Tragedy and Travesty
Her eyes were full of tragic promises
Though a million words had gone unsaid
He wouldn’t, shouldn’t, couldn’t”
Or risk betraying a dying friend.
He wanted to remember
But could not seem to forget
All the consequences Love
Can have on a life of debt.
He wanted to remember
But could not seem to forget
The locks of liability
His conscious had long since set.
He wanted to remember,
Yet tried so hard to forget.
But could no longer pretend
The feeling was not there
When he raised his head
And was breathless from her stare.
And still
Her eyes were full
Of tragic promises.
His fingers flipped through endless pages, the muted black print on the grimy sheaves fading into the backdrop of the parchment.
It was only an act.
He was avoiding it. He wouldn’t think about it. He couldn’t think about it. Not now.
Ding.
The great grandfather clock in the foyer echoed up the vast staircase, vibrating off the walls.
Harry listened, and counted.
Five.
Five o’clock.
Five o’clock in the morning.
Harry shut the book with a loud thump. The friendless pages puffed little circles of dust in protest. It hadn’t helped his expedition at all. But, then again, he hadn’t really expected it to. He highly doubted the existence of any book which might outline how to determine whether an object is or isn’t a Horcrux. No, the book had only been about preoccupying his mind.
“Promise me.”
But it hadn’t worked.
Peering down, Harry eyed the massive tome on his bed with deep disdain. He had been blindly reading it for at least three hours. But nothing he did, nothing he thought, nothing in his immediate power would release the memory of her” how she trembled when he touched her, how she gasped when their lips met, how his stomach dropped when her tongue ran hesitantly, softly across his.
Clasping his eyes shut, Harry took a long, hard breath and attempted to regain control over his nerves. They tingled and electrified with every prolonged thought. He was starting to feel ill.
Yet tirelessly, he tried wrapping his head around what had happened, what it meant. But his thoughts could not penetrate the dulling depression of doubt and uncertainty and guilt.
That was it. Above anything, he felt guilty. And as he imagined the look on her face just before they kissed, and realized that single memory made him more content than he’d felt in a year, his guilt only swelled and stabbed achingly at his heart.
Lying back, he stared blankly at the ceiling. The light from his wand was casting long shadows in the corner and Harry wished the darkness would produce a Dementor, or… something. Anything. But he couldn’t go on like this, not knowing what to do, not knowing what to say, not knowing what to think. At least Dementors had a definitive act” the patronus” whereas this… this had no answer.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he resigned himself to confusion.
What felt like only five minutes later, the grandfather clock struck another long, low chord. Again, he counted.
Six.
“You’re sure it’s all right to come in?” Ginny asked apprehensively, her small frame working its way through the creaking threshold.
Harry nodded insincerely. It was just a minute ago that he recalled hearing the gongs chime six a.m., and yet the clock on the mantle now read an astonishing eight in the evening. The sun was setting on another uneventful day, translucent rays of red and golden brown creeping silently up the walls.
“Why have you been holed up in here all day?” Ginny asked bluntly, an apology completely absent from her voice.
Still not in a cheerful state, Harry only shrugged and turned to sit on the sofa. “I’ve had a lot to think about.”
Taking a few steps nearer, she responded honestly, “I can only imagine.”
Harry sighed, feeling appreciative of her candor. It let him feel more at ease with being direct himself. “Why do I get the feeling you’re here to add something else for me to think about,” he stated casually, the barest hint of amusement in his voice forgiving the harsh words.
Ginny took it in stride. “Because you know me so well,” she smiled weakly, crossing her legs as she sat beside him.
A long moment passed in which they stared blankly into the unlit fireplace. Suddenly, Harry became very aware that it was Ginny sitting next to him. The realization put him on edge as his hands cradled the armrest, his body turning to face whatever situation awaited.
“Care to enlighten me?” he asked.
Ginny blinked out of her reverie. “Well,” she considered, “Ron’s doing a bit better. Madam Pomfrey said he’ll likely be conscious by morning.”
Harry nodded indistinctly as he stared off into the corner. “I know. Lupin’s told me.”
“Oh, Lupin was here?”
Harry’s gaze landed frigidly on her face. “Ginny, please just tell me what’s wrong.”
She hesitated a long while, her brows knitting together as she contentedly eyed a missing patch of fabric on a throw pillow. “It’s complicated,” she whispered lightly, remorse carrying across the short distance to Harry’s ears. “You’ll… have to forgive me while I try and word this properly.”
Despite the burden of Horcruxes, Voldemort, War and” more recently” Hermione, weighing heavily on his heart and mind, Harry sat patiently while Ginny struggled with herself.
Watching her hands, he noticed how nervous she truly was. They were tangling themselves in purple and bronze threads” remnants from the torn pillowcase. She did this when she was unsure. Only when she was unsure.
“You remember… a few months ago, when you told me how much easier your life felt once you came to Hogwarts, despite the loads of trouble from Voldemort?”
Harry inhaled deeply, knowing her question wasn’t one she expected to be answered.
“You said it was because you met Ron and Hermione,” she continued in a hushed voice, her eyes still averting his. “And that it was easier fighting alongside someone than it was being idle, but… being alone.”
Harry recalled the conversation vividly. It was one of few they had together that delved into more emotional territory.
Breathing evenly, he brought his hands to his lap and watched the cold fireplace as Ginny resumed.
“Well… the last few days, I’ve been doing a bit of thinking myself.” The deep blush in her cheeks gave away her intentions more clearly than the insecurity in her voice. “I figure… perhaps it would work the same now. Perhaps, despite everything, it’d still be easier… or, at least tolerable, to do this with someone as opposed to” to doing it on your own.”
Harry finally understood. It was about that.
Them.
He looked directly at her, surprise clenching his nerves when he found she was finally looking back at him… and for a fleeting moment, he remembered. He remembered what it was like to sit by the lake, her hands whisking away every doubt as they combed through his hair. He remembered what it was like to have a solace and a comfort so unlike anything else he’d ever experienced. He remembered what it was like to know someone loved him in that way.
But he remembered that he wasn’t doing this on his own.
And he remembered why he’d had to break things off in the first place. The real reason.
He hung his head slightly to avoid her intense stare. His head spun and his lips dried and all he wanted to do was focus on anything besides her. And yet, with all his hesitation and mounting regret, he found the truth he’d been seeking less complicated than he’d imagined.
Truth, he knew, was never complicated. It was often hurtful and often made things complicated, but truth in itself was liberating.
And as he lifted his eyes to look at her, he somberly decided that a little liberation, despite the pain, was the best thing anyone under these dark circumstances could receive.
His body was unnaturally stiff as he stood wearily outside her bedroom door. The floorboards beneath his feet creaked despite the fact he wasn’t moving.
Knock. Just knock.
He didn’t.
His glowing green eyes only scorched the surface of the wooden door. He felt cold and numb, though his mind kept racing, almost outrunning his heart. Shadows from the corridor crawled the length of the planks, finally bumping silently into his body as the sun set completely.
Without letting himself think any more, he swallowed hard and rasped his knuckles against the only physical barrier between them.
Immediately, he heard footfalls approaching. His heart caught up to his mind, then passed it. He was suddenly devoid of coherent thought, yet he simultaneously became keenly aware of his hands. He knew they were growing damp. Ignoring all this, and ignoring the hole in his inner stomach, he lifted his head and consciously reminded himself to breathe steadily.
The door swung open, revealing Hermione’s flushed cheeks and eyes. Her features were soft as she peered up at him, restless surprise evident in the way her gaze swept across his upper body but completely escaped his stare.
Neither said a word, and the air between them swelled. It grew thick with heat and uncertainty the longer they stood. Their only friend was the impeding Dark, its shady blanket masking some of the truth in their eyes.
Finally, Hermione gave a light clearing of her throat. “Hullo,” she breathed roughly, the act of speaking coarse on her vocal cords after twenty-four hours of silence.
Harry anxiously licked his lips. “Can I come in?” he asked gently.
“Oh, of course,” she muttered quickly, moving out of the way. Her face was burning and her arms tingled with unidentifiable fervor.
Slowly, Harry made his way to the edge of the sofa. He eyed it for a moment, hands tucked safely in his pockets, before breathing deeply and opting to lean against the wall instead.
“Lupin says Ron’s starting to visibly heal,” offered Hermione in an uncharacteristically meek voice. Taking a couple steps forward, she allowed the door to swing shut as her arms folded protectively across her fluttering chest.
“Yeah,” mumbled Harry.
Silence ensued. Hermione didn’t feel ready for this. Whatever this is.
After an extended moment, “Have you found anything helpful in those books?” she questioned, sounding distracted, lost.
Harry shook his head and focused on the opposite side of the room. “No.”
Hermione, nodding calmly, allowed a faint smile. “I expected that.”
Harry looked back at her; she could have sworn his brooding eyes lightened just slightly.
“It’s more about preparation,” she explained, feeling a bit more confident now that his gaze was less dismal, “the sort of thing you don’t know will help until you need it. I’m sure you found something useful… you just might not know it yet.”
Harry’s shoulders drooped in comfortable relaxation. Her casual tone, quick disposal of tension, and soothing voice succeeded in bringing him back to the reality that this was Hermione, his best friend. “I must’ve read through five books,” he confided, running an exhausted hand through his hair. “A couple things jumped out at me, but I can’t pinpoint why.” He shrugged.
“Do you feel any less… nervous?” she asked quietly.
Shifting, he took several steps before dissolving into the sofa, his head lying back on the crease of the armrest. “Not really,” he said honestly.
Hermione moved to sit beside him, a strange flurry of activity grasping her airway, causing her throat to run dry. “Oh. Well… sorry,” she muttered lowly, fiddling with the hem of her jumper, “I thought reading up a bit would calm your nerves. It was one of the reasons I suggested we wait a couple days. But, if nothing else, it bought us a bit of time to watch over Ron.”
Harry was gazing off into the dull painting of a meadow that was hanging askance above the mantle. “Yeah,” he breathed, the pit of his stomach going raw with a plethora of emotion.
Hermione noticed the change in the air around him instantly.
“He’ll be all right, Harry,” she whispered, feeling silly for repeating such a tired phrase. But she didn’t know what else to do; he looked so alone.
He swallowed visibly. “I know.”
A different kind of tension descended on them now, a dark and unforgiving presence that reminded them of solemn responsibilities. Everything else, everything between them, melted away for that brief moment. Life once again revolved around Ron and Horcruxes. As Hermione stared, transfixed on the floor, she distantly registered that for the first time ever, it was a welcome burden. It was, for better or worse, familiar territory” something she could not say for her confused feelings towards Harry.
“What about the two of you?” he asked suddenly.
Hermione snapped out of her trance and turned to face him. She was taken aback to see his gaze intensely on her, eyes pouring out a stream of loaded questions.
“What do you mean?” she fumbled.
Harry closed his mouth for a moment, turned his head, and breathed deeply through his nose. For a second, his features contoured into a look of hesitant deliberation; but finally he looked back at her, closely examining her for a reaction as he answered. “I mean the two of you. Together.”
It looked painful for him to release the words, like a dagger had sliced through his heart with the knowledge that he might not want to hear the answer or even think about what the question could really mean.
Hermione looked equally apprehensive, realizing they had somehow warped from one emotional terrain to a completely different one. “I… don’t know.”
She fell quiet, unwilling to look at him. But she sensed his eyes on her, and imagined how pained they must be, from all of it, and forced herself to divulge.
“We’ve never really… established anything,” she whispered, feeling mysteriously guilty and dreading the moment when she’d have to face Harry’s eyes. “I can’t even be sure where we stand. It’s all terribly ambiguous and” just, confusing. You’ve seen how we are, Harry,” she mumbled, “Nothing’s certain. I don’t know how we’ll be.”
Harry seemed to nod from the corner of her eye, his head now hanging low in concentration. She continued to watch him through her peripheral vision, focusing on the stress-induced wrinkle forming between his brows. He looked lost in thought.
But after a second, his head still hung and his eyes still intent on the floor, he said, “It’s over with Ginny.”
Confused, Hermione’s head tilted to one side. “How do you mean?”
Harry’s chest heaved, signaling his fatigue. “I mean… it’s over. Permanently.”
Hermione’s eyes widened. She sat in silence for a moment, never taking her eyes off Harry’s face.
“What?” she finally sputtered.
Never relinquishing his gaze from the floorboards, he said, “She came to talk to me tonight.”
And he left it at that.
Hermione didn’t speak. She knew he needed a minute to gather his composure before he explained, but even still, she wasn’t sure she was capable of intelligent speech at the moment anyway.
After a long silence, he resumed in a faded voice. “Remember” d’you remember how you said I wasn’t being completely honest about why I’d broken things off with Ginny?”
Startled by the question, Hermione could only nod.
“You were right.”
Some complex emotion twisted inside Hermione’s abdomen. Her breathing had nearly stopped, but why, she didn’t know. It was the way his forehead crinkled during his admission, the way his voice was pleading and tense all at once. Something about it stirred her core.
“She brought up Voldemort. Thought I might have an easier time if I wasn’t going it alone,” he continued quietly, eyes still a mass of dark solitude and contemplation. “Which, was her way of suggesting we get back together.”
Hermione stared. Through the darkness she saw his face contract in deliberation before she realized exactly how dark it was, and in a sort of otherworldly trance, conjured a few candles. Their light flickered whimsically on his skin, highlighting the scattered gashes still red and irritated from Azkaban.
“What did you tell her?” Hermione managed, almost inaudible.
Taking a deep breath, Harry closed his eyes before speaking. “She’s too unfamiliar. I” I don’t mean we’re strangers, I mean… she’s too unfamiliar with me. She doesn’t know what it’s been like. She doesn’t know any of it” she can’t. She can’t remember because she wasn’t there.”
He stopped for a moment, opening his eyes. They remained narrow and focused on the wall, his silhouette stretching further down the floor the taller the candles burned.
Hermione watched.
“It’s not her fault. She couldn’t control whether she was or wasn’t around to witness everything, to understand me. Ginny… she’s amazing. I know her. I… love her,” he whispered, sounding aimless, “but I’m not in love with her. I can’t be. She’ll never identify with my life. It’s been too different, too separate from her own.”
Breathing, Hermione finally gathered the ability to use her voice, though it was in constant danger of shaking. “And… you need that. You need to be identified” to be known. Not as a title. As Harry,” she said quietly, feeling like she was learning more about him now than she had all year.
Harry nodded, hands clasped tightly together between his legs. “When we broke up… she said she understood. She wasn’t angry, she wasn’t hurt. Because she understood. Which is how I knew she didn’t.”
Hermione’s brows knitted together. “How so?”
Sighing, Harry sucked in a deep, shaky breath.
“The reason she wasn’t upset was” it all had to go with pinning me down,” he confided, still speaking fluidly, softly, “and she thought she had. She thought I’d ended things because of Voldemort. Solely because of Voldemort. Because I was stupidly sacrificing that way, because that’s how I am… a hero. Everyone’s. Hers.”
Then, finally, he turned his head and looked at Hermione, the sudden truth and vulnerability in his eyes frighteningly bright. The silence in the room seemed to swell.
“But that’s my image, not me. That’s how I’m portrayed sometimes, that’s what’s expected of me. But I’ve never… that’s not all I am. There’s more to it than Voldemort, yet she didn’t see that, she never has,” he breathed, “She bought into it. All of it; the same things mostly everyone’s bought into, with the rare exceptions… you, Ron,” he said quietly, “And she’s had no choice but to buy into it, really, seeing as how she was never there, never there to see, to really understand. So to her… everything I do it about what I am,” he concluded, “not who; which is why she immediately assumed I’d ended our relationship out of pure sacrifice.”
They locked gazes and Hermione’s heart tightened in her chest. The room waited silently for several extended moments while Harry wetted his lips and watched Hermione with curious interest.
“You, though… you knew better,” he said gently, “you knew better because you knew me.” Then he faltered, dropping her eyes to watch the sofa in what was apparent internal reflection.
Hermione melted. She moved nearer, placing their bodies inches apart. She soon felt his warm presence pressed against her arm; he looked up, causing a wave of terrifying emotions to sweep through her. She could almost feel her fingers start to tremble as the memory of his kiss swept powerfully over her, replaying in her head a million times in the span of a second.
Again, she felt his hot gaze land on her mouth, and again she tried fruitlessly to avoid the entire thing, but his commanding, bright green orbs penetrated her resolve.
The candles’ light was whispering between them, dancing slowly off their skin and into their eyes. His body stiffened, and Hermione’s stomach dropped unexpectedly. She thought she’d be more prepared this time, more composed and aware, yet the same haze of confusion grazed her mind as she watched him beg for something with his eyes.
But then he dropped her gaze, looking uncertain, afraid. Deep thought wove a crease along his forehead before bowing to the authority of indecision. It was evident in his posture.
Slowly, avoiding contact with her skin, he shifted off the sofa and stood, leaving Hermione feeling oddly vacant as she could only peer up at him from her low position.
But when he took a few sturdy steps towards the door, she didn’t turn to watch him go. She only sat, stunned, confused, immobile, gawking in uncertainty at the pasty wallpaper.
But then his footsteps stopped.
He kept facing the door for a long while, until finally he turned his neck and stared at the back of Hermione’s head.
His throat rose and fell dramatically as his eyes exuded extreme internal pain, brows tight together in throbbing doubt. Opening his mouth slightly, he paused, thinking hard.
Finally, his voice came, rough and deliberate. “If there’s something between you and Ron… you should act on it before it’s too late.”
Though he was quiet, so very quiet, the words were loud and harsh in Hermione’s ears. Her heart constrained.
She didn’t move, didn’t respond… only watched him, allowing the hollow, sweeping sensation of distress and remorse mount inside her as he turned slowly away and disappeared into the dark hallway.