The Boy Who Died

Harry stood under the hot spray of his shower for nearly an hour. Instead of clearing his head it only muddied the waters. Rather than cleansing himself of all thoughts of Hermione he found himself remembering far more than he wished - not only his seeing her that day but also their shared past, however distant. Usually, he could pass his days with very few thoughts cast even vaguely in her direction. Most of his memories of both her and his own childhood at Hogwart's School had been relegated to deepest recesses of both his heart and mind, only to plague him while asleep when he was helpless to keep them at bay. Harry referred to those all too real dreams as nothing more than a nightmare. 'At least,' he thought ruefully, 'his nightmares would now have an accurate, more mature face for the witch.'

With a sigh of frustration he turned the water handle off, grabbed a large, fluffy towel and opened the glass door of the expensively tiled stall. He peered in the mirror, noting his body had darkened a bit more in the sun of the coast. His sandy hair seemed to match his tan limbs and he was struck by the tangible difference from his former self. Harry was hardly the same boy who had fought Voldemort so many years ago - gone was the eggshell skin, shaggy black hair and thin frame. In place of that young lad he had become more mature, much wiser and even more cynical - an attitude that equally matched his stronger body.

Hurriedly, he dried his short hair with the towel before pulling on his knickers - the crisp, white, American variety. Because of the room temperature, he felt a distinct chill on his still damp skin. He walked into his bedroom, the smallest in the suite, intent on crawling under the duvet for a short nap, but instead, he was drawn to the window. He had left the island mid-morning, and even after his conversation with Remus and Sirius, it was now only early afternoon - hardly the time for sleep. The bright sunshine beckoned him, and he opened the heavy drapes and let the drips of bright light warm his skin.

It was difficult to believe that Death Eaters were again on the rise when pedestrians strolled casually along the shore below him. Muggles were generally unaware of wizard goings-on but it was nevertheless surreal to Harry, who well knew the dangers ahead.

He had spent the first eleven years of his life completely unacquainted with the world of magic, ignorant of the evil wizard who had murdered his parents and blind to much of anything beyond the oppressive house of his Aunt and Uncle Dursley. When Rubeus Hagrid swept into his life and introduced him to the wonders of the world he really belonged in Harry was filled with a bit of fear, much curiosity and heady joy. But thanks to the murderous wizard, Voldemort, Harry's world became wrought with almost immediate peril. He remembered his fear of the first task in the Triwizard Tournament, facing down a dragon with nothing more than his own wits, but that was nothing compared to his first glimpse of a group of loyal Death Eaters, who were gathering at Voldemort's bodily return.

For the last ten years he had been able to live without the fear of his old foe. It might not have been the life he would have chosen for himself but considering what he had endured the relative peace of it had suited him very well. Now, thanks to Draco Malfoy, Harry had to once again prepare for a fight, this time to defeat Voldemort's followers. Who better to lead the newly revived Death Eaters? He shouldn't really be surprised; difficulty and dissension had always been synonymous with the name of Malfoy.

"Hey Weasely, what's wrong?" called Malfoy's taunting voice. "Can't you even get a Mudblood to show you any interest?"

"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry responded for his friend as he placed a hard grip on Ron's arm. Ron glared at Malfoy, ignoring Harry's well-meaning stay.

Malfoy's laughter echoed down the hall as he moved away.

"Geroff me," muttered Ron, shaking Harry's hand away.

"I only wanted to stop you from doing exactly as Malfoy wished," offered Harry.

"He called Hermione a Mudblood, again," Ron stated, his voice dull.

"Was it the insult to her, or you?" Harry's words were plain but his question sympathetic. "You are terribly uptight when it comes to her, err, lack of interest."

"I don't understand it, Harry," Ron sighed. "I thought she felt the same affection too."

"She does feel affection for you," consoled Harry.

"Egads, but save me from that. 'I care about you as a friend.'" the redhead mimicked in a high pitched tone.

"Perhaps if you hadn't courted her so openly...," Harry's word fell off. He didn't want to openly point out the obvious failure. "Besides, Malfoy just looks for things to goad us," Harry replied. Harry often wished that Ron *had* tried that ridiculous Love Potion; perhaps all this confusion could have been avoided.

"You're not taking her side, are you?" cried Ron, his voice rising. "She took her bloody time about things - leading me on before deciding to turn me down cold."

"I'm not on either side," sighed Harry, frustration building inside him. He was dreadfully tired of all this conflict; the weight of Voldemort's uprising was almost forgotten amidst this very palpable strain. "But I do think there are more important things going on right now than your love life! Voldemort has had nearly a year to rebuild his strength and his followers. What he is doing right now, and what he may do at any time, is more important to worry about than *your* love life. I think you should quit dwelling on this" Harry paused for the right word, " - this crush, and think about that!"

"You are on Hermione's side," accused Ron again. "You're only trying to cover it up with grand excuses." Ron's face flushed as his anger overflowed. "So you think I'm only a silly lad? That this is puppy love? Or is it that you think she is too smart for me? Or maybe it's because I'm just a 'poor Weasely?'"

"Stop that, Ron," Harry huffed, unable to reason with his friend. "If you don't control that temper you'll be begging Malfoy for more fighting."

"Maybe I'm spoiling for a fight," Ron replied. But without further explanation the taller boy walked away. His long strides ate up the hallway leaving Harry to watch his departure with a mixture of frustration and sadness.

"I heard all that you know," a murmur echoed in the hall behind him.

Harry turned at the soft voice. "Did you?" he replied. Hermione glided toward him, her black robes billowing, until she stopped beside Harry where they gently fell in folds around her.

"I really hate that you've ended up in the middle of this," she spoke with sad sincerity.

"It's not the first time," Harry said as a small smile played on his lips. He really didn't like hearing the despair in her voice and tried to infect humour into his teasing response.

"I seem to recall being in the middle once myself," Hermione reminded him, "that time your name was drawn from the Goblet of Fire."

"Maybe you and I should fall out so that Ron can be in the middle for a change," Harry suggested. With that idea they both laughed aloud -- nervously, but nevertheless comfortable in the joke between two friends. Both well knew whose side Ron had chosen when Hermione had instigated McGonagall's 'removal' of Harry's new broom.

Hermione at once became serious. "I shouldn't find humor in Ron's unhappiness," she sighed.

"It's truly not your fault," Harry replied, becoming more somber as well. "You can't help that you don't feel the same way."

"Nevertheless, Ron is hurting and I'm unable to help him. I'm glad that he still has you right now."

Again, Harry felt distinctly uncomfortable but was unable to explain the disquiet. At first, he had been rather amused by Ron and Hermione's usual bickering, but the situation had quickly escalated into a festering sore. After a hesitant beginning, Ron had completely thrown himself into the courtship of Hermione but Harry could only feel relief when Hermione did not return those tender feelings. After all, their longstanding, three-way friendship was far more important than Ron's rejected suit. Hermione couldn't help her lack of attraction, and Ron would find someone else within the year - Harry was certain of it.

"Are you coming to the game today?" Harry questioned, trying to change the subject.

"Of course," grinned Hermione. "I wouldn't miss the year's first game and our new Keeper; I tried to congratulate Ron on his new position, but I rather think he growled at me in reply."

Harry bit back a smile.

"And how does it feel to fill Oliver's old shoes, and only a 5th year at that?"

"Quite comfortable actually," Harry grinned.

"Very well then," nodded Hermione, returning the grin. "I fully expect Gryffindor to win house cup this year. And as Captain and Seeker you have your work cut out for you."

With a shake of his head, Harry returned his thoughts to the present. If only that year's greatest difficulties had been the tension between his two best friends and the bid for House Cup. Instead of Quidditch matches, the ritual exams, and quills that couldn't take notes fast enough, the students of Hogwarts found themselves in the midst of a dark reign of terror - the Second Uprising of He Who Must Not Be Named.

Even now, as the hordes of beach combers still carried on their holiday below him, Death Eaters were once again rebuilding both their strength and numbers. The need to complete the Atlantean Project was an ever greater burden.

When he had joined Remus and Sirius in their work for the Ministry, murmurs of Atlantean wizards and witches were kept behind the confines of only the most secret ministry agencies. But as time wore on the mystery of the Atlantean people's abrupt and very final end had become a general topic of concern, despite its historical distance. Though Harry rarely made an appearance at the MoM his two partners often did and they usually returned from their visits and conferences with an almost eerie resignation that Atlantis somehow held the key to Voldemort's almost insurmountable power. They were well aware of the project's importance long before it was actually assigned to the three of them. Now the discovery of all of Atlantis' secrets had become a race, a race against the Death Eaters. Malfoy, as their new leader, desperately wanted the same knowledge that Voldemort had taken with him into death. Harry did feel a bone deep satisfaction that he had been the cause of that violent end but the cold dread of Malfoy's building power almost squelched even that positive feeling.

Harry turned away from the window, almost pained by the frivolity of those on the shore. He looked around his empty suite but the only welcoming sight in the entire room was his large bed. Groggy from both his weighty memories and a lack of sleep, he crawled under the crisp covers.

*(*(*(*(*(*(*

Harry's nightmares were usually filled with voices, visions, and variations on the same theme -- Voldemort was trying to kill him and he desperately tried to both defeat and completely destroy the seemingly invincible foe. Wormtail, Voldemort's loyal servant, cut open Harry's arm, spilling his blood while maniacal laughter spewed from the gaunt, hollow face of his nearby master. Voldemort's evilness had stripped him completely of any humanness, and the ghostly visage only seemed to overshadow the whole frightening scene. Helplessness overwhelmed Harry.

In his dream, he was awakened, as if suffering through the chilly remembrance of Voldemort's many evil plots were not enough. Instead, his nightmare plunged deeper, willing his mind to illuminate the dark places where he tried to hide the pain of memories.

The constant pounding within his scar, which Harry felt anytime his enemy was near, escalated exponentially until the pain was almost unbearable. Shivers racked his thin body as he sat upright in the bed of his youth, at least during the summers, clutching at his forehead with one hand while white knuckles clenched the sheet. Instinct and premonition coursed through his veins faster than the adrenaline rush of fear. The dream was so real that Harry felt as if he were reliving that night again in stinging clarity. Only this time, even in his sleeping state, Harry could chide the boy that he was for caring so much for someone who deserved it so little. Before the bitterness could arouse him from slumber his unconsciousness plunged him into the mind of the boy he was then, at least freeing him from the added punishment of foreseeing his own future folly.

"Hermione!" he called out, scared by the panic in his own voice. "I must get to Hermione," he stated emphatically, as if to reassure himself that he could actually help her.

Rushing from the bed he scribbled a hasty note, attaching it to Hedwig's leg. Having no idea what was happening, but feeling the urgency nonetheless, he could only hope that other help would be right behind him. Fortunately, Hedwig would have no trouble reaching the Weasley's.

He quickly dived to his knees beside the bed, pulling his chest out from under with a great heave. Blinding pain forced him to pause, clutching at his forehead once again, rubbing his fingers over the raised scar.

Then, throwing his black robe over his pajamas, he hurdled down the stairs and out of the Dursley's front door. With a raise of his hand, wand in the air, the Knight Bus arrived, almost instantaneously and seemingly from thin air.

"Where to, 'Neville?'" smirked the driver, aware that this was actually the famous "Boy Who Lived." He was still smarting from Harry's use of a fake name over two years before and the sarcasm dripped from his question. When the boy didn't answer as he moved up the steps further conversation was attempted yet again. "Aren't you a sixth year soon?"

"I don't have time for that now," Harry snapped, hastily giving him the Granger's address. Pain made him weak and he sat upon the edge of the nearest bed, holding his head between his knees. He thought he might be sick as the agony assailed his senses. His fingers massaged his temples, up to his scar, but nothing relieved the splitting ache.

The Knight Bus ground to a halt, but instead of opening the bus door the driver let out a long whistle. "Mr. Potter, you can't mean to go out there alone?" A frantic desperation intoned the question. "I can go for help, but..."

"What is it?" he panted, cutting him off as he hurried to the door. "Let me out at once!" The driver hesitated and Harry was completely unprepared for what awaited him outside the bus' doors. A swarm of Death Eaters had assembled upon the lawn of what was left of the Granger home. The momentary shock was soon over and Harry raised his wand, "Open this door now!" he yelled.

The startled driver didn't argue and Harry disembarked quickly. He could see that the fire had completely engulfed the second story, and a lightening storm filled the sky above him. The eeriness of the horrific scene was soon lost on Harry. He could hear a woman screaming from within, pulling his attention away from the surreal sight before him, but just as he was about to run toward the house, a black hearted wizard nearest the bus raised his wand toward Harry's person. Harry didn't pause to think but instead aimed a petrifying curse directly at the assaulting figure. Most of the Death Eaters seemed to be retreating, unaware of the newest arrival to their little party, but Harry immobilized as many as possible with a curse as he passed.

As he progressed closer to the blaze he saw the word 'Mudblood' spelled out in a burning portion of the lawn. Harry's attention was drawn away from the fiery graffiti as the screams from inside the home dissolved into terrified sobs. Most of the Death Eaters had already apparated away, yet one final, cloaked figure exited the house just as Harry neared the entrance. Harry paused mid-stride staring directly into the eyes of Lucius Malfoy. A look of utter loathing passed between them, but Lucius disappeared before Harry could even raise his wand.

Racing into the burning home Harry began calling out to Hermione. His eyes stung at the smoke and putrid fumes filled the air. Hermione did not answer his urgent call; instead, he stumbled upon the crouched figure of her mother in the foyer. "Mrs. Granger, where is Hermione?" And then, as if realizing her immediate danger, "You must get out of here," he ordered gently, reaching for her hand. The frightened woman began to scream loudly again as she knelt on the floor, her arms and hands blocking her face. Harry saw dark marks, welts beyond mere bruising, upon her flesh, and she shrieked away from him whenever he tried to pull her up from her crouched position. He could only imagine what cruelty the Death Eaters had doled out to produce such total fear and painfully obvious injury.

"Harry," a weak voice called from behind him.

"Hermione, is that you?" he responded, waving his arms in front of his face, trying to clear the smoke.

"Are they gone then, Harry?" she asked. Harry was even more petrified by the dead calm in her voice than by the burning building that surrounded them.

"Yes, they've apparated Hermione," he answered, continuing to move toward her, frantic. He finally saw her through the haze, sitting on the bottom stair, wand still clinched tightly in her hand. She stood straight ahead, eyes glazed, seemingly immobilized, but whether by magic or shock, Harry couldn't tell. "We've got to get out of here," he instructed. "The fire is spreading quickly." He had tried a simple spell to slow the blaze, but hardly anything as powerful as a throng of Death Eaters could have conjured. Nothing seemed to affect the fire's fury. "Hermione, do you understand me? We have to get out of here, and you must help me with your Mum."

With steely resolve Hermione slowly stood on shaking legs. "Where is she?" Though still somewhat in a trance she nevertheless focused on Harry's words: the Death Eaters had left, they needed to get out of this fire, her Mum needed her help.

"Give me your hand, Hermione, and I'll guide you to her." Harry felt quite helpless.

Hermione grasped Harry's outstretched hand, squeezing it tightly. He returned the grip, as if to reassure. Harry hoped that contact comforted her as much as it had himself. "Mum -- Mum," Hermione began to call out. "Come with us, Mum."

Mrs Granger visibly shuddered as the two approached her, but did not look directly at either of them. Hermione reached down but her mother cowered away from her touch. It was as if Mrs Granger didn't recognize her own daughter or, more likely, that mad terror that had overtaken her sanity.

Harry began to cough as the acrid smoke filled his lungs and while looking down he could see that the end of Hermione's robe was smoldering. "Hermione, you're catching fire! Let me get you out, and I'll come back for you parents." He had no idea where Mr. Granger could be, but until the two women were safe he wasn't exploring further. With that advice Harry began stepping on her robe to stop the fire but Hermione shook her head definitively.

"No! I can't leave them, Harry," she begged, voice pleading.

Harry could tell she would not be reasonable. He scooped her over his shoulder, frightfully sorry that it was his only possible course of action, and headed toward the door. The fresh air promptly assailed them both as Harry awkwardly carried Hermione out of the Granger home. His burden screamed at him, no longer stunned; she squirmed while hitting his back with her fist, attempting to free herself of his tight grip.

Suddenly and most timely, Arthur Weasely, Professor Dumbledore and Hagrid appeared soundlessly before him. Their grave expressions spoke volumes regarding their assessment of the desperate situation at hand.

"Death Eaters," Harry stated hoarsely.

The three nodded, unsurprised.

"Harry, remain with Hermione," the Headmaster instructed. "Arthur, you take care of Miss Granger and Harry. Hagrid and I will get the Granger's."

Arthur nodded as the two other men disappeared into the burning home. With a lift of his wand Hermione quit squirming and fell limp in Harry's arms.

"What did you do to her?" Harry shouted, enraged and unreasonable in his confused fear. But in lieu of answer Arthur gently lifted her from the young man and in a flash, Harry's world was blank.

Some time later Harry awoke in a non-descript sterile room upon a plain white bed. He had spent enough time in Hogwart's infirmary to easily recognize a hospital. Hagrid, whose large body more than filled the chair beside him, immediately stirred.

"So, yeh awake then 'arry?" the gentle giant mumbled hoarsely. Harry could hear thick worry fill the emotion in his voice.

"Where am I?"

"Yeh're at St. Mungo's," Hagrid replied simply. "Yer lungs were full of smoke and soot."

"Where's Hermione? How is she? How are her parents?" Harry's questions tumbled from him like an avalanche.

"Slow down there, 'arry," Hagrid smiled softly in a bid to comfort him. "'ermione is fine; in fac', she is in the room right next door to yeh."

Harry immediately began turning back the covers. He wore a clean pair of pajamas.

"Whoa there, slow down. Let me 'elp you," Hagrid instructed, standing. "Yeh might want to let me 'xplain some things before you take off."

"What is it, Hagrid?" Harry's question was obviously worried. "Is Hermione bad then?"

"Aye 'arry. Physically, she's gonna be just fine, but well..."

"Well what?" Harry demanded in a loud voice.

"Her parent's 'arry, theGranger's, they didn' survive." Hagrid's voice was now heavy with the burden of telling him such sad news. "Mr. Granger was apparently already passed when you arrived but we couldn't get to her Mum in time, she kept running away - their home collapsed before we could reach either of 'em."

Tears filled Harry's eyes. He knew full well the evil of the Death Eaters but their audacity in openly attacking the Grangers', innocent Muggles, was staggering. This was worse than witnessing the needless death of Cedric Diggory. Hermione was now all alone and his heart, well acquainted with that particular deficiency, mourned deeply for her loss. They were both orphans now, a similarity he had never expected to share with his friend, and her sorrow somehow seemed worse than his own.

"I just thought yeh should know before you went ta see 'er," Hagrid added softly.

"I tried Hagrid but I just couldn't get them all out at once," Harry began, oblivious to the tears flowing down his pale cheeks.

"Oh 'arry, yeronly fifteen! You did more than most full grown wizards could have," Hagrid replied, his voice reassuring. "Dumbledore is anxious to talk to you, but we figured yeh' wish to see 'ermione first."

"Has she asked for me?" Harry asked, fearful that she blamed him for not doing more to help, or for not arriving sooner.

"She hasn't woke yet," Hagrid explained. "Arthur placed a sleeping charm on the both of yeh, so he could get yeh here more easily."

"I want to see her," Harry announced, hastily moving from the bed. Hagrid followed him into the corridor, indicating the correct door in the hallway outside.

Professor Dumbledore stood at a desk with some medical wizards. The headmaster nodded at Harry, silently urging him to go see Hermione first, before their interview. Harry was grateful for his understanding.

Quietly, he entered the semi-darkened room. It would have appeared exactly like his room except for the small figure on the bed. Like a magnet Harry was drawn closer.

Hermione's wild, brown hair was a stark contrast to the pillow beneath her head and the paleness of her features nearly matched the whiteness of the sheets as well. Her breathing was soft, but steady. Harry uncertainly turned to Hagrid who still stood in the doorway behind him. "She's been all checked out, and besides a few minor injuries that 'ave already been fixed, she's fine. She's only sleeping now," his friend assured him.

Harry nodded solemnly.

"You can sit with her if yeh like," Hagrid suggested. "I'll be outside."

Harry visibly swallowed, his throat convulsing as he leaned closer to the figure on the bed. He reached to take her delicate fingers into his palm; they were cold. "I am so sorry, Hermione. If I had just arrived sooner, brought help to your family sooner..."

Choking on his own words, his voice still hoarse, he moved the bedside chair as close to the gurney as possible, sitting on its edge. He did not let go of her hand.

'What if my scar hadn't awakened me?' He wondered anxiously. 'Would even Hermione have made it out alive?' Harry continued to watch the regular rise and fall of her chest, reassured that she was indeed well, but he was full of questions and uncertainty. 'Did Dumbledore know why the Death Eaters had chosen the Granger's?' Surely it could not be as simple as Hermione's parents being Muggles. 'And how could they have so openly attacked a Muggle home?'

Overwhelmed, Harry rested his aching forehead upon the top of her hand. At last the pain in his scar completely subsided, the first complete release since he had awakened earlier that night. With a jolt Harry looked up at Hermione. Her prone figure barely moved but he was close enough to hear each breath.

Flashes of Hermione's smiles paraded across his mind - Hermione behind a tome in the library and her excitement in discovering something new, Hermione breaking the rules despite her better judgment and Hermione's unwavering loyalty. Memories continued to cascade like a waterfall too long held back from its intended path - the troll, the Polyjuice potion, the Hippogriff, the ball.

Harry was so overpowered by the feelings that washed over him that his mouth formed an 'o'. His gaze lifted to her face, startled. A frown wrinkled his brow. "Why didn't I see it? he whispered, shock and amazement evident in his voice. "I love her!"

He looked around the room, as if to see if anyone witnessed his admission. Whether he was embarrassed at what he' spoken aloud or that he' only just realized his own feelings he really couldn't say. And actually it didn't matter, for the room was indeed empty, except, of course, for the sleeping object of his affection. Her closed lids indicated even she didn't know what he had just so unceremoniously announced, and a big part of him was relieved at that. Harry swallowed yet again, acclimating himself to what his heart must have known for some time. With the back of his fingers, he reached up to tenderly caress her cheek. He nodded his head, as if resolved. "I love you, Hermione," he stated, this time with firm conviction of utter acceptance.

"I love you," he repeated, over and over. With a start, Harry awakened from his nap. His present, deep voice, avowing his love for Hermione, had apparently reached his ears. It sounded strange coming from a much more mature tone. Clamping his lips tightly together, he shook his head forcefully, as if to shake off the memory. Reaching up to feel the smoothness on his forehead, where his childhood scar had once been, Harry felt both emboldened and relieved that this particular nightmare was, indeed, in the very distant past.

"Bloody hell, why can' I forget?" he chastised himself. "If I'm going to have a nightmare let it for once be fiction!" That summer after fifth year had completely changed his life and he bloody well didn't wish to relive it; living through that tiresome history once was more than enough. With a brisk and purposeful stride he crossed the room to pull back the same heavy drapes that had beckoned him earlier just after his shower. Harry's afternoon nap was decidedly over.