Saving Harry Potter
3: Real Progress
By Mr. Intel
Chapter Three — Real Progress
As the next week progressed, Hermione received a disturbing owl from Luna, explaining that the younger girl had spent an enjoyable day with Harry talking about Wrackspurts and Umgubular Slashkilters. When Hermione asked if he’d responded at all to her conversation, she replied, "Oh, no.... He didn’t seem at all interested, but I’m sure that’s because he’s still worried about the Rotfang Conspiracy. If he didn’t want to talk about Fudge’s Umgubular Slashkilters, then he’d have said so."
Hermione cringed at this bit of news, but was even more upset when she got Ginny’s report.
I’m really worried about him, now. You said he responded well to your visit, so I was certain that we’d get along fine. After I punched Dudley in the stomach for grabbing my bum, he smiled just a bit, but he still didn’t talk much. I wonder if he might be ill. I don’t think he’d blink if I danced naked in front of him. (Don’t tell Mum I said that.)
Notwithstanding the certain measure of shock that Hermione felt at Ginny’s suggestion to help Harry recover from his depression, she also felt a tiny stab of anger that anyone would think to try that, as long as ‘anybody’ wasn’t her. Just as that particular thought ran through her mind, however, her cheeks burned with embarrassment and she grabbed her book on Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, flipping randomly until she found an interesting part to re-read. Her head was quite full thinking about Harry’s problem without having to entertain such silliness.
The problem was that while Hermione was convinced more than ever that Harry was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, (after reading for several hours about it) she just didn’t think that any of the suggested therapy techniques applied to Harry. She couldn’t get any anti-depressant medication (and didn’t really think that would be the best solution) and the several types of psychotherapy either required so much study to get right that she’d be twenty before being able to begin to help him, or they simply didn’t apply. Family therapy was out because he didn’t really have one, group therapy would be an option once he was back at Hogwarts — but she wanted to do something now — and exposure therapy wasn’t very likely to happen unless they could get Voldemort to visit Harry in a controlled environment. She snorted at the last idea and closed her book. No, Hermione was just going to have to find another way to help Harry cope. If only she could find the answer in one of her books.
*
Monday arrived and found Hermione once again dressing for her visit to Number Four Privet Drive. This time she selected a short-sleeved polo shirt and jeans. Mum looked in as she was brushing her hair before the mirror.
"Not as fancy this time?" she asked with a smile.
"Mum, Harry doesn’t even know that I’m a girl," she protested. "His corpulent cousin, however, thinks that I’m available, so I’m trying to tone it down a bit," she said, nodding with satisfaction after pulling her hair from her face with a hair elastic.
"If he doesn’t know you’re a girl, why are you bothering?" her mum asked.
"Because he’s my friend, Mum, and he needs me, whether he knows it or not," she said fiercely.
The walk up Magnolia Crescent from Mrs. Figg’s house was over in a trice. Instead of having to knock on the door, however, she found Harry sitting under a plum tree in the front garden.
Harry didn’t acknowledge her as she approached.
She sat down carefully, hoping the grass wouldn’t stain her bum and placed her book bag on the ground between them. "Hi, Harry," she said tentatively.
He didn’t blink and Hermione let out an exasperated sigh. This was going to be more difficult that she thought.
"You, um, want to go inside? I’ve brought the latest Quidditch Illustrated magazine," she said, tapping the bag in front of her. "I thought maybe we could read together or something."
There was still no response. His eyes were slightly unfocused and the wind played with his hair so that he looked like a mannequin more than a living person.
A sudden image of Ginny shaking her naked bum in Harry’s face flashed in her mind. With her lips pressed together, Hermione decided that enough was enough. If Harry insisted on being stubborn, then she would just have to take action; drastic action.
"Fine," she said determinedly, standing. She looked around to make sure they were secluded. A tall hedge bordered the north and east portions of the garden, with the house on the west. Only the south was exposed, but Hermione decided it was a risk she’d have to take. She unbuttoned her shirt and pulled it off over her head. "I’ll just have to resort to extreme measures," she said dramatically.
Harry’s eyes followed her movements and his jaw dropped open.
Emboldened by his reaction, she reached behind her back to fiddle with the clasp of her bra. "I’m warning you, Harry, I’m not to be ignored."
Harry’s face had turned bright red as he stared unabashedly at her and then he seemed to come out of whatever trance he’d been in and leapt to his feet. "What are you doing?" he hissed through his teeth, grabbed her shirt and holding it over her front. His eyes were now clamped shut. "Have you gone mental?"
"No," Hermione said calmly backing away from his attempts to cover her, even as she felt a slight warmth in her own cheeks. "I’m prepared to do anything to get you to pay attention to me, Harry," she said with the faintest quiver in her voice. "I’m not going to let you treat me like you treated Luna or Ginny."
When he didn’t say anything, except to stare at her feet, she briefly considered making good on her threat to unhook the clasp of her bra and throw it to the ground between them, just to make sure he wasn’t faking. He seemed to read her mind, however and held out her shirt again.
"Please put your clothes back on, Hermione," he pleaded. "I promise I won’t... I won’t ignore you any more."
She considered his request, searching his face for any sign of deceit — it would be just like Harry to fake sincerity simply to get her to comply. Still, she could tell by the way he kept sneaking glances at her that he wasn’t faking it this time. "All right," she said at last, grabbing her shirt and putting it on. "But if you clam up again, I’ll just have to take everything off."
Harry’s cheeks flamed crimson and he nodded his head. "All right, all right," he said, holding out his hands. "I’ll talk to you." Then he looked her in the eye as re-buttoned her shirt and with a slight grin, said, "But only you."
Finished dressing, Hermione smoothed her hair down and picked up her bag, feeling much better about herself now that she was covered. "That’s a good start," she pronounced. "Shall we go inside? I really do have the latest Quidditch Illustrated."
There was a slightly hungry look in his eye as she said this, but she found that it was nothing compared to the look he’d let slip onto his face for a brief second as her shirt cleared her head.
*
Once inside, they retired to Harry’s bedroom, careful to leave his door open and Hermione handed over the magazine. He was quite engrossed with it, seeming to want some sort of distraction to avoid the awkward topic of her decision to strip in his front yard. So Hermione wandered around his room and began to finger the few books he kept in the open. An unused dictionary and thesaurus sat on a tiny shelf next to the window. His Herbology text and a recently acquired copy of Advanced Potion Making sat open on the sewing machine-sized desk under it. She’d already read those so her eyes continued to search for something else, landing on his open trunk. Then she caught sight of something that looked vaguely familiar to her. A white leather-bound book that had the letters ‘J’ and ‘L’ embossed on the spine in gold. She pulled this book out of his trunk, careful not to disturb anything else and sat on the floor by his wardrobe.
It turned out to be a photo album of Harry’s parents and of him, when he was a toddler. "Harry?" she asked quietly. He looked over the top of his magazine. "Do you mind if I look at this?"
He hesitated for a second and then shook his head. She raised an eyebrow at his nonverbal answer and he rolled his eyes. "Yes, you can look at my ruddy photos," he said, in obvious irritation at having to speak.
Smiling at him for his obedience, she began to scan through the pages, coming upon a moving picture of Harry in the bath, as naked as the day he was born. She giggled, holding it up for him to see. "Now I can say I’ve seen you without your clothes on."
Harry stared at her, that same strange look she’d seen on his face last week, and then he smiled, too. "Well, at least I’ve seen you in the buff in person."
Hermione flushed. "Well... that’s... that’s completely different," she spluttered. "I was doing it for a reason."
His smile turning into a full smirk, Harry let the magazine drop to his lap. "And it worked just fine, Miss Granger. I’ll have to remember that little trick if you ever get moody and intolerable."
The heat on her face increased so that she hid it behind the photo album, focusing on baby Harry splashing in the black and white water. She couldn’t be certain, but as she snuck another look at him over the album, she could have sworn that he was actually playing with her.
The next page had a picture of him and Sirius on it, with Harry’s godfather holding a miniature broom out and James putting his son on the seat. It hovered for a moment and then wandered off the frame, only to repeat the scene over again.
"I didn’t know your dad and Sirius taught you how to fly on a toy broom," she said absently, laughing at the scared, but determined expression on toddler Harry’s face. When she looked up at the Harry in the room, however, all humour left her. "What?"
She could tell he wanted to clam up again, but he didn’t. "I didn’t know, either," he managed. "Not until I got that picture from Remus last week. He said he found it in a box at Grimmauld Place, when he was...." His voice broke and Harry made a show of clearing his throat. "When he was cleaning out his things," he finished quietly.
There was an awkward pause in which Harry shifted uncomfortably on his bed and began to stare out the window. His face closed off and Hermione knew that if she didn’t do something, he’d revert back to his depressed self. Not wanting to strip down in Harry’s bedroom, she decided to try a different tactic.
She placed the album back in the trunk and sat tentatively on the edge of his bed. He was still staring, unseeing out his window. "Maybe if you... talked about him?" she suggested. "I read that if you can discuss your experiences with someone that it can be a sort of therapy for you."
"I don’t need therapy," Harry ground out. His expression had changed from open and lost to hard in a second. "I don’t need to talk about it and I don’t need to be babied."
Hermione’s lips pressed together again. "If that’s what you want..." She retrieved the photo album and sat down, this time right next to Harry. He could act like a prat all he wanted to, but she wasn’t going to shy away from his temper like she had last year.
She had flipped to the pages of pictures devoted to his time at Hogwarts and stopped when she came across one of her and Harry under a tree by the lake. It must have been during fourth year when Ron was fighting with him about the tournament. She fingered it, wondering why he’d chosen to put this in when there were so many others of all three of them together.
So intent was she on the picture that she was a little surprised to hear a voice come from beside her.
"I miss him," Harry said simply and quietly.
Hermione didn’t know if saying something was necessary, so she continued to stare at the picture. It seemed like so long ago that they’d been under that tree.
"I wish I had listened to you..." he continued, and she looked up to see his face half hidden in his hands. "About the Ministry. You said it could have been a trap and you... you were right."
It seemed as though all the concern she had for him surfaced at once, crystallized into a single, solid thought and she it became clear exactly what he needed. She lifted her hand and placed it on his shoulder. "I wasn’t right, Harry," she began. "I wasn’t right about a lot of things last year and I’m going to be wrong about loads more in the future."
He pulled his hands away from his face slightly so that he could see her out of the corner of an eye.
"I was wrong to tell you not to go rescue Sirius," she continued when he said nothing. "I was suspicious and the part of me that wanted you to be safe took over and..." but her voice caught. She wanted to tell him that he was being selfish for taking all the blame for Sirius’ death, that there were dozens of people mourning his dead godfather, including her, and that he was loved, not least of all by her. "But Harry," she said with thick emotion. "I went with you anyway. I went with you when I thought..."
"That Voldemort might be there and we’d all be killed," finished Harry for her.
Hermione looked at Harry, who was staring back at her, his face shining. "Yes," she whispered.
Carefully and slowly, he took her hand from his shoulder, held it tightly and then slid along the wall until his head rested on her arm. "Thanks," he said, sniffed, and then was quiet.
A strange jumble of emotion swirled within her. Fear, uncertainty, and the sensation that Harry had just touched something deep within her all made her dizzy trying to keep up with it all. After a long while, she decided that she would stop fighting her heart and, pushed her free hand into the hair at the back of his neck.
The air felt heavy in Harry’s room, and Hermione had the urge to throw open the window. Just as her mind was racing to come up with a plausible way to do this, there was a movement at the door, and Professor Dumbledore’s long purple robes appeared.
Harry didn’t seem to notice, however, and Hermione did not give him reason to suspect that their time together was being interrupted. She did move her head enough to see Dumbledore looking at their joined hands and the hand that she had placed behind Harry’s neck. She blushed and there was a twitch behind the Headmaster’s long silver beard.
Dumbledore inclined his head, made a gesture that seemed to indicate he’d be returning later, and left the room, closing the door noiselessly behind him. Hermione felt Harry sigh beside her. She thought quickly of all the reasons why Dumbledore would leave them in a room together, alone, with the door closed, and could only think of one. As this came to her, she gasped, pulled herself away from Harry, who sat up immediately and every time she’d been alone with him came back to her with remarkable clarity.
"What?" he asked, clearly distressed that she was now standing and no longer next to him.
"I, er..." she began inelegantly looking anywhere but at him. "I just remembered something... important... at home."
Without waiting for his reaction, she grabbed her book bag and opened the door. Dumbledore was on the other side still, having a conversation with Petunia. They paused when she appeared, red-faced and avoiding all eye contact, and then Hermione sped between them and down the stairs.
The last thing she heard from Number Four was Harry’s voice through his bedroom window. "Hermione, come back!"
She did not turn back, but not because she did not want to. No, she wanted very much to go back to Harry, but had been too frightened by her sudden realisation and needed time to think things through.
It was a long walk back to Mrs. Figg’s; much longer than it was just half an hour ago.