Backwards Compatible
A Disquieting Reunion
By Ruskbyte
Hermione was worried about Harry. Actually, just about everyone was worried about Harry, with Professor Snape being the only exception.
None of this was particularly unusual. After all, Snape had always hated Harry with a passion that bordered on obsessive, so it was no surprise that the potions master didn't give a right damn about Harry's well being. And, as Ron had pointed out so perceptively that morning, Hermione was always worrying about Harry. Though he joked that she spent more time worrying about him than she did visiting the library, Hermione couldn't help but admit that he was entirely correct.
She would never admit it to anyone, she barely admit it to herself, but Hermione had developed feelings for her best friend that were decidedly other than what a friend was supposed to feel. She could not pinpoint the exact moment when her perception of Harry had changed from close and dear friend to the desire for something... more.
In a way it seemed as if she had always felt this way about him. Perhaps the feelings had not been as developed or mature, but they had been there right from the start. It might have been a touch of hero worship at first, after all, it had been Harry who had tackled a mountain troll that was bigger than Hagrid. What girl could help getting a little starry-eyed about a boy who risked his life to save her own, especially when they had not been on the best of terms at the time. Of course, Ron had been there too, but it had not taken long for her to find out that it had been Harry that had dragged him along in search of her that night.
Over the years the act of worrying about Harry had become almost second nature to Hermione. Her friend had an unnatural ability to attract any and all manner of trouble, more often than not of the potentially lethal kind. Worse yet was that the challenges Harry found himself facing seemed to grow more and more dangerous with each passing year. Amazingly enough Harry always seemed to fight his way through whatever he confronted, emerging bruised, battered, but never bowed.
Until now.
Sirius' death had hit everyone hard, especially the children, bringing home the fact that a war was upon now them. Harry, more than anyone else, had been affected the most by Sirius' death and it had shown during those days before they had left Hogwarts and returned home for the summer. Some part of Harry, that last beacon of innocence that was carefully guarded within, had been snuffed out and extinguished that night. Whatever small hope he might have had for a childhood was gone, leaving behind someone who was now an adult in all ways.
"They'll be here any minute now."
Hermione shook her head to clear her thoughts and looked at her other best friend, fortunately one that she did not have any suspect feelings for. Ron had somehow managed to grow an inch or two during the month they had been apart, him at the Burrow, she at her home with her parents.
"Yeah," she answered quietly. "Any minute."
"What's bothering you?" Ron asked, looking at her curiously, having clearly picked up on her troubled and somewhat brooding mood.
"Harry."
"You shouldn't be worrying about him, Hermione. He's perfectly alright. You'll see."
Hermione looked at him, struggling to keep the pleading desperation out of her voice, "Will I? You saw how he was at the end of the year. He needed our help, Ron. Somebody to be there for him while he was trapped with those horrid Dursleys. And what did we do? We left him, Ron. All by himself. Alone."
A brooding expression of his own flickered across Ron's face, but was quickly hidden as he tried to assure her. "He'll be alright. He always is."
"Are you so certain of that?" she asked.
"No," he admitted after a long pause, his lips pursed thoughtfully.
Though clearly unwilling to admit it, Ron was just as worried about his friend as Hermione had been for most of the last month. The two teenagers had first started to grow concerned shortly after Harry arrived at number four Privet Drive to stay with his relatives, the Dursleys. His letters, which were delivered with monotonous regularity by Hedwig, were short and concise.
Still alive.
Nothing happening here.
HP.
It did not matter who he addressed the letters to, be it Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Remus, Tonks or any of the other Order members keeping watch over him. It was always the same, always those same six
words. Hermione had even done a comparison between several of the letters and come to the conclusion that they were identical in every aspect, save the parchment they were written on. Every line,
every curve and every quillstroke were duplicated with machine-like precision. It was as if Harry had a printing press hidden in his room and was producing the letters off a template.
Suffice to say, by the time Harry was due to arrive at the Order's headquarters, everyone was worried about the state he was in.
A muffled thump from downstairs caught their attention, signalling the entry of Nymphadora Tonks into number twelve Grimmauld Place. The currently lime haired Auror seemed incapable of making her way through the entrance hall without bumping into something along the way. And, right on schedule, this was enough to catch the attention of one particularly obnoxious portrait.
"HOW DARE YOU COME HERE, YOU BLOOD TRAITORS!! FILTHY HALF-BREEDS AND MUGGLE LOVERS ALL OF YOU!! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!! I WILL NOT ABIDE YOUR FOUL PRESENCE IN THIS NOBLE--"
"Merlin, can't anyone shut that bitch up?" asked Ron as they left the room and made their way to the stairs.
Hermione shook her head, "Sirius was stuck in here with her for all of last year. If he couldn't get rid of her in all that time..."
Ron grumbled unhappily, "Thank God Lupin got rid of that filthy Kreacher. At least now we don't have to put up with both of them this year."
"Hmmm," was Hermione's response as she hurried down the stairs, Ron's longer stride easily keeping up.
Kreacher had been the Black family's house-elf and had played a role in tricking Harry into believing that Voldemort had captured Sirius. Hermione had not seen hide nor hair of the treacherous little blighter since she and Ron had arrived at Grimmauld Place that morning. The only thing approaching an explanation was that people's eyes would shift briefly towards Remus Lupin whenever the house-elf was brought up. It did not take a great leap of deduction to work out what had happened.
Reaching the foot of the main staircase, the pair quickly hurried to the entrance hall, where they could hear Mrs Black's slowly diminishing tirade. From the sound of it Moody was growling over Tonks' clumsiness, whilst at the same time threatening the painting with a sticky end in a tub of magical paint remover. Tonks, for her part, was either apologising profusely or telling Moody put a sock in it before she cursed his magical eyeball out of his head. Trying to keep the peace between the two, as well as informing Mrs Black that she should shut up or meet the same fate as Kreacher, was Remus.
And in the middle of this, standing as calm as could be, was Harry.
Unable to help herself, Hermione spent several seconds gaping dumbly at him before charging forward to engulf him in the tightest embrace she could manage. As she expected he did not return the hug, something she had come to expect over the years. She supposed it had something to do with the way his Muggle relatives had raised him; completely devoid of any form of affection. As such Harry simply did not know how to respond to such a display. Hermione still hoped that one day, provided she did it often enough, he would hug her back.
"Hello, Hermione. It's good to see you."
Hermione released her hold on Harry and took a step back so that she could look at him properly. His greeting had alarmed her with its lack of tone and inflection. For all the emotion his voice had carried he might as well be commenting on grass growing, or paint drying.
As Harry turned to face Ron, who had come up behind her, Hermione quickly accessed her best friend's condition. Frankly Harry looked much the same as when she had last seen him, departing King's Cross station just one month ago. Practically identical, in fact. To her relief he was showing no signs of physical or mental abuse, which she had dreaded the Dursleys subjecting him to, and all-in-all seemed to be in relatively good health. True, he was as skinny and pale as ever, but that was also something she had come to expect over the years. There was something wrong, however, something disquieting about his appearance that she couldn't place her finger on.
There was a curious... lightness... in his stance she noted, as though he were feather-light and in danger of being blown away by even the slightest breeze. However there was no sign that he had lost any weight over the holidays, as he was wont to do under the Dursleys' miserly attitude. He just seemed almost insubstantial, somehow, like a ghost that had been given a solid form.
"Hello, Ron. It's good to see you."
Part of her made a note that Harry had, as in his letters, used the exact same words to greet Ron as he has used to greet her. However most of Hermione's attention was focused on Harry's face as he spoke. She had not been able to look at him when he had acknowledged her greeting. The sight was, frankly, an alarming one. Harry's features were as bland and lacking in warmth as his voice was empty of feeling. The closest she could think to describe his expression, such as it was, would be that of a guest trying to look politely curious as his host rambled on about something of absolutely no interest. It was the eyes though, those normally enchanting emerald green eyes, that caught Hermione's attention more than anything else.
Harry's eyes were normally very similar to Dumbledore's in a way; full of life and power and strength. They would twinkle when he was happy, burn dangerously when angry or glisten painfully when he was grieving. The wonderful expression Harry's eyes could convey, a glimpse into his soul, was one of the things that Hermione loved most about him, defeating even his rare, heart winning smile.
Now Harry's eyes were devoid of that sparkle of life, replaced by something utterly implacable. It reminded Hermione frighteningly of the pictures of Sirius and the escaped Azkaban prisoners that had been published in the Daily Prophet. It was somewhat similar, but different in a way that she again had difficulty describing. Taking in everything they saw, but returning not a glimmer nor a spark of the boy she knew him to be, his eyes were terrifyingly blank; as flat and unalive as a badly painted portrait.
And looking into Harry's eyes, Hermione knew that things were horribly amiss.
TBC...