Destiny Finds a Way

Chapter V - Fallen

It was sundown and Harry was suddenly regretting his rash promise to Hermione. He had cooked for himself all the time and he knew it wasn't so bad. He had heaps of practice when he was still expected to slave around his uncles' but even then his meticulous aunt never let him do the big jobs. So, he had never quite cooked for anybody else but himself.

He knew that he really didn't have to be so nervous as to this was just Hermione, after all. But as he looked at the setup on his square wooden table, he couldn't help feeling like he was preparing for a date---which was ridiculous. It was just a dinner among friends and an interview for the Prophet. It was all very normal but nevertheless... the thought of a date was still curiously there.

Harry looked at the watch on his right wrist. It was still the old watch. He had gotten it fixed during his first summer after graduation. It had previously stopped operating due to being submerged in the lake for more than an hour in Harry's fourth year. But now its hands were steadily ticking like they should be. Half past seven. She should be here at any moment.

He moved towards his front door and positioned himself behind it. And just as he reached up to try and pat his hair down---a notorious force of habit of his---, there was a quaint knock on his amaranth front door.

He sighed and opened it.

"Hey," Hermione greeted, smiling uneasily as though she too had been thinking about not going through with all this as well.

"Come in---I'll take your coat," grinned Harry. He took Hermione's dark grey trench coat and hung it on the rack beside the door.

Her footsteps echoed slightly all though they were light and small. She was constantly tugging at the sleeves of top. She was wearing muggle clothes. She had once told him she always liked them better. She was wearing high-heeled leather black boots with a long black gypsy skirt and a white, long-sleeved, off-shoulder peasant top.

"You look... good," Harry muttered as he turned to her. And he was not lying. Harry had only seen her look so polished three or four times in his whole lifetime. He looked her up and down fleetingly, taking in her excellent form. Then he suddenly realized that this was Hermione his was giving the old eye. He shook himself quickly, feeling odd as though his heart was confused on what exactly to feel.

"Uh... thanks," she replied as though confused on whether what Harry had said was a compliment or not. Harry hastily shifted his gaze.

"Dinner's almost ready," said Harry, feeling awkward saying those three words. He moved behind her, smiling widely, put a hand on each of her shoulders and playfully began pushing her towards the dinner table. His hands tingled as he touched her skin.

She was laughing heartily as he pulled back a seat to let her get settled.

"I'll be back," he winked and disappeared into the kitchen where the stew was steaming properly on his stove.

He took out a ladle and dipped it into the hot broth. He blew it softly for a few seconds and tasted the fruits of his labor. Not bad. He thought. He closed the lid of the pot, turned the fire down, put on some kitchen mitts and placed the stew in the middle of the table.

"It's not much. It's about one of the only dishes I've mastered at the moment---after all those times Aunt Petunia made me chop the vegetables and wait for it to cook," said Harry apprehensively, drumming his fingers on the table as he waited for Hermione have the first taste.

She was silent as she ladled herself some of the stew which made Harry more anxious than he wanted to be. He didn't even know why he was making such a big deal out of this. He was watching the beef and the vegetables that were swimming inside her bowl as she dipped her spoon in. It was like watching a clip in slow motion as Hermione slowly put her spoon to her lips. Harry couldn't help noticing Hermione had nice lips. Perfectly contoured with enough fullness, and what looked like enough softness as well. Harry had never seen such a magnificent shade of pink anywhere else before.

Then suddenly he became aware of himself and everything snapped back into normal speed. What was wrong with him? Nice lips? What in the---? Harry tried recalling anything he might've taken that would make him act so peculiarly. None such thing fit the bill.

Hermione was sipping the stew delicately. He found himself tempted to ask her how it was. But he felt it wasn't proper. He wanted any comments from her to come at her own pace. Especially after the thoughts he had entertained about her. He felt ephemerally guilty once more. But he was never one to be described as really patient. She put her spoon down, and stared into his eyes. It was a stare she had never given him before and it was tempting to look away but just as he was about to, she beamed warmly at him and said,

"It's good."

And that made all the difference in the world.

* * *

"So... any snogging with Hermione?" said the red-haired head poking out of Harry's sitting room fire.

"WHAT?!" Harry bellowed in shock, refusing to believe what had just come out of his best friend's mouth. At the same time he felt a blush creep to his cheeks at the memory of the things that filled his head about Hermione the night before. He valiantly tried to fight it but it was too late.

A malicious smile started to etch itself on Ron's freckled face. He wiggled his eyebrows and said, "You know... snogging... kissy-kissy? Smoochy-smoochy? Connecting of---"

"I know what it means, you arse. What I don't know is, what in the world you are talking about, Ron! I owe her and I was paying up. Why would I snog her?" Harry replied, furrowing his brow at his best friend, feeling faintly annoyed.

"Oh please. Hermione's a really good kisser. Partly why I didn't want to break up with her back in the day. You should know. You had that moment in Diagon Alley," Ron bared his teeth. Apparently, he was deeply enjoying himself.

"First of all, I don't know why she even had to do that. Second of all, I was too busy being surprised to note if she was a good kisser or not," Harry shouted over his shoulder, getting increasingly peeved as he went to get himself some toast.

"Well she is. Maybe you and her should try it again to see exactly what I mean," Ron guffawed.

"Not funny," Harry shot back, taking up a knife and began buttering his toast.

"But, seriously, mate... did you snog her? You can tell me."

"Would you quit it with the snogging? Read my lips: I-Did-Not-Snog-Hermione. No snogging, you get it? There was no snogging!" said Harry, loosing his patience, started brandishing the butter knife at Ron's head threateningly as if it were something more deadly. It was much too early for this.

Ron burst out laughing. So hard indeed that sparks began to fly out from the grate. Harry jumped out of the way to avoid them. His face was so scarlet and so hot that he could have had egg with his toast if he cracked one open on his face. Why Ron's mockery was getting to him so effectively? A voice in his head was already telling him a couple of theories but Harry did not want to hear them. Harry was rendered so speechless by his anger that all he could do was shake the butter knife even more and mutter words that even he couldn't understand. It took a while for Ron to get over himself. Every chunk of laughter coming out of his mouth hit Harry harder than any Bludger could. Ron was the last person he thought would torment him about Hermione for more reasons than one.

"Oh come on... I was just kidding around!" Ron said, breathing heavily, and wiping away tears of mirth.

Harry rolled his eyes and tore of a big piece of his toast and began chewing grudgingly.

"So how many more of these dinners do you owe her, exactly?" asked Ron.

"A lot. I promised her I owe her dinner or at least hang around with her every time our schedules permit us... until Lupin's wedding," Harry sighed, wondering why he didn't put more thought into this promise before he actually said anything to Hermione.

"Are you joking? That's almost a month!" Ron spluttered.

"No. I'm not. I wasn't thinking properly. I just went ahead and said it."

"Harry, Harry, Harry! Shame on you! You're supposed to be winning Liz back and here you are, cavorting with Hermione!" Ron shook his head.

"Look, I didn't mean to! I am trying to win Liz back and I am not cavorting with Hermione."

Ron went into another bout of laughter and then said, "Have it your way, then. You have a good practice, all right? I'm off...need to take care of some business at the shop."

"Bye," said Harry curtly as he squeezed himself some fresh orange juice.

"Oh don't be like that! I didn't mean anything by it!" Ron apologized though halfheartedly.

"Fine."

Ron shook his head once again and with a small pop!, it had disappeared from the fire, leaving Harry deeply disturbed and aggravated so early in the morning.

Harry trudged on the grass of the team field, the sun burning the back of his neck. But he strangely invited this pain. It took his mind off other more painful things. At least this pain, he could control and explain which he couldn't say for the others.

He made his way to the locker rooms, pushed open the ancient-looking door and entered.

"Odwin---we'll get staved! We can't play in this heat!" Wood was trying to reason with his mentor.

"Wood, you're a good man and I respect your opinions but it's just heat! We can play," said Odwin.

"Harry! You're here!" Wood said in relief, as though Harry could say something that could change Odwin's mind.

"Harry! You're late," Odwin said afterwards.

"Sorry," Harry apologized.

"Harry---you've been out in that heat. We can't play, can we? Just look! Your neck---it's all red!" Charisma exclaimed as everyone nodded in agreement.

In truth, Harry didn't think it was that bad. They would, after all, be flying at great speeds, which, if anything, would get the wind to whip across their bodies and the sun wouldn't be able to get a concentrated shot on their limbs.

"We're playing," Odwin said shortly.

The team once again burst into a furious tirade about Odwin's utter unfairness.

"WE'RE PLAYING!" Odwin yelled above the collective diatribe. But if this did anything to quell the team's fury, it sure didn't show.

Harry, so sick of any sort of bickering by now, having been tested already earlier, groaned in annoyance, grabbed his broom and marched back onto the sweltering field, slamming the door behind him. He wanted to fly and feel like everything else didn't matter. And if they wanted to waste precious time contradicting each other... then it was their loss.

Harry passed the shadows cast by the stands above and felt the sun's unforgiving wrath. He mounted his broom and kicked off quickly, not wanting to be in clear firing range any longer. He at least wanted to be a moving target. He did some drills and practiced his dives. This probably worked best to overpower the painful throbbing his heart was recently doing for one reason or another. His robes were getting sweaty and Harry's face was starting to burn---literally. But he as always, he didn't mind so much as long as he had the open air and his broom...

Suddenly his teammates joined him on the field, taking their invectives with them. Harry rolled his eyes. He knew that the heat did do funny things to people but he just wished they would at least have the sensitivity to keep him out of hearing vicinity.

He pulled on the handle of his broom, skyrocketing upwards, trying to get away from it all. But it was no use. His teammates were already angrily mounting their brooms and kicking off excessively hard off the ground, creating enormous dust clouds below them.

Odwin released the balls and took off. He didn't say anything but it was understood that they were all supposed to do drills now. This is going to be interesting. Harry thought lamely, submitting to the fact that he was going to have to put up with his teammates ill-temperedness for the next couple of hours.

But then it turned out he would have to be preparing himself to deal with more than just a few sore feelings. Their plays were getting excessively offensive and hazardous. Even the quaffle was becoming as perilous as any of the bludgers. It was all Harry could do to avoid the violent balls as they cut through the wind. He weaved in and out of corners, through teammates, exhibiting his best moves as he tailed the snitch. When he finally caught it, Odwin told them to divide into their teams.

And as Harry watched the reserves pull on their white robes, Harry deeply wished he was still one of them. Odwin being on their team right now when everyone was so sore at him could not be a good sign. Harry wondered why Odwin even called a practice game. Was he so dim not to know what injuries he could probably acquire by doing this? Harry sighed. Oh well. They were his appendages, after all. And he did bring this upon himself. But all the same Harry felt that he should give their captain a heads-up.

"Are you sure about this?" asked Harry quietly.

"Yes. I want them to harness their anger. I want to see if it makes a difference on the game play---if it makes it better," Odwin replied irritably, wiping forehead with one of the sleeves of his robes.

They would harness their anger all right. Harness their anger to break both Odwin's kneecaps more like. Harry was about to tell Odwin all this but the maniac told him to shut it as the reserves trooped into position for the quaffle to be thrown. Odwin took the quaffle as his team assembled. He threw it then went to catch up as fast as he could.

The first few minutes went better than Harry had expected it. All the bludgers were aimed at only one person (three guesses who), of course, but there were no serious injuries as of yet. But as they progressed, Harry was finding it increasingly hard to pay attention to the game. The heat was beginning to make him sluggish that it was only through pure luck that he continued to avoid their bludgers which were hitting with record force.

He sped slowly, feeling too warm to be able to exert any really effort into his game anymore. The heat was slowly eating away at his energy. He was flying so slowly that if he went any slower, he'd be going backwards. He cast a slow glance at the relentless and unmerciful ball of fire blazing on the orange sky above them. He remembered faintly willing for it to disappear for a while when something slugged him unbearably in the stomach causing him to tumble off his broom.

He managed to grab the handle of his Lightning. But his palms were so sweaty it was evident that he wasn't going to be able to hold on too long. He vaguely cursed them as each finger slid off. The heat had done some job on him. It was almost as if he was forgetting to panic. But his heart was slowly remembering how as he inched ever so closely to the sinister looking earth below him.

Everyone suddenly realized what was happening as Harry's hand finally gave way and he started crashing down.

Harry had never felt anything like it. He had been unconscious the last time something like this ever happened to him. It was somewhat like the charge he felt throughout his body when he dived but it was also distinctly different. The wind was whistling so hard and felt so cruel. It was as if it were cutting through his skin. He felt as though he had left his internal organs up in the air with his broom and its pain was suddenly more pronounced than Harry had ever felt it. He wanted to scream but there was nothing left inside him to let off any sort of cry. Two sides of him were fighting for dominance. One all but welcomed this fall as if it was a last ditch effort to feel alive before everything around him disappeared into the black of death. The other was wishing to live and was not willing to give up everything this earth had to offer.

The girls gasped and some were temporarily dumbstruck. It was a good thing Wood kept his wits about him. His eyes were popping madly and his hands were shaking but he pulled out his wand firmly and quickly muttered, "Wingardium Leviosa".

Harry suddenly felt the strange rush come to an end as Wood's spell came into effect. Wood was zooming down towards him with the rest of the team in tow as Harry floated slowly downward.

Harry fell to the ground clutching his stomach. It was so much more excruciating now that he was safe. He clinched his eyes. It was almost as if he couldn't breath. No sound, no air came from his lips and he was wheezing, trying in vain to get a good deep breath.

"Somebody---somebody get Nestor!" Wood called.

Harry spluttered and coughed. Air was gradually filling his lungs again but the pain was still as arduous as ever. He put his shaking fingers on his mouth and found that blood was gushing from it, staining the white sand beneath him. He stared at his blood covered hands and saw the color drain from inside it.

He heard footsteps behind him and shadows were casting themselves on him. They were calling his name. But Harry could not answer their worried calls.

Nestor had arrived and he was kneeling beside Harry.

"He's going to be all right. Now stop crowding him, all of you. The man needs some air!" the medic ordered, taking out some potions from inside his bag.

Nestor put a cushion underneath Harry's head to elevate it.

"Gargle and spit," Nestor said, shoving a class of water into Harry's pale hands.

Harry did as he was told, spitting out scarlet colored water. His lips felt cold and numb.

"Now drink this. Hurry before more blood comes out of that mouth of yours," Nestor said firmly, handing Harry a cup of some thick red potion which was emitting pink steam.

Harry traipsed back to his home, feeling a little bit shaken, and still a bit sickeningly cold. His robes were marked with bloodstains and his hair was looked too ghastly for words. All he really wanted to do was flop onto his soft, comfortable feather bed and sleep for a century and forget everything he wanted to forget. He was still so irritated by the fact that his teammates still found it in themselves to argue while he was spitting blood out and drinking some horrid tasting pink gak.

"This is all your fault, Odwin!" Wood had yelled, as they stood behind Harry, watching.

"My fault, is it? If anything, it's Bradley's fault---wasn't it him who hit the bludger?" Odwin retorted.

"Excuse me?" Bradley bellowed.

And so it began once again. Harry shuddered as he remembered it. He shifted his gaze on his front porch. He was on the home stretch.

But then again, life was never that kind to Harry Potter. So it wasn't so surprising that when he entered his home, he found somebody had beaten him to the coach in front of the fire.

"Liz? How did you---"

"You've already forgotten that I know where you hide your spare key?" Liz muttered, getting up slowly from the cushions, twirling a tiny silver key with her delicate fingers.

Harry scolded himself internally for forgetting to change its hiding place.

"If you've forgotten that... then it really has been a long time, hasn't it?" she murmured, as she walked toward him.

Her voice sounded strange. It was a bit strangled and throaty. Her eyes were pink and puffy.

"Liz---Liz what's wrong?" Harry noticed tears welling up in those dark brown eyes. Anxiety was beginning to course through his veins. Liz wasn't the type of girl who let her feelings show so much. But right now she looked as if she were breaking. He should know. She broke him, after all.

"Oh Harry! I didn't know who else I could turn to... I just... I just..." her knees buckled as her tears began to surge through her eyelids. Harry caught her before she hit the ground. He never held her tighter.

"He's dead, Harry... Papi's dead..." she managed to say in between sobs. And that's all she could bring herself to say.

Harry's stomach dropped like a piece of lead in a pool of water. Grandpapi Ramirez was... gone? That sprightly old man he used to play Cargaburro with when he would go visit Liz's family?

No way. He couldn't be gone.

Papi couldn't speak a word of English but... but there was always a connection between them somehow---an unspoken one that was just felt.

He remembered the first game they ever played. Liz had gone with her parents and a few of her aunts to get a few things for the festival later that day and Harry was left with Papi on the front terrace. A tattered set of playing cards lay scattered on the floor. Harry thought the old man had been sleeping. His bushy white mustache was twitching and his eyes were shut.

Harry started getting bored. He drummed his fingers on the arms of the white chair he was sitting on. He tried whistling but it sounded more like air than anything else so he stopped attempting this feat after a short while.

He wished he could've gone with Liz but she had expressly told him to stay with her grandfather. He shot the snoozing old man another look. This was apparently going to be loads of fun. Harry wondered where all of Liz's cousins were because he was in dire need of company that would rather do something more entertaining than sleep. He knew she had tons of them. They were a great big family of wizards, muggles and squibs even (but the latter two were rare finds)---so where were they?

Harry sighed. He tried counting the cracks on the wooden boards beneath him. He got lost at number three hundred and eighty-seven but those playing cards caught his eye. He gathered the whole lot of them and started playing solitaire on the stoops. He was already beginning to accept that this game would only keep him occupied for about half an hour when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

Harry looked up suddenly, being faintly startled. The old man was staring down upon him warmly. He was holding the straw hat that was once resting on top of his head, in his pale, withered hands.

"Um, yes? Is there something you want?" said Harry, not sure whether he could be understood.

"Abes jugar Cargaburro?" was Papi's reply to him. This was the first thing he ever told Harry. And it was on the short list of words Harry had ever heard him speak.

Harry would later on find out from Liz that this phrase meant 'Do you play Cargaburro?' But for that moment in time when he was devoid of such translations, Harry stared blankly back at Papi. After all, he couldn't speak Spanish. But it seemed that Papi could speak nothing but Spanish. Fantastic.

"Excuse me?" Harry asked slowly.

"Abes jugar Cargaburro?" The old man repeated, now grinning warmly at him.

"Um, sorry, I don't speak Spanish, sir." Harry tried to explain but the old man just looked confused at this pronouncement.

Harry tried to remember those Spanish soap operas Aunt Petunia sometimes watched. There must be something useful he picked up from there. What did those American characters say in those shows again?

"Er, no habla Espanol, sir..." said Harry awkwardly.

The old man chuckled. Harry knew he must've spoken that phrase really terribly but at least Papi understood what he had just said.

"No te preocupes---es facil," smiled Papi, putting one of his wrinkled hands on Harry's shoulder.

Then he began to shuffle the cards and gesturing to Harry how to get started. It was slow work at first but Papi was a patient man and it didn't seem as though it bothered him to repeat his pantomimes.

Soon they were playing round after round after round. It was a simple game but the linkage between the two players was anything but simple. It was almost as if Harry had known Papi once before and this elementary carouse was what kept it alive. So they kept playing until all the members of the Ramirez clan had ambled into the house. They kept playing after sundown. They kept playing until the crickets started their nightly opera. It was such a great goad to have to stop. But Mrs. Ramirez was getting quite exasperated with the pair of them. And the dinner table was practically groaning at their absence.

This was the birth of a new tradition at the Ramirez household.

But as Harry heard the overflowing sobs of Elizabeth, he knew that this tradition had come to an end. He sat there on the cold floor, cradling her in his arms, unable to speak, unable to move. It was almost as if his couldn't breath.

He envied Liz for she could cry.

His sorrow, it seemed, was well beyond tears.

He didn't know how long they were there. It was like time had taken up a standstill. Harry didn't even notice that Liz had lapsed into grief stricken silence. He was too overwhelmed by his own woe that it was almost as if he was worlds apart from everything that surrounded him. He felt so numb... so empty... so fragile. If a strong gust of wind were to blow, he thought, it might very well take me with it. He hoped it would.

"Harry?" said a voice meekly.

Harry slowly turned his head down to look at Liz who was lying down on his lap. She got up and made herself level with his brilliant green eyes.

"I miss you," and with that, she kissed him.

It was as if he were falling. Like his grief was pouring into her and hers was pouring into him, filling him up with such acute intensity that it was emanating from him as steam did with boiling water. He could not explain it. He was drowning in a sea of so many mixed emotions but he did not struggle. It was filling the void that was threatening to engulf him in its darkness.

He was so caught up in this passion that he did not hear the creaking of his door. He had left it unlocked. But it did not stay open for long. It was closed quick as a snap, almost as if it never happened.

Almost.