Paradox

Paradox

It’s the perfect time of year

Somewhere far away from here

I feel fine enough, I guess

Considering everything’s a mess

The snow was falling so heavily it might as well have been rain, and it lacked the beauty most first-snowfalls possessed. Instead of aspiring and exciting, it held the weight of past events and dropped from the sky like blotches, not shapes. The sky was metallic instead of fluffy, and the wind decided not to blow, adding more to the cake of sad feelings the outside world was fixing.

The fire in the hearth of the common room seemed only providing light rather than both that and warmth, and the air felt still and weighted, like the snow. Everyone was jumpy. One slight move out of the ordinary, one soft clamor, and everyone jumped and shot a glance over their shoulders. The chatter was quiet and hushed, everyone mourning recent losses.

Hermione Granger was one of these muted students, and she hunched low over her homework. Strands of hair fell limply over her sad, despondent eyes, eyes that kept blinking back at something in them. Her usually so articulate script sputtered haphazardly over her parchment. She swallowed loudly every few seconds.

Alone in her corner, surrounded by her books, lost in sad thoughts, Hermione felt separate from her classmates; though, in reality, their thoughts were one in the same: “What happened?”

Hermione’s quill faltered, then stopped, and felt to the table with a soft clank.

Everyone in the common room jumped and looked over their shoulders.

She buried her face in her hands, staying this way for a few moments, trying to push dark thoughts from her mind.

In a way, she was separate from everyone; she was probably grieving more than most. She’d known the object of so many tears closely, but he had somehow touched every Gryffindor’s heart.

Hagrid had been killed a few days before, killed by Lord Voldemort, of course. It had been his closest kill to Harry since his parents’ deaths, and it had been done, most likely, to dishearten those of fiery spirits and powers who stood in Voldemort’s way. The plan, of course, had worked wonders. Harry, who was probably more hurt than Hermione, had left the common room about fifteen minutes before, muttering something about chocolate.

Ron—Hermione wasn’t sure where Ron was, but she expected he was in the kitchens, trying to smuggle food from the house elves; his way of mourning was to eat, eat, and, well…eat some more.

No one else in that room could have come anywhere close to Hermione’s range of pain, but, somehow, there was a slight feel of belonging within it. She felt excluded but included at the same time. It was a weird feeling, and ultimately caused an out-of-body-experience.

“Taking a nap?” a familiar voice asked by her ear.

She jumped, jerking her head up. “Huh?” she said stupidly.

Ron afforded a slight smile. “Apparently so.” He took a bite of his sandwich.

She decided not to question, as she was so far behind anyway, and took the moment to chastise him instead. “Don’t do that.”

“O’course,” he said through a mouthful.

She sighed and shoved some particularly limp clumps of hair out of her eyes, turning back to her homework. As soon as her face turned downward once more, the curtain of her hair fell over the side, shielding it from Ron’s view, so he couldn’t speculate her mood. It was when a loud sniff emitted from inside the shade of thick hair that he became aware of the fact that his female friend was on the verge of tears.

“Hermione?” he said softly. He pushed away her hair, revealing a pale face and huge, watery brown eyes.

“What?” she snapped, pulling back from him.

“You crying?”

“No,” she said peevishly.

Ron peered quizzically at her. “Maybe you shouldn’t be doing—” he checked the book she had propped open, “—Arithmancy at a time like this.”

“Why not?” she asked angrily, swiping at her nose. It was itchy and in need of a good blow, the organized part of her mind thought, and she began searching her robe for handkerchief in an absent way. “It’s always a time for schoolwork, consider we live at a school—”

“It’s a time for mourning.”

“What do you think I’m doing?” she demanded, tossing her head up to glare at him. Forget the handkerchief. Who cared if her nose started dripping?

“Arithmancy?” he said with a weak smile.

She resolved not to answer, and turned back to her homework.

“Where’s Harry?” asked Ron, eyes scanning over the room in search of his friend.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“I’m mad at Voldemort, not you,” she told him snappishly.

He winced. “Not you too…” he groaned, burying his face in his arms, having finished his sandwich.

“Not me too what?” Her reply was muffled, as she was deep in her book in attempt to hide her teary eyes.

“It’s You-Know-Who, not—not—” he stammered. He paused, and then restarted. “Not that word.”

Hermione sighed, sitting up and closing her book. She fixed Ron with a penetrating stare. “It’s Voldemort, Ron.”

“Stop it…” He held up his hands defensively.

“VOLDEMORT, VOLDEMORT, VOLDEMORT!” Hermione shrieked.

A silence fell over the common room and everyone turned to stare at their corner.

“WHAT?!” barked Hermione.

Everyone continued looking, though a few jumped and glanced over their shoulders.

With a loud huff/sniff, Hermione was on her feet, ignoring the fact that her chair was now, in response, on the floor, and stormed angrily to the portrait hole. No one moved to stop her, as they considered her quite mad at this point, and she managed to get out of the common room without a single barrier. She felt the eyes follow her even as she slipped out.

It's like a dream you try to remember

But it's gone

Then you try to scream

But it only comes out as a yawn

When you try to see the world

Beyond your front door

Take your time, is the way I rhyme gonna make you smile

When you realize that a guy my size might take a while?

Just to try to figure out what all this is for

The snowflakes felt just as heavy as they looked, Hermione soon found out. Upon leaving the common room, she’d left the school too, now taken to walking around the grounds listlessly, her only aim avoiding Hagrid’s hut. This proved to be harder than she’d thought, as she soon found herself standing in front of it.

It was as it always had been, cozy and weary, inviting and sleepy, loving and old. It usually invoked warm feelings within her, welcoming and caring. But now, as she stood by the steps in the wet snow, flakes melting immediately at contact with her cloak, it made her insides freeze over, made her vision swirl with tears, made a lump form in her throat, a lump that just wouldn’t dissolve.

She took a deep breath, released it, causing a huge cloud of steam to billow out and swirl around her face. It felt damp against her skin, mingling with a few stray tears that had somehow made their way out of the protective shield of her eyelids. It was funny, how, a few moments before she’d wanted to avoid this place; now all she wanted to do was enter it and curl up in Hagrid’s bed.

She didn’t go that far, she didn’t enter it or curl up in Hagrid’s bed (the door was locked, she found as she jiggled the handle, and she thought it inconsiderate to open it), but she didn’t turn away either. Undaunted, she headed to the side of the house where she knew some benches were.

Prepared to plop down upon one (they were all cleared of snow, as the roof stretched out a few inches beyond the walls, protecting the benches from precipitation), she trudged through the thick snow towards them. But as she turned the corner, she saw she wasn’t the only one who’d had that revelation.

A figure sat hunched over, wrapped tightly in a cloak. His face was almost entirely hidden, but his hair poked out, and after having known him for six years, she recognized him immediately.

She hesitated for only a second, but what to do was so obvious one couldn’t even tell she faltered. She took the spot next to him, silent, and followed his hidden gaze off into the forest.

It was the type of silence that came from mutual feelings: comfortable. But as the thoughts and feelings were negative, this quietness held a twinge of sadness and seemed as heavy as the snow.

“I can’t believe he’s gone,” said Hermione croakily, breaking through the stillness. She glanced next to her. “I just can’t believe he’s gone.”

The figure beside her shifted, revealing his face and body shape. He looked at her for a moment. “I can,” he said finally.

“Can what?” she asked, absently running her fingers over the hem of her cloak.

His eyes stared intently into hers. “Believe he’s dead,” he croaked out, “I can believe he’s dead.”

Hermione shook her head, turning back to the snow. “It just doesn’t feel right.”

“Just because it doesn’t feel right doesn’t me you don’t believe it.”

“You know what I mean,” said Hermione snappishly. Why did he have to be annoying at a time like this?

“I don’t know anything right now,” Harry said softly, pulling his cloak tighter around himself.

“Yet you still chastise me for what I said.”

“I didn’t chastise you. I pointed out a perfectly valid flaw.”

“Right.” Hermione sighed and shifted, tugging on her own cloak for warmth. The wind had decided to join in the snow, and instead of livening the wildness, it sparked some life within her. “Aren’t you cold?”

“I’d be colder inside,” he said simply, looking away. His eyelids slowly fell shut. “This is the warmest place anywhere.”

Hermione didn’t argue; in fact, she agreed. She felt safer, cozier here than anywhere since Hagrid’s death, and the previous feeling of isolation went away as she and Harry had joint senses of abandonment and depression.

They were both silent after that. They just sat there, staring at the falling snow, not really seeing it; their thoughts were on Hagrid, and they saw him instead.

Hermione could just see him blundering around in his moleskin overcoat, shoveling snow off his front steps, Fang at his side. See him smiling warmly at her, Harry, and Ron as they came to visit him. She remembered when he’d been in love with Madam Maxime and had “dressed up,” cologne and all.

As she thought of the previous years, all memories of them and Hagrid happily warm, a bitter thought crept into her mind and said, in Hagrid’s slang, “No good sittin’ worryin’ abou’ it. What’s comin’ will come, an’ we’ll meet it when it does.”

Hermione’s heart thumped slowly and precisely against her ribcage as a revelation came: was this what had been coming? Had…had he known?

“…An’ we’ll meet it when it does…”

She swallowed hard against that lump that was always there; the thing was, it seemed to be getting thicker now. So thick she could barely breath. It hurt. It made her eyes water so much tears formed and trickled down her cheeks.

“Stupid lump,” she breathed, gulping. She brushed savagely at the tears, but they just got more numerous, and soon two incessant rivers were slipping down her pink cheeks. “Why?” she choked out, giving in entirely. “Why did he have to die?”

She didn’t expect an answer. At least, not the answer she received. It was so bizarre she could hardly believe it.

“Because of me,” said Harry hoarsely. “He died because of me.”

“What?” Hermione sniffled, looking to his face in surprise.

“He died because of me,” he repeated.

“Harry, don’t talk nonsense—”

“It’s not nonsense. It’s the truth.” His head swiveled around so she stared into his glittering green eyes. “Voldemort can’t kill me, so he’ll torture me instead.”

“What?” she said faintly. She mopped away some tears with her cloak, the fabric of which scratched violently at her cheeks. “Harry—you know that’s not—”

“It’s me,” he said slowly. His eyes were huge and blinding against his flushed cheeks. “It’s me, Hermione. Blame me. I know you want to blame someone. Blame me.”

“It’s not you,” snapped Hermione nasally. “It’s Voldemort, Harry. Not you.”

“Hagrid’s just the first, you realize that, right?” Harry continued. Hermione noticed his hands were shaking and kept wringing themselves out. “Next it’ll be Ron, and you, and Dumbledore, and everyone I ever loved. Sirius. Lupin. Everyone. And you’ll all die because of me,” he spat out, stabbing at his chest with a shaking finger. “Me.”

“Because of Voldemort,” Hermione hissed, still sobbing. She struck at her damp cheeks with her heel to dam the tears. “Not you. Him.”

“Me,” Harry repeated. “Me.”

“Voldemort.”

“Stop trying to make me feel better. It’s me. I know it. I’ve accepted it. I don’t need you to condone it.”

“I’m not condoning it! I don’t believe it.”

He buried his head in his shoulder. “You should.”

“I don’t.”

He peeked over the black wool of his cloak. “I’m sorry,” he whispered weakly. He closed his eyes. “My God, I am so sorry.”

“For what?” Those tears were still coming. That stupid lump. “You didn’t do anything, Harry…”

“I’m sorry I made him die…” He reached out a trembling hand to touch her face. His fingers were like ice. “I’m sorry you’re going to die too…” His shoulders shook. Was there a lump in his throat too? “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault!” Hermione insisted. “It isn’t.”

Yes, he must’ve had a lump in his throat. His eyes were starting to water now. Next would be the tears… “Maybe I should—I should turn myself in…”

“For what?” Hermione cried. She grabbed his hand; it was frozen. “Damn it, Harry!” she cursed angrily, squeezing his hand. “For what?”

“For you,” he whispered.

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but then seemed to really contemplate what he’d said and closed it, looking inquiring.

Though his sadness was thick and heavy, embarrassment still found its way into him and Harry’s ears turned pinker than they had been. “For everyone I love,” he added quickly. Then he seemed to realize he’d dug himself deeper and decided to drop it as Hermione continued to stare. “If Voldemort has me, he’ll leave you and everyone else alone.”

Recovering her surprise, Hermione snorted. “Yeah. Right. Harry, if you let Voldemort kill you, then who’s going to be there to kill Voldemort? No one. And if no one’s there to kill Voldemort, then we all are as well as dead, without a doubt, as no one you—you love would ever join and let rule someone who killed you!” His hand, that she still had clasped in her own, was thrown down as she released her disgust by throwing something; and his hand had been that something available. “You have the stupidest logic I have ever heard.”

He stared at her with really round, really green eyes, glazed with tears, for a moment; he looked like he was going to cry, and an icy hand pinched at Hermione’s heart as guilt formed in her mind. She opened her mouth to apologize, but was cut off as he burst out laughing.

“You’re right,” said Harry, nodding. “I’m an idiot. That is a stupid plan.”

“I know I’m right,” Hermione snapped. But she was smiling.

The death of Hagrid loomed over them, forgotten for a moment, as Harry laughed at his own stupidity and Hermione smiled at her own intelligence. But the moment was broken when Hermione became aware of where she was, and then the tears came, streaming down her face, and she choked. Soon she was bawling outright.

It was so abrupt, so sudden, one would have thought Harry would have been shocked, stupefied; maybe stared at her in wonderment. He wasn’t, though, and he didn’t; his laughter changed without ceasing into tears, and he joined Hermione as the both of them finally allowed an outlet to their grief.

Pinch me, pinch me

‘Cause I'm still asleep

Please, God, tell me that I'm still asleep

It took a while for that torrent of tears to end, and by the time it did, they were leaning on each other for support and the sky had gone from gray to black. A bitter wind blew, and the snowflakes grew and grew, no longer quite so heavy, more feathery, now.

“He didn’t deserve it,” Hermione sniffled, pulling her face off Harry’s shoulder. The fabric of his cloak stuck to her tears, and she had to remove it. She knew she probably looked horrible, but there was nothing she could do about it; she didn’t care, anyway. She rubbed at the face, blinking around. “But there’s nothing we can do about it,” she added quickly, giving Harry a piercing look.

He, too, was rubbing at his tear-streaked face, looking surprised (Harry never cried; Hermione was surprised along with him), but when he saw the glance Hermione was bestowing upon him, he forced a weak, twisted smile. “I know, Hermione,” he said softly, croakily. “I figured that out now.”

She nodded. “Good…we’d better get back…” She glanced around at the darkness, penetrated only by the white skeletons of the snowflakes. “People will start to wonder where we’ve gone off to. Pretty soon they’ll send a search party...literally…all the—all the Dark Arts movements going on…” She trailed off as more tears pricked at her eyes.

Harry, seeing this, quickly agreed. He stood with her, and together they stepped out of the shelter of the roof hangover into the falling snow. Slowly they waded to the front of the cottage, and without a word, they both stopped and watched it in reverence. It didn’t move. No lights shone through the windows, no sign of life whatsoever.

It seemed dead, just like its owner.

“I just can’t believe he’s gone…” Hermione whispered. She felt choked up again. “It seems so surreal…”

Harry looked in contemplation. Hermione was his best friend, but he’d never considered her his best friend. Ron had always seemed to drape over her, pushing her from the best spot to the second best. But…the truth was…Hermione’s title was misleading. The only reason one would look at Ron as the best friend was because he and Harry had met first, and because he was a guy. The truth was, though, that ever since Hermione had become his friend, she’d never stopped being his friend. She was always there. And the moment they had just shared, crying over a loved one…that came nowhere near equal to any moment he and Ron had ever shared.

Right then, standing there in front of Hagrid’s hut, Harry saw Hermione in a new light: his best friend. The funny thing was, while she was changing from second best to best, she was also changing from “one of the guys” to an actual girl.

Harry blinked.

Why am I thinking about this right now? he wondered, shaking himself, looking away from Hermione to back at the hut. Hagrid’s dead. Hermione hardly matters at the moment. Her position in my life hardly matters. My…feelings for her hardly matter…

But then he found himself looking back at her, watching her watch Hagrid’s home with a pious nature, and comparing her to Cho Chang.

Cho’s a lot prettier than she is, a voice in his head piped in. Perfect features… But Hermione is kind of cute…

Another shake of his head. Hagrid’s dead, reminded a voice in his head. Hagrid…is…freaking…dead…

And though this saddened him, it didn’t jog him out of his train of thought and he continued staring at his best friend.

Her hair’s all messed up, he mused.

Shut up, he snapped.

She’s Hermione, said another part of him.

He blinked, slowly…carefully…clearing his vision. And the picture stayed the same.

On an evening such as this,

It's hard to tell if I exist

If I pack the car and leave this town,

You'll notice that I'm not around

Hermione sniffled loudly, sighed, and turned her gaze away from the hut. Staying here won’t bring Hagrid back, she thought wistfully.

She found Harry staring at her. Not just looking at her. Downright staring at her.

It made her feel a little uneasy, and sad thoughts of Hagrid met up with the competition of suspicious thoughts of Harry.

“Er,” she said. “You okay, Harry?”

He didn’t answer; he kissed her instead.

“Oomph,” she said.

This was the weirdest, saddest day of my life, Hermione thought as Harry pulled away, his surprisingly soft lips making a slight smacking noise as they peeled away from hers.

He blinked at her.

She blinked back. “What just happened?” she asked in surprise, still sniffling over Hagrid.

“I have no idea,” Harry whispered, still staring intently at her. “But I liked it.”

She nodded. “So did I.”

Harry smiled a tight smile. “Ready to go in, now?”

Hermione hesitated, but then assented, glancing once more at Hagrid’s hut. “I can’t believe he’s gone…” she said softly.

“Me neither,” Harry replied as they began to trudge back. “I can’t believe I just kissed you, either.”

“Me neither,” Hermione said with a laugh. “I think we’re both going crazy.”

“Have to agree with you on that.”

And as they both laughed, they both cried.

Weird mixture of emotions.

Weird consequences.

I could hide out under there

I just made you say "underwear"

I could leave, but I'll just stay

All my stuff's here anyway

I cannot believe that when Hagrid dies, I fall in love with someone, Harry thought as he and Hermione made their way back to Hogwarts. Wait. Did I just think that? He halted his thoughts. Ha. Yeah. Right. Me? In love with Hermione?

And at the same time he was thinking, Hagrid’s dead. Hagrid’s dead.

Tears filled his eyes, yet he smiled.

He stepped up to the entrance of Hogwarts and paused before entering. He glanced back at Hagrid’s hut, not expecting a sign of life, but hoping for one.

It winked.

He started and stared harder.

It remained lifeless and still, but he could have sworn he saw it wink…

He shook his head and started into the building.

Goodbye, Hagrid, he thought.

Hi, Hermione, he replied.

Like a dream you try to remember

But it's gone

Then you try to scream

But it only comes out as a yawn

When you try to see the world

Beyond your front door

Take your time, is the way I rhyme gonna make you smile

When you realize that a guy my size might take a while?

Just to try to figure out what all this is for

“I don’t want to say it, Hagrid. I don’t,” Hermione whispered later that night. She was sitting by the window in her dorm staring down at Hagrid’s lifeless hut. She blinked back tears, her fingers pressed against the cool glass as if reaching out for something. She bit her lip, swallowing hard. “I’ll miss you. I’ll never forget you…and—and—” She took a breath, and said, softly, finally, “Goodbye.”

One last moment, one last stare, one last hope as she studied the dark outline of his hut…

“Goodbye?” she repeated, squinting out the window in hopes that the lack of response was an illusion.

Say something, say anything, she pleaded of the hut.

And it did. It said something. Something she never would have expected it to say. Something she told herself was the result of her sudden insanity…something she locked away in the corner of her mind and refused to analyze at the moment, it scared her so much…

“Hi, Harry,” it said.

Pinch me

Try to figure out what all this is for

Pinch me

Try to see the world beyond your front door

Pinch me

Try to figure out what all this is for