Forever Knight [Harmione]

Chapter 1: Rain

FIVE YEARS AGO…

It might have been the rain; the tears of the sky soaking into her clothes and touching her skin.

The water was a torrent of cold, thick droplets, but her eyes were warm orbs of honey and gold; her pale lips, quivering with chill, were nevertheless plump and glistening. Her breathing was heavy, as if she had been running, and the rise and fall of her chest called attention to the curved mound of flesh within the unbuttoned top of her shirt.

He recalled the day: the 30th of July; the eve of his birthday.

Before her unexpected arrival, Harry had been lying in bed, looking at the ceiling of his room as he followed the waterline on the paint. It left his mind free to think about the previous year; how odd it had been in every way; how horribly it ended. How he had spent most of the year alone; neglected by his best friends.

Occasionally, the rumble of thunder outside would get his attention and he would think that the skies should have raged the night Albus Dumbledore died.

Freak summer storms weren’t unheard of, and perhaps, wallowing in the grief of Dumbledore’s death, he welcomed the dreary auspiciousness of the rain.

But for the pelting of droplets on the roof and the steady stream of water outside his window, number 4 Privet Drive was silent.

He had looked at his battered bedside clock. It had read 11:33 pm. In another half-hour he would be seventeen years old, and he would forever leave the home he had hated.

Somehow, he found very little joy in the prospect. His grief threatened to overcome him every second he spent alone, but the thought of leaving this wretched house, free to find affable company among the wizards, hadn’t filled him with the anticipation he expected.

Eyes stinging, he fought back his tears.

Tears were for the weak. Tears were for quitters. He was a Gryffindor. His courage should see him through.

The tears persisted and he wiped them away with a fierce swipe of his hand.

What did the world want from him, anyway?  A slip of a boy like him, loved by no one but supposedly loved by everyone?  Sirius was a heartbreak.  Dumbledore was the shattering of the spirit.  It was like he was being taken apart piece by piece.  And now this isolated summer where no one cared.  No one understood.

Ron and Hermione wrote.  Of course they did, and he’d written back a bit, but what did either of them know about grief? 

Ron had prattled on about his happy family and the pranks Fred and George pulled; he even mentioned something about writing to Hermione about something important.  The “you know…”  Harry did not know. Or he didn’t want to know.  Ron could be such a prat sometimes.   

Hermione had sounded more sensitive, as usual, and she constantly told him to call her on the telephone if he needed something; anything.  Her letters would always have her telephone number at the bottom.  Sometimes, he would consider giving her a call; just to tell her that he missed her company, and that maybe they could meet somewhere to get something to eat, but the thought that he’d have to explain to her everything that was going on in his head felt tiring in the extreme. 

Thinking about it all, he felt so completely and utterly alone. 

More tears fell and he thumped the back of his hand on his forehead, almost like punishment.

It was during this brief struggle that a pebble flew in from his open window.

He frowned, confused, and then he heard the whisper of a euphemized curse. Like one of those, “Darn be all things ruddy!”