Prophecy 472

2- Amortentia

Hermione's hands fumbled with the dishes in the sink, as a clap of thunder caused her once again to drop the plate she was washing. The plate sank into the soapy water she'd filled the basin with, landing at the bottom of the sink with a clank.

"Get a hold of yourself," she said quietly. She wasn't used to being in the cottage by herself for this many days in a row. That, paired with the weather outside, was making her nervous.

She finished the washing up and went into her bedroom to pull out a sweater. The rain had sent a chill through the house and Hermione instinctively reached for her favorite jumper, maroon and hand-knit. She rubbed the faded R emblazoned at the front, now almost too worn out to be read. Burying her face into the wool she inhaled deeply and was reminded of amortentia.

Thinking better of it, Hermione hung the jumper back in her closet. It wouldn't do to give in to memories. Instead, she pulled out a warm gray cardigan and pulled it over her night dress, running her hands up her arms to generate some heat.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

Hermione wasn't expecting visitors. Rarely did a neighbor stop by for a chat, and never at this hour or with this sort of rain storm going on outside. She walked timidly down the hallway separating her bedroom from the front door. As she stood ten feet away from the door, pondering what to do, there was a second knock. This one was more insistent, the sound reverberating through the house so that the walls shook with the effort.

"Wh-who is it?" Hermione called out. It was times like this she cursed herself for having given up her wand. Perhaps she should have kept it, hidden in a drawer somewhere, just in case.

There was a long pause and no answer. Emboldened and putting on more bravado than she had, Hermione spoke up once more.

"You should know I've called the police and they're on their way. So you should just leave, whoever you are."

There were a few more seconds of silence, before a deep male voice responded.

"Hermione, it's me."

She froze, the words hitting her like cold water. Even with three years' time between them and the clamor of rain and thunder outside, Hermione would recognize that voice anywhere.

"Harry?" His name was a question, not a statement, and was filled with disbelief. It sounded like Harry, but that was impossible. Harry didn't know she existed, let alone where to find her. Hermione's fingers itched to pull the door open and see for herself, see what he looked like, how he had grown, if his eyes were the same. She took a few breaths to clear her head. She couldn't be rash here. Either this was Harry or someone impersonating Harry, and either way she was dealing with a situation from the magical world. That meant this could be dangerous.

"Where did we spend summer before fourth year?"

"At the burrow," Harry replied. Hermione pursed her lips and looked up at the ceiling. It was sort of an obvious answer, everyone who knew Harry knew he spent every summer at the burrow. Hermione heard what sounded like whispers from behind the door, almost as if Harry were talking to someone. Then Harry spoke again, louder this time.

"And we went to the Quidditch World Cup," he said. "It's really me Hermione. You'd better open up." He said the last bit not like a command, more like a defeated plea. Hermione suddenly felt cold dread for what was waiting for her behind that door.

She reached a tentative hand forward, turned the knob, and opened the door.

In all her life she would never forget his face. He stood stock still, wearing a heavy black coat. His clothes and hair were matted down with rain, and he looked like he hadn't shaved in days. When did his facial hair start growing so fast, she wondered. Then she looked in his green eyes, covered with the same round glasses, and he gave her a small smile. It looked almost as if he were glad to see her, and Hermione was suddenly consumed with the need to hug him.