Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Chapter Thirteen – Walk Alone in Fear

"Why is the path unclear

When we know home is near?

Understand we’ll go hand in hand

But we’ll walk alone in fear,

Tell me, where do we go from here?"

-Buffy Cast, "Where Do We Go from Here?"

Tuesday, November 4, 2003

After her classes were over for the day, Hermione retired to her private rooms with a stack of papers to grade. She tossed them aside as she entered, walking over to where Harry had passed out on the couch after lunch with his infant son snuggled in his arms. She smiled at the picture-perfect moment, watching briefly before scooping the boy into her arms . He awoke and cried softly for a moment before calming.

"Rach?" Harry mumbled, words slurred with sleep. He reached out and snagged his fingers on a pocket in Hermione’s robe, almost reflexively. "James is awake."

"It’s Hermione, Harry. You’re at Hogwarts." She sighed, disentangling his fingers from her robe, and kneeled next to the couch. James squealed happily, grabbing at a lock of Hermione’s hair.

He opened his eyes and met Hermione’s gaze mournfully, emerald green sparks of pain, and rolled to put his back to her. "I’m sorry. Rachel used to wake me up and take me to bed when I fell asleep playing with James."

Hermione stood and carried the infant over to a counter along the wall and set him down. "Has James eaten? When was the last time you changed his nappies?"

"A while," Harry admitted. "He doesn’t cry very often, unless he’s really hungry. Rachel’s mum said he was the best behaved child of all her grandchildren."

"Tell me about Rachel, Harry? Tell me what happened when you left?" Hermione busied herself with summoning a dishtowel and transfiguring it into a diaper, giving her friend time to compose himself.

She heard her couch creak as Harry presumably sat up. "What you’re really asking is why I left, correct?" Though Hermione didn’t answer, her reply was obvious enough, as she conjured a bottle of milk silently for the baby. "I knew that if I were to face Voldemort again, after the battle the night we graduated, I would die. I didn’t have the magic to destroy him. I didn’t have the heart left to face him."

"What did you see down there, Harry?" The nappies changed and the milk warmed to her satisfaction, Hermione scooped James back into her arms and carried the baby, happily sucking at his breakfast, back to his father.

Harry took his son and nestled him on his lap before continuing. His eyes remained fixed on the child’s face as he continued. "Sirius Black threw himself between me and Voldemort’s Killing Curse. He was looking at me. When it hit, he kept looking, until he was gone and hit the ground. And in all that time... even with all the work we tried to do... he was never cleared. My godfather went to the grave an escaped convict. And Voldemort stood there, and he laughed. He knew that I’d failed."

"You ran away... because of Sirius?" Hermione sighed and shook her head. "I know that it hurt you, Harry, but we needed you, and you weren’t there."

"Well, London’s hardly gone to pot, has it? You’ve got on well enough without me. All the time I was here, all I caused was death and hurt and suffering. You’ve done damned fine without me!" The anger in his voice was displaced by the single tear, which rolled down his cheek.

Hermione tapped her wand on her knee in agitation. "Harry, you ran away. You were right, when you spoke to Ron yesterday. Nothing is the same, and nothing will ever be the same again. Did you know Ron left me to go chasing you across America? I don’t blame you for hurting, after you lost Sirius, but leaving me and Ron and Ginny and all of the rest of us to fend for ourselves? Gods, Harry, did you think Voldemort would just disappear?"

"Albus was my Secret Keeper! New York City was his idea! His grandson did the change of names! He knew that I was no help to the Light if I could barely function on my own!" James started wailing at the raised voices, and Harry broke off to whisper to his son, cradling the boy in his arms.

"Then it was Albus who failed us. He probably had a reason for what he did, but we’ll never know now, will we? Percy marched into Fudge’s office one week ago today and shot both the Minister and Dumbledore with a gun." Harry turned, staring at her in shock. She continued, tapping the wand on her knee faster. "And killed Fred, who was outside for some reason. And killed himself. Do you think leaving Britain let you escape being the Boy Who Lived?" Hermione reached over and lifted the crying baby from Harry’s arms, standing and rocking him as she walked around the room.

Harry glared and shot to his feet. "Dammit, Hermione, I’m not anything special! I’m just a man who got lucky, because his mother sacrificed her life for him. It wasn’t me, I’m not some Messiah come to save the wizarding world. That’s just a fairy tale."

"Well, guess what, Harry?" Hermione shifted James to her shoulder, rocking him slowly. "The moment Voldemort gave you that scar, you became something special. The moment he bled you in the ritual to create a new body for himself, you became something more than special – he has your blood, Harry. You’re connected, as terrible as it is to think about it. You are the weapon that can kill him, because your blood flows through his veins. Ancient magic, just as ancient as the magic your mother used to save your life and make you the Boy Who Lived. Sorry, Harry... whether you want it thrust upon you or not, you ARE the last hope we have."

"I can barely use magic anymore," he hissed, eyes slits of green ice in his glare. "I’m practically a Squib, and you’re going to send me off to face Voldemort?"

"No, Harry," Hermione murmured, rubbing James’ back as she rocked the child in her arms. "First, you’re going to wake up and remember who you are. You’re a Gryffindor, and it’s time to stop bloody running. Then, Minerva and I will help you recover from your years without magic. Finally, after a few months of work, you’re going to go out to face Voldemort with all the Aurors, all the teachers of Hogwarts, and dozens of volunteers backing the Boy Who Lived in all his glory. And then, you’re going to win."

Harry turned sharply to face her. "You think it’s that fucking easy? Just walk out, point my wand at the most powerful Dark Wizard in the world, shoot off a spell, and he’s dead? What do you think I am, the Second Coming of Christ!? Bloody hell, Hermione, what you’re asking -"

"Is no more than Albus would’ve asked." Hermione turned and walked purposefully toward the door to her bedroom. "Until you’ve stopped being a coward and started being a Gryffindor, I’ll be grading papers and watching over your son." She pushed the door open and moved through, shutting it softly to keep James from being startled.

Hermione perched on the edge of her bed in silence, until the door to her rooms opened and shut. She shifted James in her arms again, ruffling his soft hair with a smile. "Do you think I got through to him, little one?"

~

Harry stormed down the halls, not noticing when he sent a small Hufflepuff girl scuttling out of his way in terror. Despite years of separation, his feet knew the stone corridors better than his memory ever could. One hallway flowed into another as he fumed, Muggle shoes having a mind of their own. And then... he was there, standing in front of a familiar door.

He was transported instantly back in time, in his mind’s eye, to an eleven-year-old boy, creeping down the halls to view his prize. Harry pushed open the door – miraculously unlocked – and stepped inside the chamber which had once held the Mirror of Erised. Though empty, save for a thick coating of dust, Harry saw the little boy hurry forward and sit in front of the mirror, eagerly staring into his reflection to see his mother and father staring back. As if in a trance, Harry traced the steps of his youth and knelt down, sending clouds of dust into the air and all over his clothing. He closed his eyes, picturing again the smiling faces of his parents, and their parents, and their families all smiling back, just as they had half a lifetime ago.

Harry knew what he would see now, were he to look into the depth of the mirror again. Once, he had been able to drag himself away from the loving smiles of his relatives. Now, he knew one glimpse into the mirror, into the smiling face of his wife, would prove his undoing. Unlike the boy he’d once been, he wouldn’t be able to look away.

He knelt and let the tears run freely down his face. Alone, he grieved.