Walking Together Chapter 3

Harry woke up early, rubbing his eyes. He reached for his glasses, and shoved them onto his face. The clock on the wall read 6:45 am, and Harry got out of bed. He pulled on his slightly raggedy pair of slippers and padded downstairs to the kitchen. His father was not yet awake, so Harry sat for a few minutes at the table, thinking of his mother.

A flash of gold caught Harry’s eyes. His mother was running across the garden, a bunch of carrots in one hand. Harry’s eyes widened behind his glasses as his father chased her across the yard, jumping over the flowerbeds.

“You give me back my spade Lily Evans!” his dad yelled as he chased his mother. He was out of breath from laughing, and Harry grinned, then ran for the door. The screen banged closed behind him as he ran towards them.

“Run Mummy! Run!” the little boy called. He stood in front of his tall father, arms crossed, a little hero. His dad grinned and promptly scooped him into his arms, tipping him upside down and tickling him. Harry squealed in delight.

“Mummy, Mummy, save me, save me!” he shrieked. Laughing, the woman that Harry envisioned as an angel in disguise ran across the lawn. Her red-gold hair flowed behind her as she took Harry from his father’s tickling hands. They all collapsed in a heap on the garden, laughing helplessly in the warm sunshine.

That was three years and thirty-six days before Lily Evans was hit by a speeding car.

***

Hermione set her chin determinedly as she tugged at the bathroom door. She wouldn’t cry. A 10-year-old should not have managed to lock herself in a bathroom. And above all not when her mother was busy cleaning. With a last hard tug, the door burst open, shoving her onto the hard tile. Hermione caught her breath, and walked across the hall to eat breakfast.

“Morning ‘Minny!” her mother called from the living room.
“Morning Mum!” was the reply. “Are you going for an interview today?”
“Yes honey, I’m leaving at 10. But first, we’re going to go across the road and meet the people over there. I’ve already made a hamburger casserole to take over. I thought I saw a boy about your age in the yard this morning. So, hurry up and finish your breakfast!”

Hermione gave a small smile at her mother’s excitement. Then it slipped from her face as she realised that she’d probably be alone in the house while her mother had her interview. She bit her lip as she spooned up her cornflakes. Oh well. She would live. There were people out there who didn’t have any parents to take care of them. Compared to them, she was lucky.

***

Severus opened the door to find a neatly dressed woman standing on the porch, holding a dish in one hand. Her other hand was firmly clasped around a small girl with a frightfully bushy head of brown hair. The woman had a resigned expression on her face, and blue eyes. The girl’s eyes and hair were brown, and she was staring at her feet.

The woman spoke clearly and calmly. “Good morning! I’m Ms. Granger, and this is my daughter, Hermione. We’ve just moved in across the street, and I thought I’d bring over a hamburger casserole.”
“Delighted to meet you both. I’m Severus Snape. Won’t you come inside?” Severus stepped to one side as the Grangers went in. A little gasp came from the girl – what was her name? – Hermione.

“Harry! Come down please! We’ve got visitors!” Severus called up the stairs. “Just put the casserole on the counter please, Ms. Granger. My son, Harry, will be down in a moment.”

Hermione turned slightly as she heard a noise on the stairs. A boy with chin length black hair and emerald green eyes appeared there. He grinned a slightly crooked smile.

“Hi, I’m Harry,” he said.
“Harry, this is Ms. Granger and her daughter, Hermione. Do you want to show Hermione your room? Or perhaps play outside?” Severus asked.
“Sure Dad. Come on,” Harry said, the last statement being addressed to Hermione, who looked questioningly at her mother. Ms. Granger nodded and Hermione followed Harry up the stairs.

Once Harry was settled on the floor of his room, he looked at the girl.
“I’m ten. How old are you?” he asked her.
“I’m ten too. Is that your mother? She’s pretty,” Hermione said, pointing to a picture on Harry’s nightstand. Harry swallowed, feeling the sting of tears in his eyes and blinking them away.
“Yes. That was my mum,” Harry told her. “She – she’s dead now.” He sniffed and looked away.

A hand brushed his arm, and he looked around, startled. Hermione was looking into his eyes, as if she could see his soul. A tear was tracing a path down her cheek.
“My daddy’s dead too,” she told him. And she started crying, softly, but Harry could tell that there was pain in every tear.

Everything was grey and white. The walls were white, the floor was white. The blanket on the bed was grey, but the sheets were white. The hospital gown was white. The chairs were grey. Her father’s face was white and his hair was grey. The only colour was on the screen of the monitors as they disturbed the silence with their hums and beeps. Clear fluid flowed from a bag on a stand through a tube and into his arm.

“It’s often very traumatic for a child. I wouldn’t recommend it.” The voice was a whisper from outside.
“It’s her father,” another voice said. Hermione’s mother. “I can’t just keep her from seeing him.”
“Do you really want a 10-year-old to see her father die? Of cancer?” the first voice asked. “I know this is extremely stressful Ms. Granger, but you have to think of your daughter too.”
“I know what I want to do, and I’m going to leave the choice up to Hermione,” Ms. Granger said firmly. The doctor sighed, and Hermione heard his shoes squeaking on the floor as he walked away.

Her mother came in through the door. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her hair was coming down around her face. Hermione swung around.
“Hermione, I –“ Her mother broke down sobbing.

***

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Harry said.
“Thank you,” she sniffed. “I’m sorry for getting all upset. I – I’m sorry about your Mum.”
“It’s okay.” Harry looked at his hands. “Ummm… do you wanna play a game or something? Or…”
“Okay.” She offered him a smile.

Sometimes, true friendships take years to make. Other times, they only take minutes.