Distorted Reflections

CHAPTER TWO

Harry leaned his head against the long, rectangular window of the WLE - the Wizard's London Express - and went over one sentence in his mind: I do not love her. He had made himself believe it for five years, why was it so hard now? Whenever he came across a photo of her, with her pretty elfin face beaming with happiness, surrounded by a fluff of russet hair, it would drop like a stone from his lips: I do not love her. But now- now he couldn't bring himself to say it, only think it. Yet he thought it fervently, with every fiber of his body he tried to convince himself that it was true. That he was, most undoubtedly and undeniably, not in love with Hermione.

Hours passed. A decrepit old witch in dismal black robes with tea stains all down her front came to the door of his compartment, asking if he needed anything. He shook his head, remembering the somewhat dumpy yet very kind little witch who wheeled the cart on the Hogwarts Express, and dismissed her with a somewhat regal wave of his hand. But this hideous creature, unlike the benevolent dear from his old school train, had remained, goggling at his scar and displaying horrid brown teeth, until he had calmly asked her to give him some privacy.

The beastly woman had just scurried off when the train screeched to a stop. Harry was slammed backward into his seat, whereupon he smashed his head against a cabinet just above him. The cabinet doors opened and several fat books and papers rained down on him.

"OUCH!" Uttering a long and highly creative string of swear words, Harry flung the nearest book at the seat across from him. It was lucky the compartment was empty - what followed was a highly unnerving demonstration of what happens when one chucks heavy objects at chairs that do not appreciate being treated impolitely.

After several minutes of well placed hexes and charms, the surprisingly animate chair toppled over in what was unmistakably defeat. Forgetting momentarily that he was supposed to be brooding miserably, he placed one foot on the back of the vanquished recliner and spoke a bit of exultant nonsense. His mouth was twitching with laughter at his own antics when he spotted something that looked familiar near his suitcase, which was shoved under the seat of his own, still moderately intact chair. Reaching over, he picked up an ancient, battered copy of Hogwarts: A History, with a newspaper clipping poking out of the middle. He traced the words stamped on the front cover with his thumb, then opened the enormous book up to the clipping. And dropped the book like it was burning his fingers. The massive text hit the carpet with an angry thud, the bit of newspaper floating down to rest upon it. On the clipping was a short article, and a picture of someone. A coffee - haired, former buck - toothed someone. Hermione Granger. At last, he opened his mouth and those habitually spoken words slipped over his tongue:

"I do not love her."

"Who don't you love?"

Startled, Harry jerked his head up instantly - and let his jaw drop in astonishment. For there was another someone standing in the doorway of his compartment, another recognizable face. Only this person had bright crimson hair, a long nose, and too many freckles to count. Harry stammered, finally managing a weak grin, and called out,

"Ron!"

Ron ducked and clambered through the doorway, stabilizing himself as the train began to move again, and dropping a large suitcase on one of the uninjured chairs. He slid the door shut behind him, looking without any disbelief at the dismembered recliner in the center of the compartment, before crossing the space and hugging his friend tightly.

"Hi, Harry! It's been ages, hasn't it? Funny meeting you here, I was just on my way to London to deal with some terrible affair with a Muggle sculpture--rather odd, really, the things our kind take to. How've you been? How's everything? I heard you've kept in touch with Sirius ... has it really been five years?" Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Ron charged on without stopping for breath.

"I met some wicked old bag down the corridor--I saw her leaving this compartment. She told me Harry Potter was in here--God, Harry, you've got no idea how surprised I was to hear that! It's mad, seeing you here. I thought I was the only one who liked to take the train--don't really like Apparating much, it's not all it's cracked up to be, is it?" Harry chuckled, sincerely glad that Ron had somehow appeared just when he was on the brink of despair. Ron gestured behind him at the chair on the floor. As he followed his companion's hand, Harry's eyes grazed the bit of newspaper on the floor, and he felt himself falling back into a pit of depression, despite Ron's jovial spirits.

"These seat things, you know, I think they're Hex - Chairs," said Ron. "Yeah, I've heard about those, never seen them though. Normally rather pompous, very dignified. They're supposed to turn nasty if you upset them, but a simple Stunning Spell will do the trick..." Ron trailed off as he caught sight of Harry's melancholy expression, which he had quickly reassumed after Ron's entrance. He quickly moved towards him, putting a hand on his shoulder and patting him on the back.

"You know, it's really only a chair; they're designed to make sure you don't mess anything up 'round here, but they can replace them, don't feel bad -" Ron suddenly realized that Harry wasn't looking at the mutilated armchair. Following his friend's stare, he suddenly observed a scrap of paper at Harry's feet, probably a newspaper article or something. He bent down and retrieved it, took one glance at the picture, and let it drop again.

"Hermione," he said softly. "Still grieving, huh?" Ron immediately regretted his last words, knowing that Harry would recoil and be cross at him, or at least respond with spite. But Harry did no such thing, only stood looking dejectedly at the little excerpt with her face pasted on it.

"Yeah," he said. And then, quietly, "I do not love her." Ron gave Harry what he hoped was a comforting look.

"None of us do anymore," he told Harry softly. "She betrayed you. She ran from you when she should have stood by you -"

"I told her I was in love with her, Ron!" Harry burst out, his eyes searing with brilliant green fury. "I told her that I wanted for us to be together forever. I told her that I wanted us to get married and have children together. She didn't run from me; I scared her away!" Ron's own brown eyes widened - he had never heard this part of the story before. Harry had written him a few letters subsequent to finishing at Hogwarts, but they described the situation briefly and delicately, without any mention of Harry's feelings. Harry continued,

"And now I'm going to find her, and to tell her that after all these years, I miss her. And I'm going to make a fool of myself the moment I see her, because I'm going to take one look in her eyes and fall for her all over again -" Harry's voice cracked, and he flopped down on the disfigured Hex - Chair and began to cry very softly. Ron had never seen him so wretched - not even when facing Voldemort. He stood awkwardly, looking down at his distraught companion, and at that moment he loathed Hermione with all the hatred he could muster. Damn her for doing this to Harry! he thought in disgust. I can't believe there was actually a time when I considered her my friend... He knocked his palm against his forehead, as though trying to dislodge the recollections of his ex-comrade that were branded in his memory.

Harry finished lamenting, and sat up, wiping his face with the sleeve of his robes. "I don't know why I decided to come," he said, his voice unsteady. "I knew I was going to be shot down. Why did I let Hedwig persuade me? -"

"Hedwig persuaded you?!" Ron was in a state of shock.

"Yeah, it's rather odd, really, but we have this sort of unspoken connection. Maybe I can talk to owls as well as to snakes. You know, an Owltongue." Harry said, beginning to smile feebly. Ron parked himself next to his companion and grinned widely.

"No, I don't think so, otherwise Pig might have listened to you all those times you told him to shut up," he said, contributing to the joke.

"Well, I'm not a god," said Harry, and the pair burst out laughing - Harry in spite of himself, and Ron mostly because he wanted to cheer his friend up. They rested there, settled on the Hex - Chair, laughing just for the sake of laughing, for a long time.

At last Ron sat up, his smile stretching from ear to ear. Harry leaned back onto the dissected Hex-Chair, his head positioned on the armrest, and felt some of the anguish inside of him dissolve, just by being reunited with Ron, for the first time in ages. He closed his eyes.

"It's good to see you, Ron," he said.

"And you, Harry."

At that moment the train heaved to a stop, causing Ron to topple backwards onto the floor. Glancing sideways, he noticed the newspaper clipping of Hermione, lying forlornly by his wrist. In a sudden surge of anger, he snatched the small bit of paper, and crumpled it swiftly. Then he let it roll out of his hand, where it remained, crinkled and pathetic, a little ways away. Harry watched Ron crush the article in his fist with interest, feeling slightly pleased that Ron concurred with his opinions of Hermione. He jumped when the compartment door opened with a loud screech, revealing the ghastly witch who had irritated him only an hour or so before. She sneered at the Hex-Chair in the center of the room, and insisted on their paying for the damage before she let them off the train.

With the pockets of Harry's robes considerably lighter, the two men descended the train onto the platform, carrying what little luggage they had brought. Harry found the exit, and Ron followed him out onto the streets of London, which were colored a dismal gray with icy rain. Pulling their hoods over their heads, they mounted several flights of stairs leading to the entrance of a building no one really seemed to notice.

As Harry pushed the heavy door open, he wondered if this was anything like the Leaky Cauldron, meaning that only magic folk could see it. I hope so, Harry thought, gazing about at his surroundings. It wouldn't do well to have Muggles in a place like this. Indeed, he had just walked into an enormous marble chamber, brightly lit by several chandeliers. Witches and wizards were scurrying about, rolls of parchment spilling from their arms and dragging behind them. A long row of raised desks lined one wall, and behind each one sat a wizard sporting dark blue robes and minuscule spectacles.

Ron, who seemed to know exactly where he was going all this time, approached one of the desks, with Harry creeping behind him, trying to be inconspicuous. As he marched up to the short, plump wizard behind it, Ron removed his hood and addressed Harry.

"Nefton and Hibbler, it's a wizard directory," he muttered. "They're all over England. If you're going to visit Hermione, you need to know where she lives, don't you?" Harry tried to protest, but Ron was already at the desk.

The wizard smiled pleasantly as Ron advanced toward him, and adjusted his glasses importantly.

"May I help you, sir?" he asked politely. Ron drew himself up to his full height of six feet four. "I'd like the location of the residence of Miss Hermione Granger," he said in an imposing tone. "Please," he added in an afterthought.

The wizard nodded, rummaged through some papers and found a slim black quill and a pot of ink. Opening a large, leather volume, he dipped the quill's nib in the ink, and scribbled something on the page. At once the words flashed and disappeared. The wizard drummed his fingers against the edge of the desk and rolled his eyes.

"It might be a minute," he said to Ron. "These things do take a while." And he turned away from the redhead, grumbling something about the inconvenience of wizard technology these days.

Glad for an opportunity to speak, Harry tapped Ron on the shoulder.

"Er ... Ron? I don't think I want Hermione's address anymore. In fact, I don't think I really need to see her at all, come to think of it. So we can just leave now -"

"No, Harry," said Ron, his eyes flashing. "Even if you don't talk to her, I think I intend to give our friend a piece of my mind," he said, stressing the word 'friend' with sarcasm. "And besides, I think you have something to say to her as well." Harry sighed, and nodded slowly.

"Good," said Ron. "I knew you'd see the light. Look now, here's Mister ..."

"Erwin," the wizard replied shortly. "And I'm afraid I can't let you have Miss Granger's address. It's strictly for personal acquaintances."

"But I am a personal acquaintance!" Ron exclaimed. "Look, Ron Weasley - check for me, will you? I've known her forever, we went to school together -"

"Mister Weasley, I'm sorry, but I can't let you have her home location," Mr. Erwin interrupted impatiently. "I don't see what all the commotion is about, surely you can owl Miss Granger and ask her yourself -"

"Can I be of some assistance?" Harry asked, stepping out from behind an outraged Ron and throwing his hood back onto his shoulders. "I'm looking for Miss Granger also." For a moment Mr. Erwin glared at Harry with disdain - and then he saw his scar.

"Mister Potter!" he cried excitedly. "How good to see you in London, we haven't heard wind of you in years - "

"Ahem." Mr. Erwin tore his eyes away from Harry and directed them at Ron, who was bright red and far past angry. "If you don't mind, I think that we would like Miss Granger's address," said Ron ferociously. Mr. Erwin flushed pink and scrambled for the heavy book. Harry was uneasily aware of several young, pretty witches in Nefton and Hibbler uniforms, who were all observing the scene curiously from across the room.

"Aha - here we go," said Mr. Erwin eagerly, and tore a page from the tome, shoving it past Ron at Harry. "Her address in London, and the one below it is for her vacation home in France. I do believe she just got back from there, she spent the summer up in Paris, so says the directory."

"Thank you," said Harry, pocketing the slip of paper. "Also, do you know where we might find a place to stay for a week or so? The Leaky Cauldron's been very hard to get into these days," He finished. The chubby wizard bounced up and down energetically, and pointed at an enormous round window nearby. A small stone archway across the street was just visible through the torrential rain.

"Diagon Alley's through there. Third building on the left is an inn called the Tin Parrot. It's most likely booked solid, but I daresay they'd find room for Mister Harry Potter, eh?" Harry winced. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ron darkening to a repulsive purple color. Poor Ron, he thought. His friend had gone from being mistreated to being ignored, which surely couldn't be too agreeable, especially with Ron's fleeting temper.

"We appreciate your help," he informed a breathless Mr. Erwin, who beamed back.

"Glad to be of use," he answered. That was the worst of it. Harry grabbed Ron by the elbows to stop him from attacking the little man, and steered him out the door into the driving rain. Once outside, Ron began swearing violently and kicking everything in sight.

"Stupid git!" he shouted, ramming his foot into the wrought - iron banister outlining the steps. "It must be really nice being famous, Harry, having the world handed to you on a plate - "

"Ron, be quiet. You and I both know that man wasn't intending to be mean, it's just his disposition. I don't know, but - for God's sake, Ron, stop bloody abusing your feet and relax!"

Ron reluctantly stopped, and took several deep breaths. Eventually his face lost its cherry tinge, and he began to regain calm.

"I'm fine now. Let's go."

"All right, then." Harry's face broke into a grin, and Ron's followed suit. They pulled their hoods over their faces, and together they crossed to the archway and stooped under it, emerging into the familiar world of Diagon Alley.

As the two boys walked down the cobbled streets of the large wizarding district, Harry realized exactly how long it had been since he had last visited Madam Malkin's, or Flourish and Blotts'. Five years next week, he thought. It only seems like yesterday.

"Here we are," said Ron.

Harry looked up. A low - hanging sign directly in front of them depicted a silver bird in an intricate cage, and the words, The Tin Parrot, painted next to it in flowing letters. Every so often, the bird would ruffle its feathers, or make a loud squawking noise at a witch or wizard passing beneath it.

"I remember Dad telling me about this place," said Ron, proud of having a story to tell. "It's new - took the place of that old furniture shop, remember? Really hard to get a room in here, I've heard." Harry cringed. Ron was raising the subject of the wizard again - perhaps not intentionally, but mentioning it all the same.

"Let's talk about something else, okay?" he said as they headed inside.

The lobby of The Tin Parrot was a bar. It was bright and surprisingly clean, and full of merry wizards who, Harry guessed, had had just a touch too much mead.

"Come on, Ron," he elbowed his friend, who was eyeing an attractive blonde witch seated at the bar, and led him near the bottom of a small staircase, where a tall, thin man was seated, looking extremely bored. He was talking to a round but powerfully built young man with messy brown hair, whose face looked mysteriously recognizable. As Harry moved close, he realized with a jolt who the man was.

"Neville?" he called out, astounded. "Neville Longbottom?" The man turned quickly, and studied Harry for a second, before comprehension dawned on his face.

"Harry! Ron!" And the two young men were swept into a massive one-armed hug by their old schoolmate. "What are you two doing here, back in London? Harry, especially you, I haven't seen you since we graduated! What brings you back to 'ole Diagon Alley, eh?"

Harry glanced sideways at Ron, who was grinning broadly.

"Actually, I was on my way here on official Ministry business. I've got Dad's job, now that he's retired. There was some sort of awful situation with a Muggle statue - it came alive or something, and went mad about the house it was in. Frightened the people who lived there out of their wits, blowing things up left and right. But then, as fate would have it, I met Harry on the WLE, and we talked, and I decided to accompany him instead. After all, they've got enough Ministry wizards down there to constitute an army. They don't really need me, and I like spending time with people I haven't seen in years, which seems to be the run of the mill as of right now."

"Indeed," said Neville, grinning enthusiastically at the pair of them. Harry wasn't sure this last statement was entirely true, but he knew better than to intrude. "How about you, Harry?" Neville inquired. Harry, who had been hoping that Ron would cover up any unwanted conversation, was at a loss for words.

"Er ... just an old school reunion. I wanted to reestablish some of the connections I broke when I--" He looked up, noticing that Neville was gazing at him attentively. "Never mind," he mumbled, avoiding their eyes. There was an awkward silence. At last Neville broke it by patting them both on the back, knocking over a vase as he did so. Harry and Ron looked meaningfully at each other when they heard the crash. Apparently Neville hasn't changed much, Harry thought with amusement.

"Now then," said Neville, ignoring the broken glass, water, and roses littering the floor, "Boys, this is my assistant, Caleb McCauley." He gestured toward the man he had been chatting with earlier. Caleb gave them a frosty smile. "Caleb will be leading you to your rooms - "

"Mister Longbottom, we have no more room. The place is booked until next month," Caleb informed Neville, who looked aggravated.

"Then I want you to make room. Get rid of Philip Murray, he's been here a month at least. Or Joanna Armstrong."

Caleb shook his head decidedly. "They pay for their rooms, we can't just kick them out," he said.

"So will we," Ron interjected.

"Not necessary," Neville informed them. "You two will be staying as my guests. And I don't care who you have to evict, Caleb, but there'd better be two available rooms exactly one hour from now. Or else." And, with a wave to Harry and Ron, he strode off in the direction of several beautiful young girls clustered around the fireplace.

"Neville's confidence has certainly improved," Harry murmured, more to himself than anyone else. The Neville he knew was a doormat, a scared little near-Squib with a knack for breaking things. This Neville was ... different. Maybe it was just the absence of Draco Malfoy or Snape, but this Neville seemed to have no problem ordering people around. He looked at Caleb, who was glaring at them acrimoniously. As he noticed Harry's eyes on him, Caleb turned and darted up the stairs, tossing a spiteful glance at the boys as he went.

"Well, that Caleb McCauley certainly is a friendly little bastard," said Ron sardonically, making Harry smile. "Come on, let's go find a seat at the bar. I want to accidentally bump into that gorgeous fair-haired creature near the end, see her? A portrait of beauty." Harry choked on his laughter, hastily transforming it into a cough, and followed Ron to the bar, forgetting his troubles for just a little while as he watched Ron's ridiculous antics with the lovely flaxen-haired witch.

***

Harry was sprawled out on his bed, his arms folded behind his head. Ron was snoring noisily in the next room, so he had no one to talk to. He found himself thinking about Hermione again. It was becoming harder and harder to shove her face aside - he was clueless as to how he had done it that evening.

He kept picturing her face as he had seen it in the newspaper excerpt on the WLE: a warm, blushing complexion, marked by twinkling brown eyes, a small nose that turned up ever so slightly at the end, rising above a rosebud mouth - all of this framed by dark hair, still bushy, drifting down in waves around her waiflike face. His nymph, his fairy. Ethereal spirit. She glowed with cleverness and life, as though a light was shining from beneath her skin. She disliked rule - breaking, but she had a pixie's impertinence and nerve that had never failed to surprise him when they attended Hogwarts together. She was unpredictable. He both hated and adored that about her.

Groaning, Harry sat up, and thrust his hands into his pockets, searching for the piece of paper with Hermione's address on it. He found it and removed it. The paper was old and crackly, and the wizard's handwriting was barely legible. Harry squinted past his glasses at the faintly smudged squiggles, his eyes skimming the words briefly. Then he rose from the bed, and walked into Ron's bedroom.

Ron's mouth was hanging open, and he was making a series of peculiar noises through his nose. Rolling his eyes, Harry leaned forward and shook him by the shoulders. "Ron!"

Ron's brow furrowed, and he rolled over with a grunt. "Mmmph."

"Ron, come on! Wake up!"

Ron moved his head and opened one bleary eye. "What in bloody hell do you want, Harry?"

"I just wanted to tell you that I'm leaving for Hermione's tomorrow at nine 'o clock in the morning, on the dot."

Ron made a frustrated sound and closed his eye again. "And why the hell do I care?"

"Because you're coming with me."

This time Ron opened both eyes. "You must be joking."

"Why would I joke about this?"

"Listen, Harry, you're the one who has issues with Hermione. If it were me, I would just be content to call her very fierce names for the rest of my life, and then drop the subject. But you - you've got a bloody conscience, Harry. And when the day is done, you can't go to sleep unless everything is perfect. Unlike me, who was doing just fine in this imperfect world."

"Look, I'm sorry for waking you up, Ron, but I really need you to back me up. You know, moral support, in case I have a breakdown or something."

"Harry, in my opinion, a breakdown would be good for you. You can't relax, mate - that's the whole problem. Now, I'm going to go back to sleep. With any luck, I'll have a stroke during the night, so that when we repeat this procedure tomorrow, I won't have to wake up."

"But Ron -"

"Absolutely not, Harry. Good night." Harry blinked and sat back on the bed, beaten. After a few moments, a colossal snore told him that Ron had rejoined slumber. He looked at his best friend, sleeping peacefully, and envied him his tranquility.

"Good night, Ron," he said softly. In his sleep, Ron snorted in acknowledgment and flung his arm out over the bed. Harry sat on the edge, watching him. Tomorrow, I go to see Hermione. Tomorrow, I face my fears. What's that famous Latin line? Veni, vidi, vici. I came, I saw, I conquered. Yes, that's what I will do. I'll conquer. With that last thought, he slouched off to bed, yawning. As he buried himself beneath the numerous blankets, he lay thinking about everything he would do and say the next day. The only things that did not ever enter his mind that night were the words, 'I do not love her.'