If Paths Diverge

Chapter 5

Hermione, as expected, was waiting for him.

When Harry pushed the door open, he saw her pacing in front of his fireplace. She turned at once to face him.

"I know I'm late, I'm sorry," Harry said, dropping his bag by the door and taking off his shoes.

When he made it to the sofa, he slumped down onto it heavily and stared up at his best friend, still at a loss as to what he was going to say.

"You look much better today," Hermione noted, sitting down beside him. "Are you still working on the super-secret assignment?"

Harry nodded, preparing himself for a long evening.

"Have you spoken to Ginny?"

Harry nodded again and wondered if he could get away with this as the sum of his communication tonight.

"Is she upset with you?" Another nod. "Are you planning on speaking to me or are you a toddler again?"

Harry rolled his eyes.

"I'm still tired, 'Mione. Can we do this another night?"

"No. We can do this now. I hate seeing you like this. You know sharing your burden will help. Please, let me help you."

Harry was grateful for friends like her. Truly. But he already felt better after sleeping and eating a few bites today— even though he felt guilty knowing Voldemort was downstairs, starving— so he wasn't as desperate for advice as he had been yesterday. So what if he'd had a horrifying epiphany about the cause of his twelve-year-long bout of apathy and found the cure to be his murderous enemy who was currently secretly imprisoned and viciously abused daily, sanctioned cheerily by the Minister himself?

Fuck.

Harry face-planted into his sofa cushion and mumbled against the fabric.

"I don't know what to do."

He felt Hermione's hand gently stroke his hair.

"I know. That's why I'm here. Tell me."

Harry groaned and pushed his face deeper into the material.

"I'm not supposed to."

He heard Hermione scoff.

"Don't insult me, Harry."

She continued to pet him and Harry relaxed into the feeling for a few minutes, his conscience battling his desperation.

He could hold out, it's true. He could keep a secret for a man he was losing respect for, at the expense of a man who needed his help. But was that really the best course of action? Was it morally correct to be faithful to his job over his own convictions? His own sense of justice? He knew for sure what Hermione would answer and Harry reluctantly submitted to that logic.

With his face still pressed firmly into the cushions, fully aware that he was acting like the toddler Hermione had accused him of being moments ago, Harry spoke.

"Voldemort is alive."

Hermione's fingers twisted in his hair and yanked his head up. He hissed in pain, but she just pushed her hands against his chest and pinned him to the sofa.

"What? Tell me I misheard you, Harry!" Hermione almost shrieked, her fingers tightening, fisting his shirt.

Harry appreciated this reaction. It was how he had felt, too: Panic. Fear. Shock. Everyone else who knew about Voldemort was used to it by now. But it was not something that was meant to be absorbed with dignity. This fact was devastating.