, until the Order members had come to take him to Grimmauld Place where he could be among friends.

She'd been so happy to see him. She had leapt into his arms, all frizzy hair and excited prattling. She'd smelled good, like spiced wildflowers, and he'd made note of the way her waist now curved inward as it met the flair of her hip. Then he'd greeted Ron and Ginny, and the three of them had set about filling him in on the summer's activities as he forgot all about this new, strangely grown-up Hermione.

***

"Harry! Harry - let's

go, we're going to be late!" Hermione's voice niggled in his ear as he fought his way up from the depths of sleep.

"H'mione?" he mumbled groggily.

"Harry. Son, wake up - I need to talk to you."

Hermione's voice deepened and became softer, gentler. Harry fought his way to the surface of his fatigue and saw the face of his old teacher looming over him.

"Remus?"

"Yes, Harry. Have you decided not to go? If so, is there a message you would like to give to the Grangers?"

"N-no. No - I'm going. Did I fall asleep?"

"Apparently."

Harry couldn't think of a thing to say, and settled instead for poking around in the piles of clothing he had discarded earlier.

"Do you need a bit more time to change?" Remus made his way to the door, and was about to leave.

"No -- I mean yes! I mean...I dunno. I've been trying to find something decent, and I don't have anything. I just wanted to look nice for...I wanted to look nice...I..."

To his horror, Harry felt his eyes burn and his nose sting. His heart felt as though it might hammer out of his chest, and it was difficult to breathe. Remus's kind features blurred before his eyes and his throat closed painfully.

"How about your school clothes? They still look good, and I believe Hermione would approve." Remus's voice seemed to anchor Harry, calming him with it's gentle cadence. Reality faded again, replaced by the now-familiar fog of despair.

Dully, Harry nodded and drew a fresh uniform from his trunk, fighting the powerful wave of weariness that once again threatened to overwhelm him. He'd nearly succumbed to the grief that threatened to pull him apart at the seams. As he bent down to change his socks, his muddled mind oddly registered the scent of spiced wildflowers.

* * *

Sirius couldn't go to the funeral, of course. He'd be seen. But he made his way into the hall to see Harry off, his once handsome face haggard and pale. His hand gripped Harry's shoulder a bit too hard, but the discomfort was welcome and chased the mind-numbing fog away momentarily. Sirius's eyes met his, piercing in their intensity.

"Harry. I know what it is to lose your best friend. If I could trade my life for hers, I'd do it gladly if it would spare you this grief."

In his eyes lived the truth of it, so unsettling in its possibility that Harry had to look away. Would he rather lose Sirius? God, what kind of a choice was that? He looked back at his Godfather and drew on his strength. Sirius pulled Harry roughly into his arms and planted a gruff kiss on the top of his head. Hermione's death was the first time in his memory that a man had defied the unwritten rules of masculinity and overtly expressed the kind of love for him that a father would. He wanted to cling to Sirius as he had when they'd portkeyed from the Ministry, but it was time to go. As he reluctantly left his Godfather's comforting embrace, he felt another kiss, gentle this time - a brief warmth at the top of his scar that lingered like a reluctantly broken promise, bittersweet.

* * *

It was the first he'd seen of Ron since that night at the ministry. They stood awkwardly at a forty-five degree angle from one another, hands in pockets, afraid to look at one another or speak - for doing so would make the nightmare a reality. In the end, it was Ron who had the courage to make the first move.

"Alright there, Harry?"

"Alright, Ron. You?"

"Not worth a damn, mate." Ron's voice cracked and his hand shook as he covered both eyes with it.

Harry's voice seemed to come from very far away - as though he were hearing someone else speak. "It's all my fault. I'm so sorry. So sorry..."

"Don't. Just - don't, Harry. You tried to keep us from going." Ron's voice was rising, and his face was turning it's characteristic shade of bright red. "And you know what else?"

Harry couldn't reply. Something was fighting its way out of the center of his chest. For the first time since the day after he'd arrived at Grimmauld Place, the sleep reflex refused to claim him. What Ron said next shattered the wall he'd erected around his emotions.

"I'd do it again - and so would she."

Harry shook his head in mute appeal - he didn't want to hear this.

"Listen to me." Ron had him by the shoulders now. "I'd do it again, and so would she. So would she!" His voice failed and became a ragged whisper. "Can't you get it through your thick skull? We...well I...love you, mate. We both did...do. If there's one thing you get out of this, get that it's not your fault. Okay?"

Harry looked at his best friend through the blur of unshed tears and tried to wrap his heart around Ron's words. Though he was weeping freely - something Harry had never seen him do, Ron seemed strangely mature. It was this more than anything else that hammered home the enormity of this tragedy.

"Ron I...I can't...I can't live without her. It's like a part of me is gone. I..."

"'Salright, mate. I know how you feel. It's alright."

The thing that had been fighting to get free erupted from Harry's chest in great, gulping sobs that caused physical pain. Ron pulled him off to an alcove of the Muggle church in which the funeral was to take place and sank to the cold stone floor as Harry collapsed in his arms. He sat quietly, tears streaming down his face as his best friend of five years came unglued and slowly pulled himself back together. He offered Harry a handkerchief, then laughed shakily when he had to use a sleeve for himself. The absurdity of it all made them both laugh in weird little hiccups and catches, and it was then that Harry felt it.

A presence. Warm, familiar, feminine. An insubstantial hand caressed his cheek and lingered against his lips. A voice - low, soft and slightly bossy moved his hair and tickled in his ear.

"Take care of one another. I'm with you whenever you need me."

Harry looked aghast at Ron, who was wearing what had to be the same gob smacked expression.

Without uttering a word, the two young men rose and straightened their rumpled school uniforms. Then shoulder to shoulder as best friends should be, they made their way back to the gathering to honor the memory of their other best friend, to mourn the loss of her tomorrows, to weep for the tragic waste of a brilliant intellect that might have wrought great changes in the world, to grieve for what she might have been to one of them had love been allowed to grow and deepen, and to contemplate in wonder the strength contained within the warm, reassuring and slightly bossy presence of their Gryffindor angel.