Distorted Reflections

CHAPTER THREE

Harry rose early the next morning to prepare himself for his visit with Hermione. He showered and shaved meticulously, and attempted to comb his hair, which immediately sprang up again in a messier state than it had been before he had started. He donned black pants, creased duly in front, and a crimson shirt of a fine, thin material, vivid and luxuriant, yet very stiff and unlike Harry. After straightening the collar, which stood up rigidly on its own, he tucked both his wand and Hermione's address into his pocket and hooked his glasses over his ears. All this time he was going over the speech he had constructed the night before, the speech he would be making to Hermione in just a few hours. He knew it was good--he'd had five years practice--but would it make a sufficient impression on Hermione?

Knowing something was missing, and wondering what it was, Harry finished dressing and examined himself in the bathroom mirror, feeling somewhat annoyed at his reflection. He looked much the same as always. Slightly more built, yet still skinny, with oversized hands and feet, he felt unusually awkward and graceless. The Harry in the glass gazed at him sympathetically.

"Cheer up, dear," it said kindly. "You look downright ill."

"I feel ill," Harry mumbled absently, and ran a hand through his untidy black mane. Sighing, he knocked on the door to Ron's bedroom. There was no answer. Harry knocked again, and, hearing no reply, opened the door a crack and peered inside. Ron was sprawled facedown on his bed, making soft whistling noises into his pillow. Harry smiled. Ron would be sleeping now. He hoped it wasn't too early to pay a call on Hermione--after all, he hadn't received a response to his letter yet, and he couldn't say whether she was expecting him or not.

He shut the door, ignoring the faint squeak which accompanied its closing, and looked around, feeling bare and cold, despite the end-of-summer haze that had settled in the pretty, spacious room. The instinctive feeling that something was missing hung like a weight around his neck. He glanced quickly around, trying to figure out what it was, and instantly noticed something sparkling on top of his suitcase in the corner. Swiftly crossing the room and bending down, Harry scooped the object up and held it near his eyes. It was a gold chain, very fragile, like a gossamer thread spun by a spider. A ruby drop dangled from it, its claret surface glittering in the morning sunlight. Curious, he thought wonderingly. I know I've seen this somewhere before... but where?

Suddenly, with a queer jolt, Harry remembered what the object was. A gift, for Christmas in his seventh year. It was from... from... he couldn't recall. Someone he knew--Ron? No, it wasn't Ron. Who, then? Scrutinizing his luggage carefully, he checked it all over for any note of some kind, yet found only a small, blank bit of parchment, torn and crinkled at the edges. Allowing the scintillating chain to fall from his fingertips, his brow furrowed as he examined the fragment of paper in silence. After a moment he removed his wand and tapped the edge of the wrinkled leaf, whispering some unintelligible spell under his breath. The parchment remained unmarked. At last he exhaled, tucked his wand back into his pocket, and tossed the parchment aside in resignation.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, very slowly, several squiggles began to bloom across the page in lavender ink. Harry dashed back and gaped as the purple designs began to form three words:

This is yours.

Harry's mouth fell open in bewilderment. He snatched the parchment and lifted it away, to reveal the ruby chain, coiled snakelike on the smooth material of his traveling bag. The crimson bauble was glowing purple, looking almost amethyst in the angled sunlight. As he moved the paper, the lilac scrawl on it flashed and faded, and the violet blush of the ruby slowly disappeared. Harry raised one eyebrow inquisitively. Then, on a hunch, he replaced the leaf, so that one corner of it was barely touching the ruby globule. At once, the same fluid script shimmered across it, and the ruby darkened to a rich plum color. Harry smiled wryly, and slipped the scrap of parchment into the pocket with his wand and the bit of paper bearing Hermione's home location. He watched as the ruby's surface cleared, then wrapped it around his wrist and fastened the clasp. The dark red gem felt warm on his skin, causing him to shiver slightly. He scratched his temple confusedly, then shrugged, and went out of the room.

Down in the lobby of the Tin Parrot, Harry tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible as he shoved his way through the throngs of overly jolly wizards, who seemed to populate the inn at all hours of the day. At length, he emerged into the tiny box of the entrance area, gasping from being squeezed in the crowd like an orange. Neville, who was talking seriously to Caleb, immediately noticed him as he escaped from the clumps of inebriated men and women. He waved away his assistant, and tripped his way over to Harry, nearly falling flat onto a couple of unconscious witches who had collapsed onto the floor seconds earlier. "Harry! Where are you off to, so early in the morning?" he shouted, raising his voice over the din of the bar. Harry glanced quickly over Neville's shoulder at Caleb, who looked increasingly sour and very displeased.

"It can't be too early, if there's already this many people here," he responded.

"Don't mind that; it's always busy here on weekends. I was just talking about you, you know," Neville said. Harry looked again at Caleb, but was startled to find that he had vanished. "Were you really?" he asked uneasily. Neville nodded.

"That Caleb--I can't think why, but he doesn't like you much. Thinks you're highly overestimated, apparently. I don't know about him; he seems rather shifty. But he works well, so I've decided to keep him on for the time being." Harry blinked, looked hard at the spot where Caleb had just been. There was something odd about Neville's associate--Harry couldn't put his finger on it, but it troubled him greatly.

"You never answered my question, Harry: where are you going?" Neville cut into Harry's contemplation. Harry raised his eyebrows and tried to shake off the anxiety which was enveloping him like a shroud.

"I'm just taking a walk," he lied, feeling abysmally guilty for deceiving his friend. In a way, this statement was true; he was taking a walk--the only difference was that he had an intentional destination. Smiling weakly, he endured a bone-cracking cuff on the shoulder from Neville, and reluctantly Apparated with a faint pop!

Neville gazed at the empty space which had just held Harry. "He's not telling the truth," he mused. "I wonder where he's really going to," With that, he turned and elbowed his way to the bar, making a mental note to ask Ron about it later that day.

***

Harry reappeared on a long, twisting road lined with trees. It was unpaved, and dirt swirled up around his ankles as he materialized on the grass bordering the little lane. Shaking his head to free it of the dizziness that always accompanied his Apparating, he wiped his glasses, and looked around. The trail led off into the distance, winding like a snake as far as he could see in either direction. Boards on stakes, staggered in position along the route, indicated homesites.

Harry stepped back, trying to absorb his surroundings, and bumped into something. Turning, he discovered a polished wooden sign portraying in flawless golden lettering, 'Granger Residence.' The corners of Harry's mouth turned up regardless of his apprehension, and he reached out a hand to touch the graceful writing. As he did so, he noticed a infinitesimal arrow near the bottom of the sign. It was pointing to a discreet little path leading off into the woods, which Harry assumed led to Hermione's house. He stepped around the board, and wandered down the trail.

Sure enough, after a few minutes of walking, he came to a house which he was positive was Hermione's. It was tall and pale yellow, with a stone chimney jutting out from one side. The porch was rounded, and decorated with a white swinging bench attached to the rafters. A low stone fence bordered the property, a painted iron gate with intricate designs barring the entrance. Past the gate was a cobbled walkway leading up to the house, which cut through a beautiful rose garden. Roses clung to the stone perimeter, and crept up the trellis, and wound around the porch columns. Each flower, each petal was an exquisite, vibrant red. The grass was impeccable, the house freshly painted, the perennial blossoms perfectly trimmed. Yes, this was Hermione's home, there was no doubt in Harry's mind.

Harry took a deep breath, bringing in the pure scent of late summer roses. This is it, he thought nervously. This is Hermione's house. You've been waiting for five years for this moment--there's no turning back now. He swallowed, then strode forward, unlatched the gate, and advanced through the garden and up the porch stairs, and knocked firmly on the door. There was no answer. Harry focused on the panes of colored glass lodged in the windowpane of the front door, praying with all his might that someone would answer it. He heard nothing, and felt his heart sinking. And then there were footsteps on the other side, and the handle turned, causing the wind chimes to jangle melodiously. And a small, pretty face with a button nose, enormous eyes, and waves of dark hair peeked round the edge of the door. Her shapely brows knotted together in uncertainty, and then rose very high as she squeaked in astonishment, "Harry?!"

Harry smiled, very gently, and bashfully scratched his ear. "Hello, Hermione," he said. "It's been a while, hasn't it?" Hermione's mouth was open, and she was gaping at Harry. After a minute, she pushed the door away, and gestured inside.

"Come in." She turned and moved smoothly away from the entrance. Harry followed her inside, staring around at the entrance hall which he had been led into. It was cream-colored and very lovely. The floor was a pattern of light and dark wood, and a table stood along the left wall, embellished by a lamp with a beaded shade. A staircase wound up and out of sight at the end of the hall, rimmed with a handsome mahogany banister, carved and molded with vines and ivy. Hermione stood, looking divine in a sleeveless dress of warm blue, in the center of the room, completing the already stunning portrait.

Harry cast his eyes over Hermione, who looked away. Crossing the room to stand directly in front of her, he placed a hand on her arm. She looked up, and Harry immediately lifted his fingers, for her eyes were cold.

"Harry, why did you come here?"

Harry was caught off-guard by the question. After opening and closing his mouth for a few seconds, he stammered, "I wanted to see you."

"You picked the wrong time." Hermione moved away to face the staircase. "I've been extremely busy with my work, you know. The Ministry's been calling me constantly, always wanting help with everything; I never have time anymore." Harry, whose heart had flown into his throat at the sight of her, now felt it plummet back down into his stomach -- only the bottom of it had fallen out, so his heart kept falling, and falling, and falling.

"If you want me to leave, I will," he said, trying and failing to eliminate the tremor in his tone. Hermione did not reply, so he turned to go.

"No." Harry stopped short, and looked back. Hermione was looking at him defiantly, her arms crossed over her chest. "I don't want you to leave. I'm sorry I was rude just now, but -- well, with all the things I've been laboring at with the Ministry, you were the last person I'd expect would show up at my doorstep."

"I understand, Hermione." Harry returned to the center of the room, and looked into Hermione's eyes. This time she did not avert her gaze.

"How long has it been? Refresh my memory," she said.

"Five years next Thursday."

"Wow," Hermione looked down, and smoothed out a wrinkle in her dress. "Five years is a long time to be away from someone." Harry simply nodded. He didn't know why Hermione was making small talk, but he was growing concerned. He didn't think his heart could stand another wrench, and he worried what Hermione was leading up to.

"Have you spoken to Ron?" Hermione inquired.

"Yes, actually we met on the WLE coming here -- we're staying together at the Tin Parrot. You know where that is, right? In--"

"Diagon Alley," she finished. "I was there when they opened it. Neville invited me."

"Yeah, he's quite well off now, isn't he?"

"Yes, I think it's rather funny. But even still -- one word of Draco Malfoy and he'll become the same, stuttering Neville that we all knew at Hogwarts." Hermione laughed, a bright, tinkling sound, like bells, and the wind chimes on her porch. Harry wanted to laugh as well, but it stuck in his throat. He still needed to know something.

"Hermione," he said softly, savoring the sound her name made as it rolled off his tongue.

"Harry?"

"Did you miss me, over the past five years?" Hermione's grin fell from her face. She looked grave. Every muscle in Harry's body tensed, preparing him for the unbearable. Hermione breathed several times, and looked intently at the buttery carpet. Then she resumed her gaze into Harry's emerald eyes.

"Yes, Harry. Yes, I did miss you." Harry exhaled in relief, and allowed himself to relax. Hermione, however, was far from finished.

"I missed the person you were, Harry. Not the person you are. I missed the boy I knew for six years, the boy I remember from Hogwarts. The boy with those incredible eyes, who wasn't afraid of anything or anyone. Who would stand up for his friends. Who would save his enemies. The model student, the amazing Harry Potter."

"I wasn't the model student, you were," Harry interrupted, feeling bile surging to the corners of his mouth, and tasting copper where he had bit his lip until it bled.

"No, Harry. You forget what I said to you, nearly eleven years ago, in our first year. I told you that brains and cleverness weren't everything. Friendship and bravery - that's what I said were important. And that is who you once were. You would risk your life again and again, just to save another human being. You had faith, Harry. I've never met another person with that kind of faith. It was true spirit. And then you went and dashed it all--"

"I never dashed anything!" Harry yelled, furious at Hermione. Everything he had felt for the past few years was bubbling up inside of him: all the hatred, all the sadness, all the longing. And now it was coming out, and there was nothing he could do about it.

"I never dashed anything!" he said again. "I tried to show you who I really was, and you wouldn't listen to me--"

"I didn't want to hear it!" Hermione shrieked, now level with him in his intensity. "I didn't want you to hurt your life! You don't want me, I'm not good enough for you. Look at the way I've treated you, even after all these years! I didn't want to make you upset by rejecting you, but now I see that I was wrong to even say anything. Because look at you--when I told you, I expected you to mourn, and move on. Not turn half-dead and wake up every morning thinking about how wonderful being deceased and departed would be! You've destroyed yourself, make no mistake. I thought you were strong, like Gryffindors are, like you were, but you're not. You're NOT!" Hermione screamed, tears now streaking her flushed cheeks.

Harry's face hardened. "Now you're starting to sound exactly like Sirius," he said.

"Well that's because he's right! He's right and you're wrong." Hermione's face was red with anger, and her breath was ragged. Harry had never seen anyone more beautiful in his life. And in that moment, he realized that he had been living a lie for five years. Every day, he would try to convince himself that he did not love her, and yet he did, truly. He had admitted this to Sirius, but he had never really understood it until now.

"Hermione..."

"What do you want?" she snapped, her breathing still fast and irregular.

"What if I was to change? Become the person I was before?" For a moment, sympathy and kindness crossed her face -- but they vanished as quickly as it had appeared, to be replaced by dark intolerance.

"You will not change. You will never change. You've gone too far into the hole to be able to climb back out again, Harry." And suddenly the bottom of Harry's stomach reappeared and rushed up to meet his plunging heart--and his heart hit his stomach and smashed into a million pieces, and lay helpless there. The pupils of his eyes grew larger and larger, until the irises were barely visible and his eyes were only pools of black, endless pits of inky black, with just a hint of green around the edges, shining with unshed tears. Despite the pleasant warmth, he was trembling so much that a faint breeze could have pushed him over. Hermione looked at him, with his deerlike eyes and his shaking hands and the sheet of white that had passed over his face, and felt more remorse than she had ever felt in her life. I broke his heart, she thought. Again.

"Harry, I'm --"

"Don't you dare say you're sorry," he said flatly. "You told me all I needed to hear. I came here seeking out forgiveness, and a second chance, and now I can see that all I deserve is to be hurt beyond all reason. I've become someone I am not, and you've helped me to realize that. So if you don't mind, I think I'll go now." Harry gave her the smile of one whose heart has just been broken, and is trying to act unaffected, and Apparated out of the house, leaving Hermione alone with her burning shame.