The Boy Who Died

Across the Atlantic Ocean, Hermione slept as well, relatively exhausted from her arduous work in the States. Normally, 'digs' allowed for more time to inventory and catalogue, but Dragon Island had not been like most assignments.

Hermione had returned to an empty home, and as much as she had missed Edward, it was a relief - time for reflection on the man she'd seen and, more importantly, time for sleep. Before slumber had overtaken her senses, she considered the mystery man. She had even laughed at herself for imagining that it was Harry. 'It was those eyes,' she had reasoned. 'And there are a million blokes with green eyes.' That had seemed to reassure her, as sleep surrounded her in a cocoon.

Like Harry, Hermione's dreams were usually nothing more than recollections. Unlike Harry's disturbing nightmares, hers were usually comforting, despite the plethora of bad memories, because for her, Harry had then been part of her life, and Harry had been her security.

Those same green eyes from Dragon Island flashed before again, this time deep within her sleep-time world. Back in St Mungo's again, she had no idea how long she slept, but Hermione opened her eyes to see Harry sitting beside her. His face was so near her own that she could see the distinct swirls of jade outlining his irises. Hermione immediately felt a warmth suffuse her body, branching out from her heart, infusing her with calm assurance. Much like a child feels in the embrace of a parent, and yet more powerful.

'Parents!' she blinked rapidly at the thought. A current of abhorrent images washed over her and she cried out, a long whine of fear and pain, both physical and mental. Harry immediately squeezed her hand, his palm warming her own. This time though, the warmth didn't quite reach her heart as the coldness of what had happened swept over her. Visibly, Hermione shivered, and she clinched her eyes closed, as tightly as she did the cry that had escaped her mouth.

"Breathe deeply," Harry instructed, almost intuitively. She had so visibly paled that he feared shock was once again upon her.

Hermione obeyed, inhaling sharply. When at last she exhaled, she gazed at him. Unconsciously, she bit her bottom lip, as if afraid of crying out again. Harry felt a tangible pain grip his heart as Hermione's wide eyes bespoke of horrors he could only imagine.

Before Harry could speak again, Dumbledore walked quietly into the room. He peered with worry over his moon-shaped glasses at his young charges. "Miss Granger," he sighed, both sympathy and inquiry in his voice. "I am most relieved you were able to sleep so long, allowing time for the healing potions and charms to do their work."

Hermione stared, mouth still clamped tight, unresponsive except for the grip on Harry's hand.

"My dear, it is best you not bottle up this pain inside you. The quicker you allow the affliction release, the less time it can spread and cause further injury," the Headmaster advised.

Despite the gentleness in the older man's voice, Harry was indignant. "Professor Dumbledore, sir, I hardly think this is the time," he began, but the other wizard raised his hand.

"If a Death Eater ever allows a person to live, it is usually because they expect to inflict further agony in that very living. Trust me, Harry," he consoled. "I've seen this before, and if Miss Granger does not let it out now, she may never be able to. And madness is a much more prolonged affliction."

Harry looked unsure, but before he could respond or question, Hermione opened her mouth again. This time, a long wail of agony spewed from her lips, as if evil itself was leaving her body. Harry was on the bed next to her in seconds, holding her close, propriety be damned in the face of Hermione's torment. The wail slowly turned into loud crying and then to softer sobs. Dumbledore watched, sadness etched in every line of his tired, aging face.

When Hermione's shudders subsided, Dumbledore patted her with fatherly affection. "You are a brave girl, Hermione Granger," he observed, his voice obviously choked. "Only a bit more courage and you can rest again."

She swallowed convulsively. "More?" she croaked, her throat raw from grief. Harry's grip tightened.

"Speak of it aloud, tell us what happened and the Death Eaters have lost their hold on you. It is called the Perpetuated Agonus Curse, similar to the Dementors' methods. Not to worry, whatever you say shall never leave this room," Dumbledore vowed, nodding at Harry, waiting on his promise as well.

"Never, Hermione," Harry agreed, though it was evident in his tenor that he wasn't so sure he wanted to know exactly what occurred at the Granger home. 'Always so noble,' Hermione reflected at Harry's sincere tone.

Hermione straightened, separating herself from Harry. She felt a loss of warmth, but his proximity could not help her in the telling. "First, I must know, did my Mum...?"

Dumbledore shook his head gravely. "They neither survived."

Hermione gulped at that, but did not look surprised. "Once I begin, I don't want to be interrupted, or I may never be able to finish," she instructed bossily.

"Understood," Dumbledore agreed, taking the chair that Harry had used. Harry did not move off the bed, but allowed the distance between them, sensing Hermione's needs instinctively.

"I was asleep when the Death Eaters arrived," she began. "I heard shouts below stairs, but before I could reach my door, a magical lock must have been placed upon it. No matter what spells I conjured, nothing worked. I threw on my robe, as if that would somehow make me more magical," her voice was a dry chide against her own naiveties.

"I could hear my parent's voices, my father...demanding to know who was accosting them. His voice turned to a yell, and then a sob. I can only assume his answer was the Cruciatus Curse. My Mum was yelling for them to stop. I've no idea what exactly happened, and I don't think I want to know for certain," she looked heartbreakingly ashamed at the admission.

At her lengthy pause, both Harry and their Headmaster recognized her need for affirmation. "Perfectly unnecessary," Harry inserted in a gentle tone.

Dumbledore's nod was kind. "The Dark Arts are a nasty business, child; they enjoy their 'tasks.' There is no shame in either your fear, or your ease in ignorance."

"I was meant to hear it, every scream, every plea, every cry - almost as if it was being channeled directly into my room," she continued, relief at their understanding flooding her, giving her strength to continue. "I wanted to die. And then, suddenly, my door was flung open, but no one was outside. I hid my wand up my sleeve and went onto the landing. The house was silent. When I finally found my parents, they were both in the library. Mum was unconscious, near the door, but Father...," she faltered only a moment, before lifting her chin, and continuing, "Father was on the floor closest the desk." Sobs escaped her, but she brushed Harry's hands away as they reached to pull her toward him.

Hermione's gaze bore into Dumbledore. "There isn't supposed to be that much blood in magic," her voice was accusing. "Father was so...so...he was covered...," she choked out.

Dumbledore's eyes closed as he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them, she was still staring, as if awaiting his explanation. When he had finally composed himself to speak, Hermione held up her hand, staying his response.

"I knew my Father was dead," she stated dully. "And suddenly, the room was full of Death Eaters. I was so shocked; I didn't even grab my wand."

Tears streamed down Harry's face. Nothing worse than insults from Draco Malfoy should ever have happened to Hermione, nothing worse than the occasional A-, or detention because of his and Ron's pranks. That *she* had endured all this was far worse than if it had happened to him. Hermione though, did not know his thoughts, only his tears, and they comforted her.

"They kicked my Mum. They *kicked* her," loathing evident in Hermione's voice, "and I pulled out my wand in retaliation. I cast curses that I had only read in books, and they worked! They weren't even the really bad ones, but I think it must have surprised them even more than it surprised me. Three fell to my curses, and the others began to apparate."

Hermione continued, lost in the tale. "Smoke was filling the room, stinging my eyes. I'm not sure what happened next because all I felt was blinding pain. It must have been the Cruciatus Curse, and it was worse than I could have ever imagined. All I wanted was for it to stop," she whimpered in the memory. "When it did, a robed figure stood over me. He planted his foot on my chest, and I could feel spit hit my face as he called me a Mudblood."

Harry cried out, and Hermione looked at him. "He whispered another curse, but I couldn't make it out. I don't remember much else after that, except you reaching for my hand - *you* came to help me, Harry."

"Very well, Mrs. Granger," Dumbledore stood abruptly. "Your telling will bring you more healing, than in all the potions and charms within these hospital walls." His eyes shone with a mixture of pride and pain. "And you truly embody all that is a Gryffindor."

"I do feel better, if that is possible or even deserved," she sighed, the guilt in living mingling with weariness and exhaustion. Harry stood, allowing her to recline. She complied readily, her lids heavy with fatigue, completely spent in the recounting of the ordeal. Her last thought was that of Harry, who was again holding her hand.

"Rest now, child," Dumbledore instructed, then grimly cleared his throat. Hermione was already sleeping, unable to hear his parting words. "Though I think that you shall never be a child again," he corrected softly.

Footsteps shuffled across the linoleum floor. A cabinet door opened, then shut firmly. A cacophony of other noises followed, drifting up from the kitchen, flowing into Hermione's bedroom. The intrusion finally succeeded in awakening Hermione, who opened her eyes and quickly sat up in her bed. "Edward's home," she whispered, grinning like a kid.

Straightaway, she stood, slipping a chenille robe over her nightgown. She then strode to the dresser, and with two clips and deft, practiced wrist movements, pinned her hair into an elegant chignon. She peered briefly at her pillow-wrinkled cheek, pulling a face at her own reflection and reached for some moisturizer. Hermione did not bother with make-up, not with Edward waiting downstairs. He never cared how she looked anyway.

A quick trip to the bathroom found her teeth brushed and her bladder relieved. She quickly tidied the bed, and turned off the overhead fan, as she exited the door. The organization so evident in even her morning routine was very much a part of Hermione's life; it was one of the reasons she made such an excellent wizard archeologist.

Noises continued in the kitchen below, and she moved down the stairs making sure to step on the squeaky one, so as not to frighten the person below. By the time she stood in the kitchen doorway, Edward had a glass of orange juice poured for her.

"Edward," she smiled, and it even lit up her brown eyes with a warmth rarely seen by others. "You're home."

"Indeed," he returned, "where else would I be?" His eyes twinkled in teasing, his tone reminiscent of a certain set of Weasley twins.

"I had thought you might stay at the Burrow until later," she replied, sipping her juice. "Thanks," she said, as she lifted the glass of orange liquid. "Mmm, fresh squeezed," she nodded in approval.

Edward shrugged, "Everyone had plans today, except Gramma Weasley, so I thought I'd come here." Then, adding with a wink, "I was worried she'd ask me to de-gnome the garden."

"Well, I'm glad you did, come home that is," she grinned, giving him a quick squeeze on the shoulder. She glanced out the window to see a new sun rising in the sky. "Did I really sleep that long?" She looked surprised at the dawn outside.

Edward shrugged. "I 'spose so, but well, you don't look much rested."

"Thanks," she murmured a bit sarcastically. Then, "I had bad dreams again, but parts of them were good," she finally added, honestly. Her hand warmed at the memory of Harry's holding it, even so long ago.

"Do you think they'll ever go away?" he asked, innocent of the hardships that so many in the wizarding, and even Muggle, community had faced. Hermione basked in that innocuous question; she never wanted Edward to fathom what she had endured. 'He may know the history, but he's not had to live through anything remotely like Voldemort's reign,' she thought, 'and that's a certain reward in itself.'

"I don't think so Edward, but some things can't be helped," she finally sighed in answer. "So, what are your plans for today?" She redirected him easily.

"Well Mum, I was hoping we could go to Diagon Alley. My Hogwart's letter arrived while you were away!" He announced proudly.

"Oh, Edward," she cried. "I had no idea. How very exciting! Well, do go get it; I want to see it," she enthused, pride in her voice as well. She felt a pang that her Ministry task had pulled her away, forcing her to miss the letter's actual arrival. 'Some things can't be helped,' she reminded herself again.

Edward grinned, and turned to dig in his satchel, which he'd casually dropped by the door when he'd returned home. While he rummaged, she sat at the kitchen table, watching him. It seemed a natural time to reflect on how fast the years had flown by.

His brown hair, though a bit shaggy, seemed quite a bit tidier than hers at that age. That hair was the first thing she'd noticed at his birth, as it had covered his little moppet head.

Since then, he seemed to grow, daily, and had long since surpassed her petite stature, but his body had not yet filled out to equal the height, making him appear a bit ungainly and lanky. His sharp features evidenced his intelligence, keen magical ability and joy of learning. From the time of his babyhood, Edward had attacked the world around him with a gleeful abandon, often exhausting Hermione while at the same time filling her with pride. Despite his vigor, he had been a well-behaved child, and Hermione could only dwell on the happy times since giving birth to her son. She was content.

When at last he stood before her, said parchment presented in his outstretched hands, Hermione could see the satisfied dignity in his green eyes. "I've been invited to Hogwart's," he said, as if any other option had ever really been considered. Hermione knew from the moment he had levitated his sippy cup off the floor, to his awaiting hands in the high chair, that he was definitely a wizard. Those chubby palms had clasped that drink to his little mouth as if doing magic was intrinsic to everyone.

Looking at the letter, she found herself reflecting on his childhood again. Ron had bought him his first broom at only two, and Edward was now quite proficient. As a matter of fact, she had even bought him a new model broom, the Hoovercraft XL, for his 11^th birthday. Even though he was only going to be a first year and couldn't take it to school, she strongly suspected, with his natural talent on a broom, he might need it after all.

"Ohh," she said with a start. "Don't you want to wait on...," she began.

"Not really," replied Edward. "The Canon's next two games are away, Bulgaria and Portugal, I think," he explained, obviously glum. "And I'd rather just the two of us go," he added, smiling softly and looking very boyish.

Hermione silently fumed. Just before leaving for Dragon Island, she had had a set-to with Ron, but apparently, it had made very little difference. She had *told* him that he needed to spend more time with Edward, but as usual, Ron stubbornly refused to listen.

"You aren't spending enough time with him, Ron," she had scolded. "There is more to life than Quidditch, even if you are a professional player these days."

"Mind your own, Hermione," he'd replied. "I'm busy." Ron's words were weighed with unspoken hurts.

"He's only a boy, he doesn't understand. He needs you," she again protested. "It's almost as if you're trying to punish me through him."

"He looks just like Harry," Ron had said, as if that were an argument in itself.

"Ronald Weasley!" she had cried, shocked at his childishness. "You act as if that is news to you! And you've only begun to push him away recently. Edward can't help that he looks like his father any more than Harry could help...,"

"Stop.right.there," Ron's eyes turned coldly on her, each word like a blow. He had pulled his tall, burly frame severely straight, and his flaming face had matched his red hair. "Do you recall our 'wedding day?' he had spat. His lack of fond memories from that day was clearly evident in both his tone and demeanor.

Hermione had felt numbness creep over her. "Yes," she had mumbled, completely winded by the guilt in that particular attack.

"So do I and that gives you no right to instruct me on my relationship with Edward," he had bit out. She had stood then, shocked into silence, just as she stood now, in the middle of her kitchen, pained at the memory.

"Mum?" Edward asked hesitantly.

"Sorry, son," she replied, aiming silent hexes in Ron's general direction. Her attention now returned, she beamed tearfully at Edward again. His letter from Hogwart's was reminiscent of the joy she'd felt at his birth, and she was overcome with emotion. "Congratulations, Edward," she smiled through wet lashes. "I'd be honoured to take you to Diagon Alley. We'll go to Flourish & Botts, Madame Malkins, Ollivanders...," Just then, the tears spilled unchecked down her cheeks as she hugged him to her tightly.

"Awwww, Mum," he protested, but didn't draw away. As much as it pained to admit, it was still kind of nice to get a bear hug from his Mum.

End of Chapter 5