There’s a lot of things I understand
And there’s a lot of things
That I don’t want to know
But you’re the only face
I recognize
It’s so damn sweet of you
To look me in the eyes
It’s all right, I’m O.K.
I think God can explain
I’m relieved, I’m relaxed
I’ll get over it yet
--Splender, “I Think God Can Explain”
Chains bound her arms and legs to a damp wall that quite resembled a dungeon. A perpetual drip drip of some sort of leak forbade her sleep. She didn’t know it though.
Her backside was numb after having been smashed against a cold wall for hours and days on end.
She didn’t notice it though.
Her hair was matted and the beautiful gloss she had always manicured into place was now hidden by grease.
She didn’t care though.
To once have had such a strong persona, it was odd for one to just hang on chains and not wonder why for as long as its master would want them too.
She was ignorant of this fact.
She didn’t know her name. He called her “Erin” or “Merlin” or something of the sort. Her usually insatiable curiosity wasn’t in the least hungry; she didn’t care.
She could tell simple things, but didn’t know what they meant. She knew she was cold, but she didn’t know what cold was. She could feel hate pricking at her skin, but she didn’t know what hate was.
She could feel and she was alive; but she only existed. A heavy blanket smothered her once so domineering mind and squeezed life from her soul with a metal bond.
She had no desire to be free of either.
She didn’t even know what desire was.
Her ears perked up to the sound of footsteps splashing across the puddle-ridden floor, resonating against the rotting dungeon.
If she had known who he was, who he truly was, she would have spat and cursed and ached to squeeze the breath out of him. She would have hated.
It was a wonderful thing for him to have, this power to steal the mind and hind it away. He couldn’t quite destroy it, but he could take it from her, hide it from her, until he was done with her. He’d kill her after. He needed her power now. She had the magic of both he and Harry Potter put together, and then some.
But the poor witch didn’t know it.
He had become even more disfigured over the course of time. His flesh was scarred and almost translucent. His left eye drooped. His nose was slits.
She didn’t understand nor comprehend it, but he’d told her a long story involving his body. She thought it rather vain that he went on about himself so much.
He’d told her on the very first day that he’d had his best scientist put together a body from a tiny sample of his own DNA. Had she possessed her own sharp mind, she would have inquired where the DNA had come from. And, more so, where the scars had, because she knew fine well that scars were not part of your DNA.
She hadn’t even nodded.
He knelt down in front of her, his glowing red eyes uncomfortable close to her own. His breath smelled rancid and was hot on her face. She wrinkled her nose in response.
He didn’t seem to notice. “You’re still brain dead, I see,” he growled in a gravelly voice that gave her goose bumps. “Wonderful. Absolutely. My dearest daughter, I have use of you.”
She just stared up at him with wide, puzzled eyes.
“You’re going to rid me of that pain, that vermin…” He bared his teeth in malicious grin. She saw they were like yellow fangs of a vampire. She just didn’t understand what that meant.
“He’s in Azkaban, my pet,” he hissed. “They caught him.” His eyes flashed in a barely suppressed rage. “You’re going to get him. You’re going to kill him.” His eyes moved dangerous close to hers. “And then I’ll get rid of you…”
It was like a dream to Harry Potter. One moment he’d finally found peace and love, and the next bright, flashing lights blinded him and rough arms magically bound his ever limb. He remembered tidbits, snippets, of Hermione screaming, of being thrown into the back of a truck, of his old professor McGonagall standing, staring at his torture with a triumphant look on her features…
It was like a nightmare. Everything was black and white and he didn’t really understand that he was really experiencing this. He just knew he felt pain.
He didn’t know it was reality until her felt that cold, horrible feeling of a dementor entering his mind. And then he woke up on a hard, cold bench with a backache.
“Oh, s***,” he moaned as he sat up. The chain holding the bench to the wall creaked as he shifted his weight and a cold drop of water splattered against his forehead as it dripped in from the barred window above the bed.
He wondered if they’d put it there on purpose.
He rubbed his head and felt the warm dampness of blood on his fingers. He winced and recalled the event by which his memory was hazy. He’d been knocked in the head when the hit team for the Ministry had tried to bound him. He had enough intuition to sense the act had been performed on purpose.
Feeling cold and raw, he surveyed his new home. Well, home until the dementor’s kiss was performed, most likely…
It was a tiny, stone room that quite resembled his old cupboard with its cubby-like feeling. The only furniture was the bench on which he sat. A window was above his bed, a tiny slit that he could never fit through for the life of him. A skinnier person would have a chance but for the strong, iron (and, most likely, enchanted) bars that blocked it.
He could hear rain falling outside, a downpour. It seemed to fit with the dreadful feeling he was experiencing.
When he reached for his wand, a usual reaction for these types of emotions, ready to lash out at the cause, he realized he didn’t have his wand.
Of course, he knew, deep inside, and in the shallow areas of his mind, too, that he wouldn’t have it. It was common sense. But he couldn’t help feeling naked without it.
His simple robes were now replaced by something gray and itchy that might be considered, on the mildest chance, a robe, but he thought it more a prison.
He was facing bars, tight bars that were, with his common sense, probably magic too. He could see, and feel, for that matter, about five dementors guarding his cell. They needn’t have used so many. He wouldn’t have a chance to get out with just one patrolling him.
Over his many years spent in the coldness of Voldemort’s wrath, he’d developed a slight tolerance for dementors. But, by letting love back into his heart, by grabbing the hate and throwing it out the window, by trying to get his way out of his hole of life, his tolerance had vanished.
He was inadvertently shivering and cold sweat dappled his body. His insides felt queasy and upside-down, squiggly as worms or spaghetti.
I deserve it all, he thought.
That didn’t make him feel warm inside. That didn’t ease the pain in his back, or his head, or his heart.
But he didn’t blame others that way.
He stared down at the cold, gray floor, felt its frozen surface under his bare feet, and he knew it was right.
See, the thing is, though, that sometimes Harry, the real Harry, didn’t believe in himself or others.
And that’s why he started to cry.
Hermione Granger was going mad, no doubt about it. Professor M. McGonagall saw it in her eyes as she sat across from her and tried to carefully explain why Harry was in her bedroom.
The poor girl was actually suggesting she’d allowed him into her room!
Minerva, on the other hand, was feeling quite pleased with herself. Although the rain was pouring outside and freezing as it hit the ground, although the skies were dull and gray, a sun was shining over her and warming her heart and soul.
“He’s turned,” said Hermione as she desperately tried to explain.
Minerva nodded as if she agreed and took a sip of her coffee. “Mm-hmm.”
“He has!”
Minerva gave Hermione a gentle smile and continued copying down the experiences onto her notepad to be sent to the Ministry.
“I swear to it, Professor, I swear. He didn’t feel cold anymore. He was…warm…” Tears filled Hermione’s eyes and Minerva was overcome with pity for her favorite student.
She carefully set down her quill and folded her hands over her account. She looked delicately into Hermione’s eyes. “Hermione, he’s obviously been playing with your mind, dear. He’s not good. He killed your parents, and was going to kill you—”
“NO HE WASN’T!” shrieked Hermione, finally fed up with the calmness in her professor’s voice, of the warmth in her eyes as she lusted the idea of Harry’s soul smothered on the inside of a satisfied dementor.
Minerva was beginning to get a migraine. The smile on her face was gone as quickly as it had come, and her eyes became the cold reality of their usual. “Hermione, listen to me, darling…”
“No,” sobbed Hermione backing away from McGonagall’s outstretched hand. “No…”
The headmistress sighed. “Why are you so sure you’re right, Hermione? Why?”
So many answers rushed to the edge of her tongue but none could come. The only thing that was strong enough to reach the outer world was maybe the most feeble of all. “I love him.”
“No you don’t,” snapped McGonagall. Hermione recoiled back. “You love a fantasy of someone you once loved, Hermione! He’s gone now! You have to face it. He’s gone. He’s not there. The person you loved is dead. You have to let it go…”
Tears welled up in her eyes and she quickly brushed them away. The worlds were drilling away at her heart, and her mind at to agree with the logic and truth behind it. He had killed her parents. He had threatened to do that same to her.
But what about that love in his eyes? What about that warmth? What about the acceptance of her anger?
What about Harry?
Minerva saw the worry on Hermione’s features, read the hurt in her eyes at the realization. She went over and knelt down beside Hermione. “I’m sorry, Hermione. But you can’t go around spurting things like that or peole will begin to suspect you too. You have to face it. Harry’s gone.”
She shook her head. “No. No…”
“Here’s what we’ll do, Hermione,” said McGonagall briskly. “We’ll give you a leave of absence, as you’re obviously not fit to teach—”
“You’re…firing me?” cried Hermione.
“No, dear, of course not!”
“You’re firing me.” She looked surprisingly calm.
McGonagall shook her head and began scribbling on a piece of parchment, not bothering to look up. “No, I’m not. Once you feel better, you’ll come back to work.”
“Why don’t you get a hotel in Hogsmeade to sort yourself out?” suggested McGonagall. “You need the time off, Hermione, dear. You’ve been working so hard.”
Hermione remained silent, stared at her favorite professor’s wrinkled hand, breezily filling out Hermione’s release. Did she really believe Hermione would let it go? Did she really think Hermione would come back immaculate?
No. She couldn’t.
She was the smartest person Hermione had ever known.
But she was no expert on the human heart.
With frozen, numb hands, Hermione steadily packed her trunk. She wasn’t really there. She wasn’t thinking about packing. She just packed.
Grab clothes off the hanger, fold it neatly into the trunk. Grab another set. Fold. Pack. Grab. Fold. Pack.
She doesn’t know everything, Hermione breathed into her mind, trying ease her despair. She didn’t see Harry. She didn’t hear him. Didn’t feel him kiss her. She doesn’t know, Hermione. No one does. And no one ever will.
She wiped her nose with a shaking hand and continued folding and packing.
But what if I am wrong? What if he really didn’t mean it? Oh, God. What if she’s right? What if Harry really is dead?
This was worse than the first time he’d left, the first time she’d come to doubt him. She hadn’t come to know the depth of the love she felt yet, and now she ached because of the facts. Punch after punch in her face, yet she tried to hold onto that raft of happiness. The current was pulling it away from her. Doubt was beginning to cloud her.
As if in a conviction against everything bad, she slammed the trunk shut and locked it. She was leaving this place before it killed her, bodily and mentally.
To be continued…
Thanks for all the feedback, you guys are just too kind. ;) I have to make this quick, ‘cuz it’s time to eat, but, for the sake of tradition, feedback? Please? :) Thanks.