Work Text:
Somewhere She Could Not Follow
Hermione’s arms tightened around herself subconsciously as she listened to the creaking of the steps as Harry and Bathilda Bagshot retreated upstairs. She didn’t like this. She didn’t like it one bit.
Harry seemed confident and unwavering. It was both admirable and infuriating when he was like that. Either it would lead to him doing something incredible or lead to him getting himself killed. She was never sure which.
Splitting up seemed like an absolutely terrible idea. She wished Ron was here, if only so she wouldn’t have to wait alone. She wondered where he was now. If he had made it home safe. Then she reminded herself that he had left them. Left her. He had made that choice. He didn’t deserve to have her worrying about him.
Still… she wished she didn’t have to wait alone.
She took in a deep breath and let it out, rubbing her hand up and down her arm, more to comfort herself than because of the cold. But it was cold in this house. Cold and dark and dusty and dank. And dear God, what was that smell anyway? It reminded her of raw meat tossed in the bin with rubbish pickup still days away.
Her eyes roved around the room and fell on the bookcase. She moved over to it, partially in the hopes of seeing something useful, but mostly because she invariably found comfort and distraction in books. A part of her mind registered the sounds of Harry and Bathilda entering a room upstairs and a door closing behind them. No, she didn’t like this at all.
Her eyes roved around the books on the bookcase. Most were old history texts. Like everything in the house, the books were coated in dust. All save one. This one was not stashed away neatly upright like the rest. This one was lying out flat. As though it had been recently acquired and was still waiting to be perused. Hermione reached out and picked it up. She recognised it immediately. The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore, by Rita Skeeter.
The binding of the book was un-cracked. Hermione doubted Bathilda had even bothered to open it once. The glossy clean cover was a stark contrast to everything else in the shabby interior of the house. She ran her fingers over the cover thoughtfully. Then Hermione’s eyes fell on a note sticking out the top. She slipped the piece of parchment out curiously. It was a neat rectangular sheet of paper emblazoned with spiky, acid-green writing.
Dear Batty,
Thanks for your help. Here’s a copy of the book, hope you
like it. You said everything, even if you don’t remember it.
Rita
Hermione felt her face screw up in disgust. God, but she hated that woman. What manipulations had Rita Skeeter done to this poor old woman’s mind, all to write a book aimed at defaming someone who had always strived to do good? Strived to help Harry.
Before she could even begin to speculate, her eyes jerked up to the ceiling. A dull thump had just sounded above her, then a clatter as something small and wooden— a pencil perhaps?— fell and rolled away across the floor. She frowned, uncertain, tucking the parchment back into the book.
Then there was a crash of something shattering and another sound as though a body falling hard to the ground.
“Harry?” she called, alarmed. The only answer she got was another thunk.
Something was wrong. Something was very very wrong.
Panic was flooding her brain as she flew to the stairs, the book still tucked forgotten under her arm. On the first floor landing, her feet skidded, and she almost pitched into the banister as she took a sharp turn to the right in the direction of the commotion. She blasted open the door without a moment’s thought. And then her eyes widened in abject horror.
The bedroom was dark, but the light from the landing cut a sharp streak across the wood floors. And across Harry. He was on the ground, his fingers desperately grappling with a gigantic snake which was coiled around his chest, crushing the air from his lungs.
“Relashio!” Hermione cried. The snake was blasted off of Harry. Harry sat up, gasping for breath. But Hermione couldn’t reach him. For, between them, she had suddenly found herself face-to-face with an exceedingly angry snake. It reared back to strike at her.
Hermione raised her wand, but the snake was too fast. She shrieked and dove out of the way of its striking fangs just in time. She had tried to get off another curse, but it rebounded and hit the window with a shattering of glass.
She landed wrong and jarred her shoulder against the dresser. Gasping in pain, she cowered against the wall as the snake writhed and swayed, trying to pick out its next target. Harry was grappling for his wand off the floor. Hermione looked around for Bathilda to be sure she was alright, but she was nowhere to be seen.
The snake was preparing to strike again. Hermione shot off a knockback jinx and it went flying across the room in a flash of red light, clearing a path to Harry. The snake fell in a heap, hissing wildly in fury. They had to go. She had to get to Harry.
But a terror was filling her heart too completely for her to manage to move to him. Because in that moment, Harry was shouting “He’s coming! Hermione, he’s coming!” And she knew who he meant.
The snake was flailing everywhere, smashing shelves from the wall. Hermione ducked and shielded her face as splintered china flew in her direction. Harry was diving over the bed in her direction. Oh, God. He’s coming.
Harry grasped her injured arm and yanked her to her feet. She yelped as he pulled her across the bed, but the pain served to wake her from the panic that was fogging her brain. The snake was lunging at them again.
“Confringo!” Hermione cried. But there must have been some sort of protective enchantment on the snake, because again her spell was ricocheting around the room. It exploded the wardrobe mirror and sparks flew back toward them, narrowly missing her.
And then he was there. She saw him sweeping into the room, tall and cloaked, long white hands drawing a wand. Hermione screamed in terror. But Harry was already diving out the broken window, heedless of broken glass slicing across fragile skin. And he was dragging her along with him.
And as she Disapparated, clutching onto Harry as though their lives depended upon it (because indeed they did). Hermione heard the cloaked figure behind them screaming with fury.
The screams warped into strange sounds as they Apparated. And then Hermione felt her knees make hard contact with the ground. She fell to all fours, gasping— struggling to catch her breath and trembling all over. Voldemort’s furious screams were echoing terribly inside her head.
She forced herself to sit up and take stock of where they were. And she could have cried with relief as her eyes fell on a familiar tent.
“Harry,” she gasped. “Harry, we made it. We’re home.”
But something was wrong. Voldemort’s screams were still sounding. It was not just in her head. It was here. And Hermione felt her eyes widen in horror. He had followed them! She whipped around, panic filling her heart once again.
But it was not Voldemort screaming behind her. It was Harry. The Polyjuice Potion was wearing off and her friend was lying there, staring at the sky and screaming.
“Harry!” she gasped diving for him. He was hurt. There was blood everywhere. But as the scream died on Harry’s lips, she realised something else was wrong.
That had not been a scream of pain. That had been a scream of fury. Of frustration. Of murder. And never before had she heard such a sound from Harry’s lips.
She froze, staring down at her friend. Blood and some strange foam were oozing from what appeared to be a bite wound from the snake on Harry’s arm. Numerous shallow cuts covered his face and clothing from the glass of the window. But it was not his injuries which were giving her pause. It was his face.
He was staring up blankly at the sky, but she felt sure he did not see it. He was drawing deep breaths in through his nose as though filled with rage. And then he began to speak. And the voice that came from his lips was not Harry’s. And yet it was.
“Yes. Run away, little child. I could kill you. One simple movement and you would never reach your mother. But unnecessary. Quite unnecessary.”
“Ha—Harry…?” Hermione stammered.
She had never heard anything like this voice. It was Harry’s voice. But it was not. It was twisted and cruel and nothing like Harry’s. And yet it was his. And it was filling her with a fear such as she had never felt. It was a different kind of fear than she had experienced back in the house with the snake. There was nothing she could compare this terror to.
“I can see the house.” A cruel smile curled up Harry’s lips. “At last. The Fidelius Charm is broken. They haven’t even drawn the curtains. Such fools to place their trust in love and friendship,” he laughed to himself.
“Harry!” There was pleading in her voice as she called to him. “Harry, what are you talking about? There’s no house. No Fidelius. Harry!”
But he was silent, staring up at the sky, his eyes narrowed as he studied something that she could not see.
He was quiet long enough that she began to think that maybe he was coming out of it. She crawled closer. But then he spoke again in not-Harry’s voice. “Yes. Share your final game with your brat, James Potter. Send him off to bed and bid him sleep well. For he will not wake to see the sun again. Neither of you will.”
Every muscle in her body was shaking uncontrollably. Tears were freely flowing down her cheeks, but she could not be bothered to brush them away. “Ha-Harry. Harry, please come back. Wake up.” She reached out a trembling hand to grip his shoulder, shaking it hard. She almost couldn’t bring herself to touch him. But this was Harry. Somewhere in there, this was Harry!
His response was to laugh. A high-pitched terrible piercing laugh that made her blood run cold. “You plan to hold me off without a wand it your hand? What a fool.” And then he drew in a deep breath, still smiling and cried, “Avada Kedavra!”
Hermione yelped and jumped to her feet as green sparks shot from his wand. But the sparks were feeble and stuttering.
Her eyes flew to his wand hand in alarm. And then she saw it. His hand was clutching the handle to his wand, but the wand was snapped in two, the pieces held together by nothing more than a flimsy strand of phoenix feather.
Hermione pointed a shaking wand at him. “Ex—Expelliarmus.” And the broken wand flew up into her hand. She spared it a brief glance before pocketing it. The broken wand was dreadful. But what was one more drop of dread in the sea of dread in which she was already drowning?
“Harry!” she called. More forcefully this time. “Harry, this isn’t you! Come back! Wake up. You’re Harry Potter. Wake up!”
She had seen him lost in visions before, of course. But this… this was different. She briefly wondered if she should slap his face to jar him awake. But again she found she didn’t want to touch him. He revolted her.
“How stupid you all are. How trusting. To think that safety lies in friends. To think that weapons can be discarded. To think that a few boxes blocking a door can stop me!”
Hermione stood shaking her head back and forth. She didn’t want to hear this. She wished she could block out his voice. She knew what was coming and she couldn’t bear to hear him kill someone again. Kill his mother…
“Stand aside, you silly girl… Stand aside, now.”
Hermione was sobbing now. She pushed her hands over her ears, begging for him to stop. “Harry…” she moaned.
“This is my last warning—”
“Don’t. Don’t. Please. Harry. Come back.”
“Stand aside. Stand aside, girl.”
“You’re Harry. You don’t have to do this. You’re Harry. Just wake up!”
“Have it your way, then. Avada Kadavra!”
She found herself flinching as though she believed the curse might actually be flying her way. She sank to her knees, crying.
Through her tears, she studied her friend’s face. It was Harry’s face. But the disgust twisting his expression was not his. An expression like he was staring at the lowest most disgusting insect imaginable.
“It’s crying. I hate crying. I never could stomach the small one’s whining…”
Hermione sat there on the ground and hugged her knees to her chest. Close, but not too close. She felt cowardly that she could not bring herself to be closer to him. But this wasn’t Harry. But it was. She rocked back and forth, trying to shut out his words. She was afraid to touch him and afraid to leave him. So all she could do was sit there on the frozen ground and rock back and forth, back and forth.
She squeezed her eyes shut as he screamed the final curse. The curse she had known was coming.
“AVADA KADAVRA!”
And then her head jerked up. Because he was screaming again. But this was no longer a scream of anger. But a scream of pain. Of agony. Of terror. Of torture.
And to see her friend—to see Harry… even if it wasn’t Harry—to see him in pain. Hermione sobbed as she crawled closer to him. He disgusted her. But she loved him. He was Harry. Somewhere inside he was Harry.
And so she reached out a trembling hand and brushed his hair aside in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. “It’s okay, Harry. It’s okay. It’s not real.”
He was sweating now. She unzipped the front of his jacket to cool him. And then her eyes fell on his neck. A chain was poking out, just visible under his collar. And the skin beneath looked raw and burned. Her eyes widened. How could she be so foolish! How could she have forgotten?
She tore open his jacket and pulled aside the neck of his T-shirt below. She moved to yank the horcrux off him, but retracted her hand sharply with a hiss of pain when it burned her fingers. But she could see his flesh smouldering below, red and angry. She grasped at the chain, but this too was scorching.
“Diffindo!” she cried, cutting away the chain. Then, covering her hand with her sleeve, she grasped and tugged. The locket came away in her hand, carrying with it a layer of burnt skin. She gagged at the smell as she flung the horcrux aside. It landed a few feet away, lying innocently on the cold winter ground.
She turned back to Harry. An oval of raw blistering flesh marked the spot over his heart where the horcrux had been. She looked up into his face, blurred by tears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should have thought of it sooner.”
She brushed his hair back from his face as slowly his screams quieted. His forehead was hot and a sheen of sweat was coating his face. But slowly he looked more like Harry and less like… him. But still he did not wake up.
His eyes were closed now, no longer glaring at the sky. He was moaning softly to himself. “No… No….”
“Shhhh. It’s alright, Harry. Everything is going to be alright.” She scrubbed the tears from her eyes. She had to get herself together. She had to help him.
“Alright… We have to get you into the tent…” She spoke as though expecting him to suddenly agree and get to his feet. For a moment, she contemplated how she was going to lift him. Then Ron’s voice floated to her from years past under the school while battling Devil’s Snare. HAVE YOU GONE MAD? ARE YOU A WITCH OR NOT? Oh. Right.
“Mobilicorpus!” she sniffed. And Harry’s body rose up into the air. She shakily got to her feet and, holding her wand like the conductor of a symphony, she began to march Harry’s unconscious form into the tent.
Her feet faltered as she came level with the horcrux. She looked down on it with revolution. For all the world, it looked like nothing more than a simple piece of jewellery lying forgotten in the woods. A part of her wanted to leave it there. Let the forest reclaim it. But swallowing, she reached down, her hand again covered with her sleeve, picked it up, and slipped it into her bag.
It was tricky manoeuvring him into the bunk, especially while she was shaking. But she managed it on the third try. He was so covered in bruises and cuts, she figured he never needed to know if one or two of them were from her banging him into the bedposts.
When at last he was situated, she tucked him under the covers. Then as an afterthought, pulled the blanket from the top bunk down to pile it on top of him too. Then she turned to his injuries.
She pulled out her beaded bag. “Accio antiseptic,” she whispered, pointing her wand into the bag. And a small purple vial flew into her hand. She poured a generous amount onto a cloth and set about cleaning the bite to his forearm. The potion smoked as it made contact with his skin. Then she cleaned the burn on his chest. Then the cuts from the glass across his cheek.
“No… Noooo…” Harry moaned as she worked, quite oblivious to her administrations.
“Accio dittany,” she commanded her bag again. Then she tipped some of the contents of this vial onto the snake bite. She watched as the skin knit itself back together neatly. She did the same to the burn on his chest. It relieved the blisters, but the skin was still red and smooth and raw. Not even dittany was a match for a horcrux it would seem. It was sure to scar.
Hermione looked up into Harry’s face then. She felt his forehead again. He felt feverish. Summoning a fresh washcloth and a basin of water, she mopped his brow. He moaned.
“It’s alright. It’s alright Harry. You’re safe. Come back,” she whispered. He had never been out this long. Never had one of his visions been like this. And it terrified her.
It was so quiet. She sat in their tent in the woods, far removed from all civilisation. Not another living soul was near. It was just her and Harry. There was no sound to be heard but his ragged breathing and occasional moans and sighs. It was just her and Harry.
But no. He wasn’t there. Not really. He had left her as assuredly as Ron had. She was alone. She was so alone.
And she sat there, mopping his brow, holding his hand. And the minutes ticked by. And then hours. And with every hour, every minute, every second, every ragged breath, her fear increased.
What if he didn’t come back? What if he was gone?
He was her best friend. For years, she had followed him. Anywhere and everywhere he cared to go, she had followed him. She had stayed by his side. She would have continued to follow him to the ends of the Earth. But what if he went somewhere she could not follow? What would she do then? What would she do if he left her behind?
“Harry… Harry, come back. Please come back. Don’t leave me here alone… Don’t leave me behind… Come back.”
“No…” he moaned, stirring. His eyes fluttered for the first time since they had been outside, and he had stared at the sky. She sat up straighter.
“Harry?”
“No…”
“Harry, it’s all right, you’re all right!”
“No… I dropped it… I dropped it…”
“Harry, it’s okay, wake up wake up!”
Please don’t leave me behind.