Shadow Walks |h.p/h.g|

ch. 7

Harry awakened with a startled, inarticulate cry at some point near dawn. The shadows in his room had eased, though the sun was not fully up. He felt grim dread settle somewhere around the region of his heart.

Today would not be a good day.

The sheets were twisted and tangled around his legs, and his pajamas were damp with sweat. He could remember vague pieces of troubled dreams, and the otherworldly laughter of Dolohov and Bellatrix Lestrange rang in his ears. There were disquieting images of Hermione, with Bellatrix's wand to her neck, and Bellatrix's hand snarled painfully in her hair, images that Harry knew his mind had invented as a new way to torture him.

He kicked at the sheets in irritation, and finally succeeded in causing all of the bedding to slide onto the floor in a tangled mass. As it hit the carpeting with a soft whump, he lay spread-eagled on the bed, staring dead-eyed at the ceiling.

He should get up. He'd need to be going soon.

Her eyes. Do they haunt you? Lost, bewildered, confused.

Bellatrix was right.

There are things worse than death.

Worse than death...

Harry sighed. That much of what Dolohov said was true, at least. There were things worse than death, like ... like being left behind. The ache of missing Hermione, of not even having the stale comfort of having told Hermione how he felt about her, was like a hollow cavity gaping in his chest, a raw, empty, cavernous vacuum of nothing that would never be filled again.

She leaned in toward him, one hand on his shoulder. Her lips lingered only briefly on his cheek, innocent, chaste, inconsequential... There was a shine in her eyes, a hint of tantalizing mystery that perhaps he would be given the opportunity to solve. He had felt suffusing warmth rush up into his face. He smiled at her; his fingers reached down to tangle briefly with hers; his eyes flicked around the room to search for Ron.

It was nearly time.

He'd had no idea that her softly whispered good-bye would be the last words she would speak to him.

He sat up, pushing himself so abruptly from the bed that he had almost no idea how he'd gotten into a standing position. He abruptly wrenched open the door to the wardrobe, and snatched some clothes out of it without really looking at them.

Ron's snores still whistled softly down the hall, as he crept across to the bathroom. If he was lucky, he'd be gone before either of the other two was awake.

When he emerged from the shower, there was a light on in the kitchen, and, though it was quiet, there was the unmistakable presence of another person. A look of chagrin crossed Harry's face, as he tucked his wand into his pocket, and his feet reluctantly propelled him toward the room with the teasing aroma of tea. Luna was going to try to pick his brain again, or insist that Ron go with him to Hogwarts, or feed him some more nonsense about the balance of the universe, and he was really in no mood to hear it this....

He stopped with surprise, as he saw Ron, not Luna, sitting at the small table, some untouched toast in front of him, as well as a thick mug of some steaming, viscous substance. Harry instantly recognized it as a Sobriety/Anti-Hangover potion; it was often Ron's breakfast drink of choice.

"Morning, Ron," he mumbled, moving around the counter, and heading for the kettle that was already steaming on the stove.

"Harry," Ron greeted, his eyes flitting nervously to his best mate, and then dropping again to the front page of the newly delivered Daily Prophet. Harry looked at the paper with annoyance. If the Prophet had already come, he was later than he'd thought.