--------------

And I feel the cold wind blowing beneath my wings

It always leads me back to suffering

But I will soar until the wind whips me down

Leaves me beaten on unholy ground again

So tired now of paying my dues

I start out strong but then I always lose

It's half the distance before you leave me behind

It's such a waste of time…

So here I slave inside of a broken dream

Forever holding on to splitting seams

So take your piece and leave me alone to die

I don't need you to keep my faith alive

--Vertical Horizon, “Shackled”

A bag gripped tightly in her right hand, a figure stood outside of the two-story inn. It was early morning, and the sun was a gentle candle spreading buttery light across the seemingly perfect town. But it wasn’t perfect. A feeling of dread was evident in the air, and the few early risers seemed to hug close to the walls of the buildings as they made their way to work.

The figure that stood outside the inn was a lady of about twenty-five. She had gorgeous black hair and a face scrubbed and clean. But what made her go beyond unnoticeable in the world were her eyes. Sharp but somewhat gentle blue sapphires set carefully and perfectly into her face.

She seemed completely unfazed by the obvious torment of those around her. She set her bag down and bent over to search inside it. She came back up with a slip clasped in her right hand. Her attention turned to the paper for a moment, it seemed unbeknownst to her that a dark cloud had settled suddenly over the sun. But when she looked up again, saw the cloud smothering out the careful rays of the sun, a smile spread across her face and she walked up the path with a newfound conviction.

It was a shame that all the passerby saw as she headed to the building was a surefooted girl; if they would have looked closer they’d have seen the shudder in her step, the way her hand shook violently.

But they didn’t.

No one ever did.

“Mistress Granger?” a shy voice asked, breaking into Hermione’s thoughts.

She jumped. No one called her “Mistress Granger.” “Professor Granger,” sure. But mistress?

She looked up to see a small girl with short, cropped blonde hair and violent green eyes gazing worriedly at her. She was wringing her hands and her eyes kept darting here and there. Hermione recognized her as the daughter of the innkeeper.

“Yes?” asked Hermione politely, making an attempt to ease the girl’s nerves. She wondered why this girl was always so nervous around her. Surely the news that she believed Harry innocent hadn’t traveled outside Hogwarts?

The girl flinched at Hermione’s answer and backed away a bit. “There’s, er, someone who wishes—insists—that she meet you immediately.” She held her hands out as if she expected Hermione to strike her down.

Hermione felt quite irritable towards the girl and secretly hurt at her obvious distaste for her, but she forced a feigned smile and set down her fork. “I suppose if she insists I might as well see what this person wants.”

She got to her feet and pushed her chair in, very aware that the girl had surreptitiously been inching away her. But what angered Hermione most about this was that the girl had the nerve to look innocent when she realized Hermione had caught her.

As if sensing Hermione’s indignation, the girl bowed her head slightly (carefully not meeting her eyes, Hermione noted) and muttered, “This way, please.”

Pushing back her anger at realizing it was one of those depressing feelings she was attempting to avoid, Hermione forced her gait to be slow and sure and followed the girl out of the breakfast room. A small bubble of hope had risen inside of her when the girl had said someone was there to visit her, but had burst as soon as she’d used the proverb “she.” No, whom she wanted most to see wasn’t anywhere near a “she.”

But Hermione forced herself not to feel too regretful. Maybe the “she” was there to help her find the other person she did want to see safe again.

She immediately scolded herself inwardly for feeling such a way, as she had been trying to avoid this, too, and focused her mind back into the present moment.

The girl was leading her down a slim hall lined with tall, narrow windows on one side and blank red-gold wallpaper on the other. It was silent but for the sounds of their footsteps and the muted noises coming from the other side of the wall.

Feeling that the drab wallpaper would only further her depressing thoughts, Hermione turned to look out the window as she walked. Her step halted when she did, though, and her hand flew unconsciously to her throat in a type of horrified surprise. The beautiful day that was evident to come when she’d awaken was now filled with threatening black storm clouds.

But it wasn’t how horrible it looked outside that made her stop. It was how horrible the look felt when she saw outside. These weren’t ordinary storm clouds. These were her storm clouds.

Taking a deep breath, she looked quickly away and stared straight ahead at the girl’s retreating back. Her step now shaking, she had to keep one hand on the wall for support.

Something was wrong. Something was horribly wrong.

She could feel it…

Casting another furtive glance out the window, she attempted to contemplate it quickly. She couldn’t.

But she knew deep inside why it was so horrible.

It wasn’t Harry. Well, yes, it had something to do with Harry. Harry was buried underneath something else. But there was someone else involved. There were more than two other people involved, though. She knew it was there. She wanted to start digging down underneath it all and find out why she suddenly felt so cold.

She couldn’t. Her hands were numb and shaking.

She was imaging it, she insisted to herself. Yes, that was it. It was all some game her mind was playing on her. Nothing was wrong. She was still the same person she’d always been.

Still, as she quickened her pace to catch up with the girl, a small voice kept insisting that something was truly, horribly wrong.

Sad thing was, Hermione refused to listen.

She sat in the plush armchair, cross-legged and looking completely at ease with herself. A rolled up newspaper was in her lap and her bag sat neatly by her foot. She looked like a businesswoman. Her curly black hair bounced lively at her shoulders and was pulled back by one silver barrette. A few loose curls splayed seductively across her creamy white face. She had slight touches of makeup on, a dark red lipstick and a dark blue eye shadow. It was hardly noticeable, but it enhanced her natural beauty. She wore a black suit jacket over a silky, white blouse that V-shaped at the neck, making her look all the more business-like. She wore a black skirt that ended just above her knees while standing but pulled up quite a bit while sitting. And, finally, pulling her whole aura together, were black pantyhose and black, shiny pumps.

Her hands sat idly in her lap, intertwined together over her newspaper, her nails precisely circular and the perfect length, colored the same deep crimson of her lips.

The room looked dismal compared to her neat and clean look, but did seem to coordinate with her aura. It was business-like, with scarlet-painted walls lined with gold. The carpet was beige and the sofas were plush and black-leather. A small table sat by her side, a sculpted lamp, casting a gentle yellow light across the room, perched in the middle of piled magazines on it.

She wiggled her foot impatiently, unwound her hands and tapped her fingers on the arms of the chair. She casually brushed a locked of hair behind her ear, revealing luminous diamond studs.

With the calmness she found easy to muster, she reached over and took a magazine off the table, flipping through it at a leisurely pace.

Yes, this young woman would seem the icon of calm behavior, of a business-aura. Yes, she would have.

If one ignored the tormented look that was deeply set in her sapphire eyes.

“Here you are, mistress,” the girl said meekly. She stopped in front of a wooden door and turned the brass doorknob with careful deliberation.

This would have irked Hermione had she been in full awareness of the situation. But she wasn’t. No matter how hard she tried, she could not bring her focus back on here and now, her mind stubbornly set on then and when.

There was something about the sky and feeling it penetrated that Hermione couldn’t just brush away, as she’d reverted herself in a way to do so under the usual circumstances.

The girl pushed the door open and stepped aside so Hermione could get in. She stepped aside so that she was hugging the wall, too, Hermione noticed, as she slid carefully past her.

And stopped suddenly when she realized who she was now looking at.

She heard the door shut quietly behind her as the girl hurried to get away from her, but didn’t take note of it.

Merinah Gattes got prudently to her feet, setting the newspaper from her lap deliberately on the chair. She gave Hermione a small, warm smile and held out her hand in a welcoming way.

Still in shock, Hermione took her hand and shook it. “Merinah Gattes,” she whispered.

“Hermione Granger,” said Merinah in an equally quiet voice. “Long time no see.” She gestured to the seat across from her. “Have a seat, please. I have some things I must speak to you about.”

Hermione blinked a few times, but cautiously settled on the edge of the chair.

Merinah resumed her seat and placed the newspaper back in her lap, crossing her legs again and folding her hands over the paper. “I’m not here to just chitchat, Hermione. I’ve overlooked the fact that after I was kicked out of school you didn’t communicate with me. I don’t blame you, I feel no animosity towards you—”

“You helped Harry,” interrupted Hermione suddenly. Her eyes gazed at her with an earnest sort of admiration. “You don’t have to explain.”

Merinah’s eyes shadowed a bit. “Yes. I helped Harry.”

“It’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” she said perceptively. “You’re here about him.”

Merinah paused, nervously running her tongue over her perfect white teeth. “Yes. You’re right.” She met Hermione’s gaze firmly. “But I’m here about you too.”

“Something’s wrong. What’s happened?”

Another pause. More dawdling this time. “You haven’t heard?”

An icy hand closed over Hermione’s heart. “Heard what?”

Merinah blinked a few times. “How couldn’t you have?” she said softly. “It’s been all over the papers.”

“What has?” insisted Hermione.

Merinah pursed her lips, and then hesitantly handed Hermione the paper she had folded in her lap.

Hermione grabbed it, eager to know what was wrong, but also dreading the reason. She opened the Daily Prophet and her eyes fell onto the cover page. And the answers were right there.

“‘Potter’s Sentence Decided,’” read Hermione aloud. “‘The Kiss is to be performed on April fourteenth, two thousand and two…’” She trailed off, her breathing becoming rapid. She looked up to Merinah, her eyes blinking wildly as she pushed back tears. “What?”

“That’s not all,” said Merinah sadly. She bent over the paper and ran her finger down to somewhere near the bottom of the front page. It stopped at a heading. “Read that one too…”

Dreading what she was about to see, Hermione looked down to the paper and read. “‘Hogwarts Professor Christened Mentally Unstable… Professor Hermione Granger, 22, was put on leave three days ago, considered mentally unstable and desperately in need of counseling…’”

Mouth agape in horror, Hermione looked up at Merinah through lowered brows, only to meet Merinah’s warm, caring blue eyes.

“They—they call me mentally unstable?” she whispered shakily. “Why?”

Merinah shook her head and silently pointed further into Hermione’s judging article. Eyes flitting to the paper and back to Merinah, she only received a nod to continue. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath before reading more. “‘Headmistress Minerva McGonagall was hesitant to admit that Granger actually believed Potter innocent. “The poor girl is obviously hallucinating,” McGonagall told Prophet. “She seems to believe that Potter is in love with her and that she is in love with him. I love the girl, but something must have gone wrong in her mind. Please don’t put this in the paper…” Prophet, of course, published it, but only to show just how much horror Potter has bestowed upon our people…’”

A sudden rage rose in Hermione, so violent, so wild she actually wanted to kill. She looked up violently at Merinah. “D*** them. F*** them.”

Merinah looked startled at such words coming from Hermione. She took the paper carefully from Hermione’s hands. “Do you see why I’m here then?”

“No, I don’t,” Hermione spat angrily. “To show me that?”

“No,” Merinah snapped back. “I came so we can prove them wrong. I say we work on Potter’s case, Granger. We can save you. We can take back their deem of your stability. And we can show them Potter has changed.”

“How?”

“Demand a trial.”

“How will that help?” Hermione shrilled, standing. She began pacing in front of the chair.

Merinah stood, also, and grabbed Hermione’s shoulders. “Hey, I’m Divinations Queen, honey. I should know what I’m saying.”

Hermione hesitated. She bit her lip and brushed away a few tears with the back of her hand. But then she met Merinah’s gaze and nodded. “What do you want to do?”

No, don’t believe her, she cried, please, Hermione… It’s a trap…

She beat wildly on the floor of the mind with invisible hands, urging herself to blink, trying to gain control of her body…

Merinah’s left eye twitched. Her right hand rose and shuddered back down to her side. Her head shook and she gritted her teeth.

Hermione didn’t notice.

To be continued…

Feedback please? Thank you for the last bit of feedback. I have to say that. But now I have to say my usual again: More feedback please?