Atoning

WALDEN MACNAIR FOUND DEAD IN OWN HOME! the headline screamed on the front page. I looked at the article.

Panic abounds as Aurors confirm Walden Macnair, 42, was found dead in his own home of apparent asphyxiation. What is puzzling is not the cause of death, but the cause of the cause.

Macnair, a prominent wizard, was an executioner for the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. Over his career, he has ended the reigns of terror of forty-six convicted creatures. . . .

The article went on to describe the rest of his 'accomplishments', with only a postscript explaining why his death was so mysterious-his airways were clear, there was no water in his lungs, and no poisonous gases had choked him. Nor had there been any marks on his neck, a sign of strangulation.

"Well," I said, calmly folding the paper next to my plate. "At least it was a Death Eater."

"How can you be so calm?" Mrs. Weasley asked. "A man just died!"

"How many do you think he killed?" I retorted. "How many would he have killed in the years to come, if he had not died?"

"That's jot the point-"

"Molly. Give it a rest," Mr. Weasley said quietly. "Hermione, I wouldn't look for someone so young to be so callous, but I suppose that's understandable. Molly, stop jumping on her for every little thing. She won't be who you want her to be."

"But children should be worrying abut their grades and their clothes, not mysterious deaths!" she protested.

"I've been worrying about mysterious deaths for years," I told her wearily. "I'll come down later."

Since the talk we'd had, I'd made a concentrated effort to keep the peace more, though Mrs. Weasley had apparently not made the same decision. She continued to make me so exasperated I wanted to scream sometimes-she was just so-so narrow-minded! Anything that didn't fit in her world view had to be either wrong or a trick. Thank God Mr. Weasley was more liberal, or I would have died by then.

"Ready for Harry to come, then?" Ginevra asked, standing in the doorway. With a start, I realized I had been staring out my window. Bemused-I hadn't even known I'd been walking, let alone climbing two flights of stairs and opening doors-I turned to her. "Sorry?"

"Are you ready for Harry to come?" she repeated.

"I don't know," I admitted. "Something the shrink said-I was pushing my need to mother onto him, and I started having problems once he was gone-has the dreadful ring of truth. Now I'm going to be awfully awkward around him." I had become more used to talking about my feelings. I had a tendency to lie about them, sometimes-saying I was fine and a bit happy when I was seriously depressed, for instance-but the shrink called it progress-just before he muttered, "Of some sort."

"I don't know how awkward it'll be to have him here, either," she admitted.

My eyes jumped to hers. "You still like him."

"Want a game of chess?" she asked quickly.

***

"Harry, mate!" Ronald cried. He strode across the room to hug him.

I grimaced. The three of us had been stuck in one room for the Order meeting.

"What is this place?" Potter snapped at Ginevra.

"Headquarters of he Order of the Phoenix," she answered promptly.

"Is anyone going to bother telling me what the Order-?"

"Secret society founded to stop You-Know-Who," Ronald responded. "Dumbledore created it."

"So what's been going on?"

I eyed him carefully. There was no sign of any anger, no sign of anything hidden under the surface, but I didn't let my guard down. He'd become very good at hiding his feelings. I may actually set him to Occlumency soon, I mused. He has the right control for it, even though Snape would disagree.

"Why didn't you write?" Potter had gotten around to asking.

"Dumbledore didn't want us to, mate-said it was dangerous, that he didn't want you in any more danger-"

"I ended up in danger anyway, Ron, didn't I?" he asked softly. "Besides, you're telling me Dumbledore hasn't got ways to communicate, ways to tell me what's been going on-?"

"I don't know-"

"You think I don't deserve to know what's been going on?" he asked, his voice steadily getting louder. "You think I don't deserve to know what Voldemort-get a grip-is up to? YOU THINK I DON'T DESERVE THE RIGHT TO HEAR HOW MANY PEOPLE HAVE DIED BECAUSE OF ME?"

"Potter, the way you're acting now, you don't deserve anything," I growled. "Sulky two-year-olds will be no help."

"Are you calling me-?"

"A sulky two-year-old? Yes, Potter, I am. You can't change the past. Even if you could, who's to say the new present wouldn't be worse? Potter, stop screaming and act your age." I stared him down. When I was sure he wouldn't dare retort, I said, "I am going to take a nap. Potter, of you wake me, God will not be able to help you."

As I left, I heard Ronald say, "She's been sleeping an awful lot lately. And who's this god person she keeps talking about?"

I smiled thinly. I did not envy Potter.

***

"-HE GOT OFF, HE GOT OFF, HE GOT OFF-" people were singing-chanting?-downstairs.

"Be QUIET!" Mr. Weasley roared.

I grimaced and rolled over, trying to find a comfortable spot in my bed. If anything, my exhaustion had gotten worse. I couldn't sleep-I would roll over to find the clock saying it was ten hours after I went to bed. Even in the precious few minutes I managed deep enough sleep fore true rest, I dreamed disturbing things-bombs, fire, knives, blood, and green light filled my semiconscious mind. In the days, unending sleepiness drove me to bed by nine o'clock each night. Some days I slept through dinner, but I never seemed to get enough rest to make the days seem any shorter than unbearably long.

When you're that tired, nothing is real; nothing is fake. You are never awake, any more than you are ever asleep. A few times, I found myself hitting the floor, having fallen asleep while standing up.

It wasn't until I found myself remembering how many endorphins being cut released, and how well people were guaranteed to sleep after such injuries, that I mentioned it to anyone. My shrink had known something was going on, but I guessed he hadn't thought it was that serious. I told him of my problems, and I had a bottle of sleeping medicine that night.

Not even that worked. Over the next fortnight, I tried everything-chamomile tea, warm milk, counting sheep, even holding my breath until I lost consciousness.

Nothing worked.

I continued like this, sleeping fourteen hours a night and barely eating or drinking anything the ten hours I was awake, until I slept for thirty hours straight and awoke, at four in the morning, and was too tired to do anything-even move.

My eyes closed against my will.

***

By the time Hogwarts started up again, I was sleeping three hours for every hour I was awake. My dreams correlated to the deaths happening around me by Rose, as the papers were calling the girl who was killing all the influential men and women. She would leave a bloodstained rose attached to the front door for their spouse, children, or friend to find. In every case, they found the man or woman bore the Dark Mark. Despite this, Fudge persevered in his claims that Voldemort was dead and Dumbledore was a senile rabble-rouser.

How can a man be so stupid-so blind? I wondered. Fudge was a power-hungry weasel, that was certain, but surely not even he could ignore the blatant signs of Voldemort's second rise to power!

All of this I either found out or deduced while I was awake. Those hours of sleep were precious to me, and I held them close, unwilling to let them slip away.

"Doc," I slurred to Halberd at one point, I need something stronger to help me sleep . . . or at least something to keep me awake." That night, I was undergoing a series of tests to determine my mental faculties (which were about those of an eight-year-old). They had given me two potions-one to make me sleep more deeply, and one for a morning pick-me-up. On those, I was doing better than I had in a while. I slept better and could stay alert longer

I had read all of my texts (the Weasleys had been kind enough to get my books for me) and had practiced the spells and calculations. I was confident I was as prepared for OWLs as I could be before I took the classes.

But as I stared out the window of the Hogwarts Express, I felt something coming close around me, giving me an impenetrable cloak:coldness, shrewdness, and, above all, isolation.