The Longest Night

Chapter Five - Remnants

"Let not the waves of the sea separate us now; and the years you have spent in our midst become a memory.

You have walked among us a spirit, and your shadow has been a light upon our faces.

Much have we loved you. But speechless was our love, and with veils has it been veiled.

Yet now it cries aloud unto you, and would stand revealed before you.

And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation."

- Kahlil Gibran "The Prophet"

I dreamed...endless, vivid dreams that were startling in their clarity. I dreamed of Harry and I wept, even in my sleep, for the loss of him. I followed him as he journeyed through a barren, smoldering landscape dotted with gnarled, fire-blackened trees. A molten sun beat fiercely down upon our heads and I longed for shade, for water, for rest, but somehow I knew these simple comforts, once as plentiful and commonplace as books in a library, were no longer obtainable. No cool, merciful shade would soothe our throbbing temples for the trees were all dead or dying. No refreshing, life-restoring swallow of water would quench our thirst for the streams and creeks had slowed to a trickle, leaving the fish to bloat and putrefy in the searing heat. And from the determined set of Harry's shoulders and the grim look on his face I knew there would be no respite because to pause, even for a moment, would be to admit weakness. Nothing else mattered but the endless miles leading towards some unimaginable, unavoidable confrontation.

Yet, in the far distance where earth and sky met and merged, where perception and reality blurred and grew indistinguishable, I beheld wistful images of a world that time's door was forever closed against: a large, imposing castle surrounded by a dark, impenetrable forest; three young children - a girl and two boys - running carefree and innocent across a vast expanse of green lawn; a great black dog and a dark-haired boy wrestling joyfully in sweet, high grass; and - just once - the same boy, alone, surveying the nightmare world around him with the air of an exhausted, bewildered child before falling to his knees to weep hard, bitter tears. He cried silently, like someone unaccustomed to tears, as though the act of grieving pierced his very soul and made it bleed. I wept with him... I wept for him... I wanted to wrap my arms around his thin shoulders and wipe the drops from his face and tell him that this, too, would pass. But we could not pause to offer solace or to share sorrow - compassion was a luxury, a weakness that we could no longer afford, and Harry's attention never wavered from the lurid, smoke-smudged horizon where tongues of bright orange flame licked the sky. We trudged onward until I could just barely hear the faint echoes of childish laughter carried on the scorching wind and that other life fell far behind, like some long cherished but half-forgotten dream whose carnival colors had faded to sepia tones.

We walked for hours, for days, for weeks...forever... our weary footfalls kicking up thick, choking dust from the dirt-packed path we followed. Eventually we arrived in a village, or more appropriately, the sad remains of one. I don't know where it was; I had the feeling that we were anywhere and everywhere at once, and the idea that this could be Hogsmeade or Hogwarts - that this could be any one of a number of places that I had traveled to over the years and in which I had left behind some faint remnant of myself - frightened me more than anything else. War was not supposed to visit familiar locales raining destruction down upon helpless innocents, but was meant to take place in far off lands where the people, in some vague, undefined way, obviously thrived on strife. The charred ruin of formerly happy homes and thriving businesses mocked my sheltered ignorance and I realized that no sane person could possibly desire or deserve this awful fate, which was far more terrible than anything I had ever imagined. Debris littered the streets, fires raged unchecked, the dead and the dying lay in bloody heaps, mangled almost beyond recognition. The sickly-sweet stench of rotting flesh mingled with thick, acrid smoke, and I gagged from the smell...oh, God, the taste...of devastation.

I felt as though the dark veil that had previously clouded my vision had been snatched away, and I was left with the chilling certainty that there would be no bright beacon of future hope for Harry to guide upon. His path led him to this place, and no further. And I was enraged by the injustice of it. I was sickened by the unabashed selfishness of a world that expected a boy to shoulder a man's burden and willingly sacrifice what the rest of us were so loath to part with. And I was petrified by the thought of a future without him for I suddenly understood, too late, that no one could ever hope to fill the void that Harry's absence would leave in my life.

He turned to me then, as if he sensed somehow that I was there with him, and his clear green eyes were filled with both an unflinching acceptance and a wistful yearning that caused my heart to clench with a passionate sadness. Only a moment, the barest breath of a second, but in that eternity I think I glimpsed the real Harry Potter, the essential Harry that we all knew existed and that we all relied upon, but that we rarely acknowledged. I saw a strong and generous heart, a rare nobility of spirit, and perhaps most importantly, I saw a great capacity for forgiveness.

I extended my hand, overcome with the need to touch him one last time, to assure myself that he was a solid, living presence and not some desperate figment of my imagination, only to have him vanish in a blinding flash of green light. As I stood alone and bereft in the sullen silence a sudden movement caught my eye. A single, crumpled piece of parchment fluttered in the slight breeze and landed gently at my feet, followed by another, and another, and another until I floundered helplessly, awash in a torrent of letters, all in my own hand, and all freshly inked with blood.

I awoke two weeks later in the hospital wing, slowly swimming up towards a consciousness obscured by thick, swirling fog. As the gray mists receded the events of the past few months came rushing back to me, and the sharp, metallic tang of loss and regret filled my mouth. A desperate litany of horrified awareness formed on my lips and I repeated it endlessly, even as I shrank from the undeniable consequences of my actions.

"What have I done? What have I done? Oh, heaven forgive me, what have I done? WhathaveIdone...whathaveIdone...whathaveIdone...whathaveI...whathaveI...whathaveI...whatwhatwhatwhat...?"

They told me that I screamed and wailed and ranted about voices and death and Harry before I collapsed in the boys' dormitory. They told me that the strain of losing my parents had been too great a burden to bear alone. They told me that I wasn't to blame.

"Imperius," they said, shaking their collective heads soberly. "Difficult to resist under the best of circumstances...very difficult."

Oh, how I wanted to believe that the answer was as simple as the Imperius Curse, but it seemed too easy, too convenient. How could they be so sure of me, so smug in their certainty that Hermione Granger would never perpetrate such an act of cold-blooded betrayal unless unduly influenced to do so? How could they stand there so calmly and portion out blame like servings of rancid pie without allocating the largest share to me? The rage, the bitterness, the desire - no, the need - to lash out and make someone suffer as I had, those feelings had been mine and could be ascribed to no other. Which then begged the question: where had my voice ended and where had that other, if it had even existed, begun?

And that, I thought miserably, was perhaps the worst legacy of the Imperius Curse - to leave its victim eternally wondering, doubting, questioning. Was it my thought? Was it my voice? Was it my deed? The uncertainty and the remorse gnawed hungrily at my insides with razor-sharp teeth as I sought release from the onslaught of memories. I wanted to lose myself forever in the act of forgetting, but it was already too late. The images of all that I had done burned behind my eyelids and burrowed into my brain. I could feel them slithering through my gray matter, seeking out the deepest, darkest cranial fissures in which to take up residence; and once there, they laid hundreds of eggs that spawned glistening white worms that slowly consumed me.

I tried to return my prefect's badge, but Dumbledore refused to accept it.

"You cannot be held accountable for your actions," he said, looking grave. "You have been conscientious in carrying out your responsibilities as a school prefect this year and I see no reason why you will not continue to be so."

I shook my head in disbelief. The man obviously couldn't resist a lost cause: first Professor Snape and now me. Although I had been told of Peter Pettigrew's capture and subsequent confession, I continued to have difficulty separating my desires and motivations from his during the months he had exercised so much control over me. Too much of my true self had been tangled up in those vile plans for me to lay all the blame at Wormtail's feet.

"Don't try so hard!" I wanted to shout at the Headmaster. "I'm not worth it!"

And yet, I seized upon the slender lifeline he extended me in much the same way that a drowning man clutches at a life preserver, all the while trying to ignore the jeering voice in my head that insisted Dumbledore was only using this as a means to keep a closer watch on me so that I wouldn't have an opportunity to murder anyone else. As if there was even anyone left at Hogwarts for me to murder, I thought morbidly. Not that I wanted to, of course, but I certainly couldn't be expected to expend all that time and effort just to kill a fellow student. The intricacies of planning and execution would be wasted on the mindless hordes that wandered daily through the castle, I thought, giggling slightly at my mental pun. The laughter faded to a strangled sob as I suddenly realized how easy it had been for my silent musings to wander down that forbidden, twisted path towards darkness - was I instinctively evil or was I certifiably insane? Were the two mutually exclusive? I took several deep, calming breaths and concentrated on driving those unspeakable, seductive ideas out of my head before addressing Dumbledore.

"Sir," I said in a small voice, "when you see Harry would you tell him, please, how very sorry I am?"

Those blue eyes regarded me kindly, but shrewdly as if he were weighing just how much he could tell me. "Alas, Miss Granger, that I cannot do. For one thing, I do not know Mr. Potter's whereabouts. And for another, only you can ask his forgiveness."

I doubted very much that the Headmaster didn't know where Harry was. I found it inconceivable that the man organizing the resistance against Voldemort would have carelessly misplaced the single, most powerful weapon at his disposal, and Dumbledore's reticence on the subject of Harry could only mean that he still believed me untrustworthy. The skepticism must have shown on my face, for he reached out and took my hands in his own for just a moment. I wanted to weep from the gentleness, the inherent goodness, of his touch.

"Miss Granger, how would you punish those whose remorse is already greater than their misdeeds?"

He left me before I could respond, and he left me wondering whether the question was meant for me or for someone else.

I had known that Ron would come to me eventually, but I had been unprepared for his anger and his aloofness. He didn't make a move to touch me, not even to take my hand, and this lack of physical contact told me more effectively than words just how far I had fallen. I stared listlessly out the window at the bleak, rain-drenched landscape. If only I could stand naked in that cold shower and rinse my sins from view...if only I could scrub the filth from my pores and stand clean and pure in the eyes of others once again, for classes were scheduled to begin in another day and I dreaded the curiosity and condemnation of my housemates.

"Hermione."

Ron spoke my name like it was the foulest potion to ever touch his tongue. Reluctantly I turned to face him, my harshest judge aside from Harry, and I was appalled to see how much he had aged in such a short period of time. There were harsh lines around the mouth that used to smile so broadly and dark circles beneath the eyes I knew so well. Once, not so very long ago, I had glimpsed a future for the both of us in those eyes - but no longer. My dearest friend was gone, replaced by an icy stranger I had unknowingly kept company with for five years.

"Why did you do it?"

I shrugged carelessly, and went back to gazing out the window, leaning my forehead against the cool glass. I found myself unaccountably annoyed by his question. "You're such a child, Ron. You want easy answers for everything and I don't have them - I never did."

I paused for a moment, long enough to hear him shift uneasily in his chair, and then I continued in a thoughtful, almost detached tone of voice. "Why did I do it? Because I loved; because I hated; because I thirsted and I burned. But mostly I did it because I could."

Strong hands suddenly gripped my shoulders and spun me around. I gazed into his grim, young-old face fascinated by the rapid play of emotions that crossed his features. Sorrow and pity warred with anger and disgust as he shook me. "Do you understand what you've done? Do you even know what's happened?"

He released me as quickly as he had seized me, pushing himself away with so much force that he toppled backwards over his chair and landed on the floor with a resounding crash. I hurried to his side and lightly touched his face. "Ron! Are you alright?"

He lay there, breathing heavily, staring up at me with overly bright eyes. He covered my hand with his own for a moment, and then gently removed it as he righted both himself and the chair. "Don't ever touch me again," he said in a thick voice.

I stood there rooted to the floor, as stunned as if he had just struck me across the face, and I watched in disbelief as Ron Weasley buried his head in his hands and cried. There couldn't have been more than five feet separating us, but it might as well have been a thousand miles for all the insurmountable distance that lay between us. In betraying Harry I had also betrayed Ron. Ron had staked his love and his trust on me and he had lost. He lost Harry; He lost me; he lost us - that predestined and perfect togetherness that had been our charmed circle. We were nothing without Harry, and without him we had nothing left to offer each other.

"Why are you crying, Ron?" I asked, feeling viciously angry all of a sudden. I carried enough guilt of my own; I wasn't going to shoulder his burden as well. "Isn't this what you secretly wanted? You've been in Harry's shadow since you both came to Hogwarts; now that he's gone you can shine, you can show us all how much better you are than the great Harry Potter."

Ron raised his head slowly, his face blotchy and damp, and he suddenly seemed very young and very vulnerable. He didn't deny the truth of my harsh words and he didn't reproach me for my cruelty, he simply stood up, turned his back on me, and walked out of the infirmary without comment. It wasn't until later, after Ron had already left in search of Harry, that I learned of the devastating after-effects of my letter and the shockwaves of loss and suffering that had spiraled out in an ever-widening arc to inflict more harm than I could have possibly foreseen.