Still a little bit of your song in my ear
There’s still a little bit of your words I long to hear
You step a little closer to me so close that I can’t see what’s going on.
-Damien Rice “Cannonball”
September 25, 2005.
He wants to kill him.
He wants to inflict all sorts of bodily harm and tear him into bloody ribbons. The bastard does not deserve her. He wants him to feel the way she is feeling right now. He wants him to cry out in complete and utter agony until he crawls to her and begs her forgiveness. No. The wanker does not even deserve that.
He wants to walk right into the safety of his home, wrap his hands around his neck and watch the life drain out of him. He wants to do all of this with every fiber of his being, but first he must disentangle himself from her anguished form, clinging onto him.
Her whole body shakes as she continues to purge herself of her grief. Her heart wrenching sobs echo in the dimly lit room.
“I-I hate him, H-Harry. I a-absolutely hate him,” she manages to stutter amidst her sobs. He kisses her forehead gently and soothingly strokes her back.
The two of them sit on his bed. She is curled up against him, her head in his arms. He clenches his teeth in anger to see her this way, but his soft voice, devoid of anything but concern and comfort, masks the raging fire screaming to be let free.
“I know, Hermione. And I’ll kill him for this. Believe me, I will.”
She lifts her head and meets his gaze with her teary eyed one. He smoothes the hair away from her face and softly brushes the tears away, cursing his callused hands on her soft skin. She laughs at his comment then sniffs and swipes at her eyes.
“Not if I get to him first.”
He smiles in answer.
“And woe to the wicked when faced with your wrath.”
She smiles and thankfully accepts the tissue he hands her.
He watches as her eyes grow distant, probably reliving those pain filled moments. Unseen to her eye, his hand clenches the bed sheets and he begins to come up with scenarios befitting his revenge.
She bites her lip, attempting to hold back a new wave of tears.
“Harry?”
“What is it, love?”
He brushes a strand of her hair behind her ear. She is looking down now, fiddling with the tissue.
“What’s wrong with me?”
“What? Nothing’s wrong-”
“There must be…There must be a reason why every man I become involved with…every relationship I get myself tangled up in, ends like this. Why doesn’t anyone want me? Am I not smart enough? Brave enough? Is it my looks?"
She pauses and swallows, not daring to meet his eyes.
"When he…when he broke up with me, when he told me it was over, he just looked at me with…such disgust in his eyes. As if I was awful to look at. Dirty, or…or ugly.”
She bites her trembling lip once more.
“Is that it, then? Am I positively hideous?”
He clenches his jaw, almost shaking with anger, barely realizing his own eyes welling up with unshed tears for her.
“Harry,” She looks up at him finally and he feels his heart shatter into a million pieces, “what’s wrong with me?”
He sighs in despair and immediately gathers her into his arms whispering fervently, “There is nothing wrong with you, Hermione. You’re beautiful. You’re perfect. You’re perfect, love. Do you hear me? You’re perfect.”
She rests her head on his shoulder, his words touching her soul.
His lips brush against her ear as he murmurs, “You’re beautiful to me, Hermione. And that’s all that matters.”
“Is it?”
He lets go of her only to look into her eyes and she finally realizes why she could not manage to lose herself in any other man.
She is scared of this newfound discovery and thrilled at the same time. He utters two words and with them, she knows that her heart is his, as it always has been and always will be.
“It is.”
His eyes jerk open and he sits up in bed. Gwen moans in her sleep and rubs her eyes. She sits up on her elbows looking bleary eyed at her fiancée.
“What’s wrong, darling?”
He heaves a sigh and runs a hand through his dark hair.
“Nothing. Just a dream.”
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.”
He kisses her briefly and gets out of bed. Gwen settles back onto the pillows and is already fast asleep.
He trudges over to the washroom, switches a light on and puts on his glasses. Goosebumps trail across finely toned arms and broad shoulders. Placing both hands on the counter he shakes his head and switches the tap on. He splashes his face, the cool water jolting his senses.
Already the dream begins to wash away leaving him in absolute confusion as his mind attempts to grab onto the last drifting strands. He wonders why out of all the memories his subconscious could have dredged up from the dark pools of his mind, it chose that one.
For a moment he thinks to apparate to her flat and check on her. Minutes later, he chuckles at this notion, thinking of the look on her face were she to see him in such a state. Granted, the sight of him naked from the waste up is not foreign to her eyes, but looking in the mirror at his eyes burning with an unexplainable intensity he decides that in his state of dress or lack thereof, and with that look sparking from those brilliant green orbs, which most likely will not take its leave until sunrise, he thinks that it will probably be a better idea to stay at home. Besides, what would he say to her, turning up at such an hour? Good morning, sorry to wake you but I just had the strangest dream. More of a memory really, and I just wanted to see if you were okay. He tosses an amused grin at his reflection. Yeah, that will go over well.
He turns off the light and steps back into his room. He stops at the bed, looking at his bride to be. She appears peaceful in sleep. Child like, even. He finds that he cannot go back to bed so he walks out of the room and heads downstairs. With a glass of cold milk in hand, he munches on a cookie and heads for the living room.
Pictures of friends beam back at him. Ron grins. Hermione winks. Seamus and Dean give him a thumbs up while Neville throws him a salute. He glances at another picture, one of the many that include Gwen and himself. His photographic twin grins sheepishly while Gwen poses extravagantly, every now and then giggling behind her hand or placing a kiss on photo Harry’s cheek. Oddly enough, he doesn’t return her the favor, but only continues to plaster that sheepish grin on his face. He pays little mind to this detail and moves on and out to the balcony.
The clouds that adorn the early morning sky are lined with purple signaling the sun’s arrival. He places his now empty glass on the table. A cool breeze sends chills through him, but he pays this annoyance no mind and picks up his sketch book sitting atop the ledge. He could now see the sun just peaking over the horizon and he thinks of drawing her a picture.
She loves his artwork.
He begins to draw the city scenery unknowingly furrowing his brow. Almost halfway through he sighs and looks at what he has accomplished so far. He sighs once again, not liking the image before his eyes and begins to erase the entire thing. He rifles through his already finished sketches, every now and then quirking his lips in amusement as each picture produces a fond memory. Then he stops, his fingers pause in the act of turning the page. His throat goes dry.
This is it.
She is immortalized on the parchment, sitting under an autumn tree, reading a book. The tall tree at her back casts shadows around her and the leaves bright with colour are frozen the act of drifting around her still form. They were in their seventh year.
He tears off the sheet and walking back inside, he rolls it up and searches for a ribbon. Once tied, he is in the act of writing a quick note when Gwen, stifling a yawn strolls into the room.
“Morning, lover.” She kisses him soundly and hands him a cup of coffee. “What are you up to?”
“Just a quick note.”
“Oh?”
He continues to write and she sits on the arm of his chair watching him and playing with his hair. He stops and looks at her.
“Gwen?”
“Hmm?”
“Sorry, but do you mind? I just want to finish this.”
“Oh. Uh, yes of course. I’ll make breakfast.”
She leaves the room and he finishes the note. He watches as Hedwig disappears off into the distance with the drawing and the letter strapped to her leg. The smell of bacon wafts onto the room and he walks into the kitchen. Gwen is at the stove.
“Smells wonderful.”
She smiles at him saying, “Lets go for a walk.”
“Now?”
“A picnic then.”
“Now?”
She slaps him playfully.
“Yes, now.”
He places a kiss on her cheek and says, “I know a place, just let me get dressed and we’ll go.”
Gwen beams.
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
They are having a picnic. She has made sandwiches, Ron has tried his hand at making a cake, and Harry has provided the drinks. This is but a small celebration for the first weekend of spring. They walk across the grass glittering with the early morning dew. She is looking for the perfect spot.
“How much farther, Hermione?” Ron groans. His arms are laden with various things.
“It’s not that far off now. Oh, do be patient, Ron.”
She leads them to a small glen. At the edge, stands a pretty fountain spewing forth, clear cascading water. He whistles.
“Where did you find this place?”
“Neville told me. He was looking for lady’s-slipper and mandrake root for Professor Sprout and he happened to stumble upon this place. It’s lovely isn’t it.”
“Sure is.”
They spread out the blanket and lay their things upon it.
“I sometimes come here to think. It’s very peaceful.”
“I can see that,” he responds.
Ron has already started feasting on the first sandwich and the other two soon help themselves to some as well. Soon, their laughter is quick to echo in the confines of their solitude. Ron, standing and wind milling his arms tells them a joke. She is clutching her stomach in a fit of mirth and he is tossing his head back, shouting his laughter to the skies.
A drop of rain stops Ron short. The three of them glance up and without warning the skies rip open showering them with its tears. They race to gather up their things. They laugh as they dash out of the glen, through the woods and into the streets of Hogsmead. They take shelter under the roof protecting the entrance of the Three Broomsticks.
“In the mood for a Butterbeer?”
“Yes, please.”
He holds the door open for her and she strides in, followed by Ron. The door closes behind them.
September 25, 2005.
He holds the basket in his hand and tells her to open her eyes. Gwen breaths a sigh of wonder.
“Harry, how did you know about this place?”
“Pretty isn’t it?”
“It’s absolutely breathtaking,” Gwen says with a smile. “Oh, look! A fountain!”
She runs up to the stonework and trails her fingers in the water.
“Hermione showed me this. We often came here when we were younger.”
He wonders if it is only the trick of the eye, but he swears that for a minute he notices Gwen pausing, and biting her lip. Then she plunges her hand into the cold water and brings it back up again. The water pours through her fingers.
“That’s nice,” she says.
September 29, 2005- Present Day: 4:02am
A shaft of pale moonlight falls upon the lone fountain with its ever flowing waters. A dark figure stands by it, trailing his fingers through the clear, streaming liquid. He remembers the slight pause at the mention of her name. The masked regret that has failed to leave her eyes.
I should have known then.
But, no, on that day, he chose to ignore one of the many signs that have come his way many times in the past.
If only I knew. I’ve only I’d looked. If only I’d listened.
Would he be there now, searching for her? Would he be reliving cherished moments and cursing himself for being so blind? He has loved her all along and only now his mind chooses to acknowledge what has always been in his heart.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he whispers to the wind.
And he disappears, continuing his search for her, hoping that she will forgive him for being so blind as to not notice what has been standing before his eyes all this time.
I’ll find you.