Why Can’t I Get to You?
“There’s a train leaving somewhere from a station. There’s a plane to almost anywhere every hour on the hour,” she mumbled, frustration lining her words. Scheduled departures and arrivals blurred upon the slick-cardstock brochure in her knit-gloved hands. Peripheral sight kept her in deference to the holiday travellers crowding about the platform, her woollen long coat hindering each stride.
Molly Weasley had said it was a fool’s hope, it was impossible. But Hermione would not be dissuaded. She only had to believe “ believe with all her heart.
Breaking free of the numbers, she clambered through the heavy outer doors into the sleet and driving winds. Slivers of ice tore at her cheeks; flurries obscured her sight. A signpost met her abruptly with a hardened steel greeting, and she peered through her drenched curls to read the street name. Her agitation grew.
I can walk down any street, put miles under my feet. Her fatigue countered that thought, her body desperate for warmth and rest. Determination within her grew. Moving on nothing but willpower, she challenged the powers that be. Weariness would not stop her. Rain would not stop her. Snow, sleet, darkness would not.
But fear…
Fear of flying she could handle. Fear of evil she could withstand. Fear of death she’d surpassed. But fear of failure, in this one thing…
The delicate paper pulled free of her coat pocket, curling slightly at the corners. She bent over it, muttering a protective charm to save it from the elements. Longingly she stared, eyes fixated upon the subject of the aged photo. Her brow furrowed in sad desperation.
“So tell me - why can’t I get to you? How can I make you feel everything that I do?” Tears fought to free themselves, blurring the edges of his form. Her voice rose, choked with emotion. There had to be a way, right? “If faith can move mountains, and love will see you through, then tell me why can’t I get to you…”
Sobs racked her frail body, turning to fits of coughing. The wind bit relentlessly into exposed flesh as saltwater froze midway down her face. Knees met pavement, and she curled as a shield over her love. A love that could never be, was never meant to be, they had told her. A love that really wasn’t love to begin with. Infatuation, that was all. With a memory. So they had said.
But when the visions began, Hermione was the first to question them, their validity, their sanctity. She was staying at The Burrow, minding a post at the Apothecary’s while waiting for the Order’s next training mission. All had been as it should, her days spent working, learning, planning for the expected confrontation of Lord Voldemort. But a late-night confrontation with insomnia had left her alone in the kitchen, hot chai tea her only solace.
Embers cast red-gold ambience into the blackness, and she stared with an emptiness born of emotional solitude. Eyes bleary with fatigue, it took a moment to focus on what she thought was a dream. There, seated across from her, was a long lost, long since dead, friend. His expression was unreadable in the dim. Eyes shadowed by rebellious locks, only his voice confirmed the man she felt he was.
“Hello, Hermione,” he had spoken softly. His sound resurfaced so many memories, so many feelings. Questioning her sanity, she returned his greeting. In the surreal of the black night, conversation morphed into something akin to normality, their verbalizations crossing intellect and philosophy and, above all, familial comfort.
Routinely he came, always in the solitude of the night. Their talks grew deep, personal. His arms encompassed her as she lay fretful in worry, restless in anxiety as those around her left in fight, flight or death. His voice became a mantra of hope, a salve to her despair. His smile called to her, deflecting the crumbling haze of horror the world had become. Fondness encouraged pleasure. Curiosity prodded interest. Longing lapsed into love. Yet…
Confessions to Molly Weasley were met with wide-eyed fear for Hermione’s mental state. Months of visits gathered privileged information, however, the older witch could not deny. But the ethereal connection was not welcomed as Hermione would have thought. Her growing obsession with this man only fuelled others’ concern for her heart, knowing this love could never be. And so Hermione withdrew, saving her attentions only for him.
But even he could not stay, for whatever magical anomaly allowed his presence began to fade. His appearance grew weak, transparent. His own heart had grown irreconcilably connected to hers; his desire to part from her was even less than she herself wished. He could not stay with her. Dragged from her against all will, all prayer, all spell-casting… he broke inside. But he wouldn’t speak of it; his eyes drifted off to a place she could not follow. Every evening he allowed her less into his thoughts. His absence of voice pained her as did his withering form.
She spoke into the night, “I can’t live in the silence that’s come between us, wonderin’ where you are “ even when you’re holding me.” The vaguely tangible form that was his body tightened about her reclining waist, his face burrowing into her nape. “So tonight don’t turn away. Say what you need to say.” Her words dropped to a strained whisper. “You owe this love the honesty.”
A choked, breathy reply echoed. “Come to me.”
Desperation drove her to seek absolution; she would not relinquish the only truth in her life. Ancient tomes and scholars bedevilled could not fulfil her quest. She grew frantic, frenzied…. Fearful.
Amaya. Hermione sought out the wizened old Seer, the counsellor of the elite pure of heart. Begging fell on deaf ears. But her eyes “ Amaya recognized the purity of the love, the singleness of its intent. And she sent Hermione on a path, a course, whose end at which she would find her beloved and at long last they would share their passion, a passion denied them by a split-second of poor judgment.
The maps were discoloured, and many avenues had altered in the ages. But Hermione’s renewed hope invigorated her step. She would find him and, casting the coveted words, retrieve him from the beyond, ensuring their lives of love and fulfilment.
But that was mountains and oceans and seasons past. Her visions had ceased completely, her time had run out. Today was the deadline; destination reached upon Winter Solstice or he would be gone forever, Amaya had prophesized. Yet he was not here. She must have misread a map; she must have misjudged a turn. Dusk approached and nowhere was the landmark she sought. It had to be here “ it had to be!
Wetness seeped through her denim, chilling her knees. She barely noticed. She peered up through the blizzard at the street sign again, praying for a different name. It was unchanged. Resignation broke through all hope. Her soul collapsed, past despair into pure emptiness. He would be gone, forever, because she wasn’t clever enough to find him. She’d failed… she’d failed!
Curling deeper into foetal, her muscles gave way to spasms of loss, eyes scrunched refused to open to a world without him. Over and over again, her mind touted her choices, her careless steps, looking for where she messed up, where she failed…
“Maybe there’s a river I haven’t crossed.” Her musings half-formed on chapped lips. Eyes still closed, thoughts of him clouded her mind, begging to find the missed opportunity. “Maybe there’s a bridge you need to burn,” she suggested. Feverishly she shook her head. It didn’t matter; she’d get back on track. She couldn’t fail in this, not in this one thing. “I’m gonna keep searching even though we’re lost; keep on believing, there’s another corner that we might turn.”
Despondency rose in her, and her fight fell to a whisper. “No matter how I try… Why can’t I... get to you?”
“Shhh,” a comforting voice softly offered. Clarity edged into her mind: she wasn’t kneeling on the walk, in the cold, alone. Warmth, a fire crackling, softness of a bed, the embrace of a duvet. A callused hand gently stroked her tresses from her face. Achingly familiar was his voice, but longingly unfamiliar his firm lips upon her. Her eyes parted, the embers glowing, breaking the darkness.
He knelt beside her, his hair carelessly tucked back. His eyes sparkled in triumph. A loving smile played at his lips, lips he had kissed her “ truly touched her “ with. The softest whisper escaped those lips, Sirius’ eyes never wavering.
“You made it.”