Magic Never Dies (Harmione)

Chapter 2

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Harry was dreaming. Not the old, wretched dreams where Voldemort would bring all his worst fears to vivid life; these were the new and improved version. Funny how it turned out that Harry's own conscience could churn out horrors that would do Voldemort proud all on its own. He was tied up; Harry deeply hated any hint of being trapped, he'd spent too much time locked up already. He knew somehow that his wand lay on the floor just beyond his reach, cracked in two and forever broken, but he could not see it. It was cold and dark; he was shivering, sightless in the pitch black. No one knew where he was, no one would come looking for him. He had so much left to do... but he was going to die cold, forgotten, alone.

Except for that voice calling Harry... Harry...

The voice that made his heart leap with hope. The voice that had always meant rationality and rescue from himself. The voice he should have listened to about that bloody potions text... He opened his eyes to find a blurry figure that could only be Hermione sitting on the end of his bed, watching him. He fumbled quickly for his glasses to make sure.

"Yes, Harry. It's me. Relax," she said.

He pushed himself upright, rubbing his bleary eyes beneath their frames and yawning.

"What time is it?" he asked curiously.

"Nine am."

"Er... what day is it?"

"Monday. See, this is why you have to go back to Hogwarts, Harry."

"Mmmhmm. I mean, no. I'll be fine. Here's a question, though. What are you doing here?"

"You said this is where you'd be. We need to start planning our Horcrux strategy. I could make you some breakfast if you like, as a sort of housewarming."

"No offense, Herms, but how about I make breakfast for us and you do the talking bit?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Fine. I'll meet you down in the kitchen. Take your time. I can at least make coffee you know," she said, and flounced from the bed out the door.

"Just not so as anyone would actually want to drink it," Harry muttered to Hedwig in her cage atop the dresser. She hooted her agreement and hid her head back beneath her wing.

He found a pair of jeans and a clean t shirt in his trunk, brushed his teeth in the Ancient and Most Filthy Bathroom of Black (Kreacher had never been much of a housekeeper. Something would have to be done in there and Harry himself was not looking forward to it) and padded down stairs. Mrs. Black snored behind her curtains, and Harry slipped past, careful not to wake her.

Hermione was waiting in the kitchen with a mug of coffee for him and tea for herself. Harry put his years at the Dursley's to good use, starting the bacon and tomatoes and eggs from Mrs. Weasley.

"Where's Ron?" he asked.

"On his way. He went on to Diagon Alley first to drop off some of the wedding leftovers for the twins. He had breakfast at the Burrow, his Mum wouldn't let him go until he did, but he'll be hungry again. You'd best make enough for him too."

Harry doubled his quantities; Ron could still easily put away what he and Hermione might finish between them.

They were about half way through their meal and enjoying a rare, companionable silence when Ron apparated into the kitchen. His hands were over his eyes and he took a balancing step on landing, banging his head into a heavy cast iron pan dangling from the ceiling with a hollow gong-like sound.