Harry Potter and the Power of Emotion

******

Hermione sat alone in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, sipping a cup of tea, her mind stuck at the Burrow, reliving over and over the events of the afternoon. Her mother was asleep upstairs; the Dreamless Sleep Potion that Madam Pomfrey had given both of them apparently had a much stronger effect on Muggles. Hermione had woken a little while ago and came down to make her tea while her mother still slept.

The rest of the house was quiet, and she assumed they were all sleeping, either on their own, or knocked out by Madam Pomfrey. She was desperate to know her father's condition and decided the kitchen was always the first stop of anyone who came through the house, so here she would wait.

Hermione had been inside the Burrow when the Death Eaters arrived. Harry had run out after the Dursleys, and Mr. Weasley had watched from the door. They had all followed him into the yard when the Death Eaters appeared. She'd tried to get both her parents to stay down and out of the way, but her dad got hit with a curse, anyway. Hermione still wasn't even certain what it had been. She kept envisioning him falling to the ground over and over in her head, like some bad movie.

She was overwhelmed with guilt. Her parents had just wanted her to come home; they had only wanted to see her. She'd spent so little time with them these past two years, and they had wanted a family Christmas. They'd agreed to go to the Burrow on her urging, knowing how much she wanted to be with her friends.

She had known the risks she was putting them in by being there, and she'd accepted those risks. But she'd never fully revealed to her parents what was really happening in the Wizarding world. She was afraid if they knew everything, they would try and pull her out of Hogwarts. They were Muggles and, of course, would be high-profile targets. What was I thinking?

Hermione was well aware of the irony of the situation in which she found herself. For years, she had been exasperated with Harry for constantly taking the blame for anything bad that happened. He felt guilty if someone caught a cold. She'd always given him such a hard time about it. Of course, watching the guilt trip his relatives had heaped on him at dinner, she could better understand how he got that way.

She had a whole new appreciation of how Harry had spent his life after what had just happened with her dad. Despite all the knowledge in the world that it was the Death Eaters that had done this, no amount of logic could overpower her guilt. It was overwhelming, and it consumed her completely. How did Harry cope with this every day?

They'd been told Lupin was seriously wounded with silver poisoning, and she wondered what was happening with him. Harry couldn't handle another loss right now, and she knew when he woke up he'd sit here and commiserate with her over the guilt. She was certain he'd be feeling it, too.

Then, there was the Burrow -- she couldn't believe it was gone. She'd watched in horror as the walls came tumbling down. She and Ron had clung to each other as they watched the flames burn the only home Ron had ever known. In truth, it had been a home to her as well. She was certain that she would grieve with Ron over the loss of his home once she made certain that her dad would be okay.

George Weasley had been seriously injured early in the battle by a Diffindo curse, just like Harry's Aunt Petunia. Hermione and Ron had watched in horror as Fred battled fiercely with the Death Eater who had struck his twin down, eventually Stunning the man. She remembered seeing the foul man still lying on the ground when the Burrow exploded.

Kingsley Shacklebolt, who had arrived with Charlie and the rest of the Order, had been pinned underneath a huge pile of rubble. She'd seen them digging him out as they transported her, Ron, Ginny, and her mom back to headquarters. Ginny had been screaming about not knowing where Harry was, but no one listened. They wanted them out of the way and promised to send Harry along quickly.

She and Ron had watched Harry fighting the Death Eaters with awe and amazement. Where had he learned to fight like that? They knew he could take care of himself -- he'd proved that time and time again -- but this was something else. This was more than just magic; Harry was using what appeared to be fairly advanced martial arts. Hermione didn't even know he had been aware of anything like that.

She knew that there was more going on with Harry than he had told them about these past few months. It was obvious he still kept things from them, and she was fairly certain it had to do with the prophecy from the Department of Mysteries. Hermione always enjoyed a good mystery and thrived on figuring things out. She should have set her mind to figuring this out long ago, but had held back.

Harry had told her over the summer that he wasn't ready to talk, and she knew from vast experience that pushing him only made him retreat further. Still, she could have had the answers by now if she had really wanted them. And that was the heart of it; somehow, she suspected that whatever Harry was hiding was something she really didn't want to know. That would have to change. Harry was going to have to do some talking, whether he wanted to or not.

As long as Remus lived... if Harry lost Remus, too... she really wasn't certain he would survive that. Hermione took another sip of her tea and glanced yet again at the door, hoping for some sign of life that could tell her what was happening.

******

When Harry awoke, some time later, he could hear Ron's snores coming from the bed on the other side of the room. It was pitch black, but he assumed they were back in their own room at Grimmauld Place. He lay there for a moment, trying to piece together everything that happened, with a feeling of dread growing in his belly. He had to find out how Remus was doing.

He sat up groggily and, for the first time in his life, didn't immediately reach for his glasses. He didn't think he really wanted to see anything in focus right now. Happy Christmas, he thought bitterly. He needed to go downstairs to see if there was any news on Remus or the others. He vaguely recalled hearing that something had happened to George. Hermione hadn't been there when he'd arrived, or, at least, he hadn't seen her. He hoped her father was okay.

He wondered about the Dursleys, too. Mr. Weasley had said Aunt Petunia would be okay, but still... they must be so panicked, being in a Wizard Hospital. He had no great affection for his relatives, but they didn't deserve this. He might wish he'd never have to see them again, but he wanted them alive while he lived his life elsewhere.

Ginny's tear-stained face swam in his head, and he realized how badly he wanted to see her and make certain she was okay. He didn't even want to think about the Burrow; he couldn't imagine how Ron and Ginny must feel. Sighing, he put the glasses on and slowly stood up, feeling a spasm of pain course through his leg. It was stiff, so he shook it out a bit, trying to loosen the aches. He wrapped his dressing gown over his pajamas and limped into the hall.

He stopped a minute outside Ginny's door and put a hand on it. She'd probably be sleeping, and he shouldn't disturb her. Still, he couldn't deny that he wanted to see her. Things always seemed... better when she was with him. He kept walking, glancing into the drawing room, but it was empty. He found he had to concentrate very hard to simply put one foot in front of the other. He felt like his whole world had been built from a shaky pack of cards caught in a windstorm; one wrong move, and the whole thing was ready to come crashing down.

He continued heading towards the kitchen, his heart beating harder with each step. Certainly, they would have told him if... no, he was okay. St. Mungo's was probably very crowded. Dumbledore had said something about multiple attacks that day. He reached the door to the kitchen and could see a light shining underneath. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open to find Hermione sitting there alone, sipping a cup of tea.

"Harry!" She got up and ran towards him, wrapping him in a tight embrace. "Are you all right? You're limping!"

He patted her on the back and gently eased her back towards her seat before sitting down himself. "I'm okay. Where is everyone? How's your dad?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. Everyone is asleep; I'm waiting for someone to come in with some news. Madam Pomfrey gave my mum and me Sleeping Draughts when we arrived."

"Yeah, I think she gave me one, too. I'm not real clear on anything that happened after I got here."

Hermione poured a cup of tea and pushed it towards him. "Chocolate Frog?" she asked, holding up one of several in front of her.

Harry wasn't hungry and declined as he sipped his tea. "What time is it?"

"I'm not certain, well after midnight. Someone should have been here with some news by now. It's just--" Hermione's voice broke off as she stared at her open Chocolate Frog. She had a stunned expression on her face that caused Harry some concern.

"Hermione, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

Hermione shook her head and closed the card in her hand. "What? Oh, sorry, I'm fine."

She seemed nervous, and he held out his hand. "Give me the card, Hermione."

"It's nothing, Harry. I don't think--" she was interrupted again as he reached over and snatched the card from her hand. He sat in stunned disbelief, looking at the image of himself on a Chocolate Frog card. The picture must have been taken some time during the Tri-Wizard tournament; he couldn't believe how young he looked... and really short. It seemed like it had been just yesterday, and yet, at the same time, another lifetime ago. Harry felt like a few of the cards in his carefully constructed house had just toppled over.

Why would they ever put his picture on a Chocolate Frog card? He read the bio about the Boy-Who-Lived and how he defeated Voldemort as a baby and tried to warn everyone of his return, but no one believed him for nearly a year. All the references to his being a hero made him feel bitter and angry. Harry felt an anger well up inside him that he hadn't felt in a while and viciously tossed the card across the table.

"Harry," Hermione began tentatively. "People need heroes to believe in. They need something positive to counterbalance the dark, and you fit the bill. You have to admit, your life hasn't exactly been ordinary."

"But I'm not a hero, Hermione. I never asked for any of this, and I most certainly don't want it. I don't know why they continue to make me out like a hero, when all I do is get people killed. I don't even notice half the stuff that's going on with other people around me."

"You haven't gotten anyone killed, Harry. When are you going to get that through your thick skull? You are a hero, whether you see it or not. You're a real-life hero to people, not a storybook one, where the chapter ends, and you never have to see the hero coping with the consequences. Other wizards would lie down and give up, or become bitter like Malfoy or Snape, if they ever had to face half of what you've been through. But you did it, and you still go on. That's what makes you a hero."

Harry sat there looking at her in amazement, why doesn't she see? He was trouble; he brought trouble to everyone around him. It followed him everywhere he went, and it more than likely would end up getting her killed. That wasn't what a hero was supposed to do.

He was growing angry with her, but he didn't want to fight when both of their emotions were so raw. He was about to get up and leave when the door swung open, and Fred walked in, looking tired and weary and like half of him was missing. Harry supposed this was likely how it felt for Fred.

"Fred! How's George?" Harry asked.

"I dunno; I was about to ask you the same thing. Madam Pomfrey gave me a sleeping draught, and I just woke up. Where is everybody?"

"Seems Madam Pomfrey was pretty liberal with the sleeping draughts. We're the only ones awake so far," Hermione commented dryly.

Before the words were completely out of her mouth, they heard the front door open, and all three hurried out into the entrance hall to greet Mr. Weasley and Mad-Eye Moody. Both looked wiped out and ready to collapse on their feet.

"Dad," Fred exclaimed, grasping his father's arm and leading him to a chair. "How's George?"

Moody sank down into a chair next to him, while Harry and Hermione sat opposite, staring anxiously and waiting for answers.

"George has a long recovery ahead of him. He'll be laid up a while, but he will recover. You can see him tomorrow; just know he's still pretty out of it." Mr. Weasley's voice was weary, but the sound of relief was unmistakable.

"Your father is being released in the morning, Hermione," Moody assured her. "They wanted to keep him overnight for observation, but he's going to be fine. They want to know about Obliviating him?"

"No. My parents know about magic already; they don't need to do that," Hermione answered firmly.

"That's what I thought you'd say, but we had to ask." Mr. Weasley smiled. "Harry, they want to know about doing the same to the Dursleys. They'll probably release your aunt tomorrow, as well. I don't think they can be rid of her soon enough. They've pretty much kept your uncle and cousin stunned to contain them."

Harry put his hand to his forehead, and his brow furrowed in concentration. The Dursleys would actually be better off not remembering any of the events that happened today. They hated magic with a passion, and this would only fuel it more; they'd be better off not knowing. "Yeah, go ahead and use a Memory Charm. It's probably for the best."

Mr. Weasley nodded. "That's what Albus said, but it's your decision to make."

Harry nodded and gave the go ahead. He was growing alarmed; they hadn't said anything about Remus, and mentally he began preparing himself to hear the worst. He gripped into his own thighs, not even noticing as his nails dug into the skin.

"Shacklebolt will be laid up for a few days, but he's going to make a full recovery. He'll be off duty at the Ministry for a while," Moody supplied. The room waited with baited breath through an awkward silence.

"Is he dead?" Harry asked hollowly, causing Mr. Weasley to flinch. Hermione instantly put her hand on Harry's back, but he stiffened and shook her off.

"No, no, no," Mr. Weasley assured him. "He's alive, Harry, but he's not in good shape. The silver poisoning was extensive, but it never pierced his skin, so he has a chance. They're working to get all the poison from his system by replacing his blood, but it's slow going, and they still don't know for certain if it will help. It's going to be touch and go for a while. I'm sorry I don't have better news for you."

Harry nodded woodenly and got up to leave. He's still alive; there's still a chance. He didn't want to allow that hope to bloom. It would be easier just to expect the worst. Harry quietly left the room and mounted the stairs. No one said anything, but he could feel all their eyes on his back as he ascended. He reached the door to his bedroom but stopped, his hand hovering just above the doorknob.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he turned and stepped across the hall. It wasn't in his power to control his actions; it was like blind instinct. He needed her. He quietly opened the door to her room and slipped inside, shutting the latch gently and gingerly moving towards the sleeping figure on the bed.

She was sleeping peacefully; he could see the gentle rise and fall of her chest and the fluttering movement of her eyes behind the lids. Madam Pomfrey must have gotten to her too, he thought wryly. He didn't have the heart to wake her. He stood over her for a minute and gently rubbed his knuckles over the soft, warm skin of her face. She sighed in contentment, causing a ghost of a smile to appear on Harry's lips. He kept his fingers there for a few minutes, shutting his eyes and basking in the warmth of her skin.

He didn't want to wake her, but he didn't want to leave her, either. His eyes raked over Hermione's still made-up bed, and he assumed his friend had slept in with her mother. Harry pulled the covers back and crawled in, lying on his side and adjusting the pillow so he could stare at Ginny's sleeping face. He couldn't be certain how long he stayed there, the events of the day playing over and over in his mind. Eventually, the exhaustion caught up to him again, and he felt strong enough to tiptoe quietly back to his own room and allow the gentle tide of sleep finally claim him.