Enough

...the edge of the forest, the edge

of the desert...

...the edge of the receding glacier

where painfully and with wonder

at having survived even

this far

we are learning to make fire

~~~~~~~~~~~

We are learning to make fire, he and I. Dwelling in this place of calm and quiet for awhile. Taking comfort in all that is mundane. We feast on the details of daily life, and it gives us a beautiful sense of order. It is a relief to know what each day will bring. The pattern covers us like a cloak, and we are becoming acquainted with this blessed calm.

Shadows still move in the corners, but they remain on the perimeter of the light we are building: he and I.

I sit across from him in the quiet of another evening in our unadorned room and let my mind wander with the soft scratching of his quill and the flicker of the fire in the small grate. Moments of my life come to me like brightly colored snapshots, almost garish against the studied neutrality of our present space.

Still, I let them come and overtake me. I am feeling stronger tonight, and there is a softness in my heart that pulls me toward my memories.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I see my young self receiving my Hogwarts letter. What a new world opened to me! How unbelievable and exciting this new chapter of my life! I am filled with curiosity about this world I did not know even existed before that letter. I consume books I wheedle form my parents at Flourish and Blotts. It is a fever and I succumb to it gladly.

I learn from watching other witches and wizards at Diagon Alley that I am behind. Muggle-born. I will prove myself though. I know this.

I leave my parents and the only home I have ever known. I journey into a world so fantastical I sometimes bite the flesh of my lip to be sure I am not in a dream. I am alone, but the siren call of things unknown and knowledge to be uncovered beckons to me, and it is enough.

.....................................................................................

The bathroom is dimly lit and smells faintly of dust and cleaner: an unusual combination. I am grateful for the quiet. It allows me to cry in the tiny stall where I have locked myself away from prying eyes.

Such a shock to know I am perceived so badly by my classmates! I had only sought to help. Well...perhaps there was a part of me that reveled in my skill and was proud that I should know better than Ronald Weasley, who, after all, was from a wizard family. But my intentions had truly been good. Why does no one see this?

I sit with my abominable hair falling all over my face, sticking to my wet cheeks, and cannot rid myself of the feeling that I will never fit into either of the two worlds I have known. To go back to living as a muggle, and turn my back on this magic is unthinkable. But I know there will always be people in this world that will not accept me. I have heard whispers and caught bits of the truth. I know there are those who don't believe that Muggle-borns should even attend Hogwarts. And my zeal to make up for this handicap has won me even more enemies.

The troll enters the bathroom. This remains a blur, with only certain frozen seconds standing out in my mind: a smell that makes me wretch...the way I am immersed in shadow as it blocks the meager light...Harry Potter's shout echoing in the slightly moist stone confines...the look of astonishment on Ron's face when his spell works...and then, when the professors find us, the sudden compulsion that I shall take the blame. It does not matter what was said earlier. What matters is that hey are here...for me. I see the surprise on their faces -on all their faces except his- and I think with some satisfaction that now they realize there is more to me than a know-it-all. I see friends. And for now, it is enough.

..........................................................................................

I am standing before a row of bottles, each different. Harry's young face is etched in my peripheral vision -worried, hopeful, and resigned at the same time- but I am concentrating hard on the puzzle of words in my hand. I work my way through the line of potions, labeling each as I go. Logic...plain and simple. Some of the greatest wizards can't do a bit of logic.

I point out which bottle Harry needs and I know I am right. It comes to me: an epiphany. I am better for belonging in both worlds. It is not the curse I have thought. I see the admiration in Harry's eyes and read the affection between his words, and it is enough to know that I am needed.

.......................................................................................

My bedclothes are twisted and rumpled. Even in my exhaustion, I cannot rest easy. A ginger hair tickles my nose and I open my eyes as Crookshanks looks down from his perch on my pillow. Was there ever a better pet than my wonderful cat? I think not.

I am weary from my struggle to prove myself with the time turner, and upset by the anger and coldness from my friends, but the warm weight of this creature as he settles on my chest and begins to purr is enough to quiet my heart and lull me into much-needed sleep.

Yes

, I think as I drift off, this too shall pass.

........................................................................................

I stare numbly at the scene before me. Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape are standing before an angry, puffing Fudge.

Voldemort has returned.

I wonder why the Minister has that queer look on his face. I begin to understand; Fudge doesn't believe Harry. He's been reading that Skeeter woman. Odious man.

I watch with fascinated horror as Professor Snape bares his left arm, revealing the Dark Mark. The scene plays out, and I cling to the strength and power I feel radiating from Dumbledore. Surely having him on our side, and the power of what is good, will be enough to bring us through this darkness?

.......................................................................................

I've just taken a sip of pumpkin juice, which has always reminded me of crisp winds and warm kitchens, when the daily onslaught of owls fills the Great Hall with morning mail. As I take a piece of toast from the middle of the table there comes the sound of a plate clattering to the floor. I see Dean Thomas pushing himself forcefully away from the piece of parchment lying on the table as though it would burn him. His face is frozen in an expression that makes my insides turn cold. Seamus, concerned and confused, takes the parchment and blanches. Before anything else can be said, there is a soul-wrenching scream to my other side. Lavender Brown moans hysterically that her parents are dead.

Murdered.

Then an ordinary brown owl, completely normal and boring, drops an official looking parchment in front of me as well. The chaos around me as more students receive notice of the Death Eater activity the night before recedes into the distance. I hear their voices as though I were pressing my ear to a windowpane: faint, slightly distorted. The world has narrowed to the parchment in my hands. I open it and see the names of my parents.

I focus on the feel of my breath entering and exiting my body.

Take another. Now another. Keep filling my lungs.

I gaze blindly up toward the staff table. The professors streaming towards the panicked and grief stricken students registers only vaguely, but I meet the eyes of a man who sits very still at the ancient wooden table. I focus on the glittering dark eyes in the pale face that is as impassive as ever.

But I see his emotions rise and fall in those eyes, like a burst a lava from a volcano before it settles down to smolder. I feel empathy flow from this unlikely source. Nothing and no one around me matters, and I center myself in the cool depths of his eyes.

One more breath. Then the next.

I absorb just enough strength from this moment to keep going on to the next minute, the next breath; and I know I will continue to move onward from that.

..........................................................................................

The stones of the spiraled walls leading up to the Astronomy Tower are cool to the touch and rough beneath my trailing fingers. I pause and lean my forehead against them. I am feeling slightly feverish and the sensation is pleasant. I stand this way for a few moments, soaking up the mellow calm of the stones. Things of great age are comforting, I think. This present pain and madness is but a bump in the ever-rolling tide of life they see. The world will continue on, they seem to whisper to me.

When I emerge at the top of the tower the inky sky spreads out before me, twinkling with stars. I imagine them to be people. Ones I loved, friends, acquaintances...just regular people trying to live their lives and love whoever they had left. All gone. So many fell by the darkness.

Yes, the world will continue, the wind breathes in my ear.

But my time is in this bump, I think, and it is my choice what I do in the time given to me.

My hand curls around the wand in my pocket. I pull it out and see the diminished skin pulled taut around my bones. Wasted and wasting away.

Enough living in the fog. Time to step up and do what I can.

I raise my face to the night sky and the stars wink back at me.

......................................................................................

Spells still scatter and crash around me. I trip over the body of a girl.

Luna Lovegood. I stare down at those wide eyes, still misty in death. I hope she never lost that state of grace. And I hope she sees a Crumple-Horned Snorkack wherever she is now.

I keep moving through the fighting and around the dead. Some are bruised, battered, bloody; but some show no mark at all. Just snuffed out by one lethal curse. The sight is obscene.

I finally make it to the spot of charred earth where Voldemort met his end. I pick up Harry's glasses, repair them, and put them back on his lifeless face.

Of course he would destroy Voldemort the only way he could. He entered his mind and he ended him with goodness. But it meant he would die too. Brave, noble Harry.

I pull him a few feet closer to Ron and sit with their heads in my lap. The rest of the battle is nothing but a fly buzzing around my pounding head.

Friend standing by friend. Loyal, wonderful Ron.

So many dead. So much waste.

Why? God damn you, Tom Riddle! There is not even dust that remains of you, yet your darkness is still everywhere.

I hear screaming. It is hoarse and broken, but it makes my skin crawl. The keening goes on, and it is beyond time, beyond meaning, beyond grief.

My god...that's me.

Enough! Enough! Enough!

........................................................................................

It is quiet here. There is nothing. Nothing at all.

I wait. I can sense that there is a purpose here. Something is mending in this place of nothing. I bide my time and drift in the calm vacuum. So nice to float and not think at all. So much easier.

There is a noise. It gets closer and closer.

A voice. It is jarring me from my nothing. I try to swat it away, and that feeble motion spins me about and I am falling...

Now I am somewhere confusing. There is something pressing down on me, and I am swimming upward in deep, heavy water. Flashes of light, indistinct bursts of sound. I can see the world above me. It is bright, and sharp. Then my face breaks the surface and I am choking on the air and the movement around me. I black out.

The voice calls to me again. I open my eyes. Everything is hazy, except for a pair of dark eyes. Their cool depths center me, and some of the fog dissipates.

A pale face. A soft voice speaking to me.

"You must come back, Hermione. Your life continues. You must live it. Now, Hermione."

A pause, and then, "You will not be alone."

Our eyes remain locked and I know he can read my question without my giving voice to it. He can see my soul beating in my eyes.

"I will be with you. I love you, Hermione. I don't know when or how, but I love you. Enough for us to make it. Enough that you are my hope and you will be my world."

I grip his hand.

Yes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We have settled in another place for awhile. The pain is too near back where we came from. We drift here and there, on no particular schedule or plan. Sometimes we just know it is time to move on to another place, and he holds the map while I blindly place my finger on a new dot. If it's a warm, sunny place he accuses me of peeking, and if it is a cold, gothic place I accuse him of moving the map.

I still see the shadows lurking just beyond me, and he still wakes in the night shaking and gasping. But his arms are always open, and he never forgets to leave a candle burning by the bed at night. When I sense him moving into the guilt and anguish of dark dreams I smooth the lines of his face with my hands, and lead him into the warmth of my body.

Someday we will put the map away and set us down on some green spot, where we will build the life that we want. Strong stone and ageless wood, the memory of what was lost to appreciate what will come. Perhaps we will pass this down to children of our own. Little souls with unruly hair and dark eyes, and the spark of hope that will be our legacy.

But now we are learning to make fire, and outrunning our demons. Some day they will grow weary and give up. But for now we have each other. And that is enough.