Prelude of Autumn

A/N: This is a little (okay, maybe not so little) one-shot ficlet I wrote in my spare time… this is my first one-shot, so be gentle… lol.

Obviously, this is a ficlet with a song. But it's not a song-fic, mind you, because it's more like I found the song to match my storyline, rather than I made my storyline to match the song. All good? I already loved this song, and when I really took a good look at the lyrics I almost died with happiness. Read them, okay? I find they really apply to Harry. :D

I was beginning to notice that more stories out there are trying to explain Harry and Hermione's relationship with them “proclaiming” their love for one another. I don't believe that's how it will be. This is my interpretation.

Enjoy!

Carry on my wayward son
There'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more

Once I rose above the noise and confusion
Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion
I was soaring ever higher
But I flew too high

Though my eyes could see I was a blind man
Though my mind could think I still was a mad man
I hear the voices when I'm dreaming
I can hear them say

Carry on my wayward son
There'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more

Masquerading as a man with a reason
My charade is the event of the season
And if I claim to be a wise man
It surely means that I don't know

On a stormy sea of moving emotion
Tossed about like I'm a ship in the ocean
I set a course for winds of fortune
But I hear the voices say

Carry on my wayward son
There'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more

Carry on
You will always remember
Carry on
Nothing equals the splendor
Now your life's no empty
Surely Heaven waits for you

Carry on my wayward son
There'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more

- Written and performed by Kansas

* * *

Autumn came as quickly as summer left.

Slow and steady transitions forgotten, fall bounded forward, pushing the savory summer nights into a thing of the past. It kissed the summer air, enveloping it in blankets of cold. And the mornings, so sleepy and carefree, suddenly became brisk and rigid, numbing the pain of loss, tearing everything apart with a swipe of its furious claws.

Leaves took the place of blossoms. Wind overruled the breeze.

The wonders gone, the splendor faded into nothingness, summer fled, leaving behind not a single trace of its existence.

And he was glad.

He meandered across the grounds, bathed not in sunlight, but in the reflection of the sunset upon the monstrous windows of the castle. Even the trees added somewhat to the display. They were waving back and forth, trunks bent, sometimes groaning so loudly he could almost feel their pain. And if he squinted his eyes, they looked like one mighty god, planted superbly against the dark backdrop. The sight gave him a strange thrill.

Leaves scurried up around his feet, spiraling into the distance with a mind of their own. Others crunched piteously under his fur-lined boots, dead and dry; pressed into the ground like dozens of artistic whims.

Dry. Pressed. Caked with responsibility. That's how he felt.

Though, in a sense, he had something no one else had…

He held an escape route securely between his two callused hands.

As he looked towards the darkening sky, his spirit soared. It was like looking past the gates of heaven itself, past the infamous white clouds and angelic figures, past space and time entirely. Nothing could hold him back - he wanted to be free of everything… everyone…

Swinging his legs expertly over the broomstick, he pushed off the ground and leaned forward, flying upwards with an almighty surge of power and control. Suddenly, gravity was no longer a problem. Suddenly, the wind wasn't a nuisance. It rushed past him, toppling his black hair, but that was all. And higher up, he noticed, it felt more like a helpful friend rather than a hated enemy…

He soared above the grounds in furious joy, pushing forward, never stopping to catch his breath… Everything was beginning to blur… Winded tears were dripping from his eyes… Tree branches lashed out of nowhere like scaly hands… He was going too fast… Suddenly, he couldn't see… His glasses had tumbled to the ground with a shatter…

His contained emotions broke free with a sob. But they didn't relegate his flight in the least, as he had feared. He felt reborn, no longer raw and hurting.

The weight on his chest lifted, his mind cleared. But he didn't slow down.

It didn't matter now that he couldn't see. His eyes were dizzy, unfocused, not used to the pain he was putting them through, and he never could have seen anything even if he had wanted to… Most of his incentive was just feeling the chilly night air whip past, hearing the swish of his robes trailing behind like a ghostly cape... Those useless orbs had nothing to do with it.

He began to dive toward the earth in a suicidal spiral, spinning faster and faster until the remaining blood in his body rushed to his head, blocking out what was left of his common sense. Reasoning had no place anymore. It was one of those things that he had to do, even if it meant paying dearly for it later.

Suddenly, he was so close to the ground he could smell the fresh soil. Nostrils burning, head spinning, he pulled up as hard as he could. The front of the broomstick skimmed the grass, digging into the dirt. Crumbs flew into his face and hair as he sped along at an insane speed, paralleled perfectly with the earth.

In the distance, he could see flashing specks of light, and one bright beam. A dark figure was kneeling.

His vision wavered. Doubt clouded over his features…

He pulled up his broom and slowed; the figure, sensing him, stood up.

“There you are.” He would recognize that gentle voice anywhere.

She came towards him, her wand outstretched. The tip was alight, illuminating her blurry face. From what he could see, she looked relieved.

Her hand went down to her robes, and with a smile, pulled it out again, standing on her toes to hand him something.

“You lost your glasses, Harry,” she said. “I repaired them.”

He pulled them on, and immediately his vision cleared. Hermione stood in front of his hovering broom, her arms crossed over her chest from the cold. Her face showed neither stress nor anger. In fact, she looked thoughtful.

Harry swung his leg over the side of his broomstick and jumped down. To his surprise, he was shaking; his insides were still churning, and his legs felt like gelatin. They barely held his weight, and for a second, he was afraid he was going to keel over.

“Thanks,” he said gratefully, planting the end of his broomstick into the ground to steady himself.

“I watched you,” Hermione admitted, pulling out a folded napkin and covering it with both hands. “You didn't come to dinner, and I was worried…”

Harry stared into the distance, and opened his mouth to say something, but Hermione quieted him with a piercing look.

She handed him the napkin. “It should still be warm.”

He unwrapped it. Inside was a slice of pumpkin pie.

“I'm not blaming you, you know,” said Hermione with a small smile, “If you want to skip dinner, I'm not going to stop you. And I definitely won't prod into your private life.”

Harry took a bite of the pie, chewed, and swallowed. “I don't mind.”

She smiled uncertainly, taken aback. “Well, that's good.”

Their eyes met, and they both looked away. Harry's cheeks burned as he crammed the last sliver of the spicy pie into his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her move closer. She was looking up at him, even as he was on the ground - he realized how much taller he had grown.

“Why do you always fly at night?” She asked as if she didn't already know, like she was clueless. Like she was just a regular girl, not Hermione - the brightest witch he had ever known.

Maybe she was sinking down to his level.

Harry clutched his broomstick tighter. His world. His lifeline. His salvation. There was something about it that he could always hold on to. Something constant, always remaining the same, no matter what happened. It couldn't die, leaving him to cry in its dust…

She knew why he flew every night. She always knew.

“Oh, Harry…” she whispered, her eyes bloodshot and shining with tears.

She came forward, and wrapped her arms around him, holding him close to her. He closed his eyes, feeling her tremble with tiny sobs, and his heart went out to her. She was burdened with her hurt and his, and there was nothing he could do… he couldn't tell her to stop caring…

Subconsciously, Harry began to stroke her auburn hair, raking his fingers through the untamable curls. He wanted to tell her everything would turn out perfectly, and that he was fine, but he couldn't bring himself to lie to her. Of all people, she would know. Sometimes, Harry believed that she knew him better than he knew himself.

And it scared him.

He looked down at her, clinging to him like a small child, and felt guiltier than he had ever felt in his entire life.

She lifted up her head to look at him, her face blotchy. She looked embarrassed and undone, like she had answered a question wrong in class.

“I'm sorry,” she apologized, wiping her arm across her face to dry her tears, “Just imagine… me, blubbering… when you…” She choked back a fresh batch of tears. “You needed comfort… I can't believe myself…”

She dabbed at her face with the end of her black robes. “I feel like such an idiot.”

Harry wanted to tell her that she was the least idiotic person he knew, that she was amazingly clever, but somehow, he couldn't string the words together. His mouth was glued shut.

“Listen,” he said seriously, a few agonizing seconds later, “you didn't ask for any of this.”

She turned towards him suddenly, her eyes flashing, like he had insulted her. “Harry, I can't believe you! Do you think, do you actually think… that I didn't expect this to happen? Do you think that little of me?”

Harry stared, wide-eyed, at her. “No, I just…”

“I'm so sick of this, Harry. Not you, not what you're going through, but this. Every day, Voldemort's out there gaining power, watching and waiting…” she sputtered, “HOW MANY FAMILIES ARE GOING TO GO THROUGH THIS?!” she yelled abruptly, glaring the Forbidden Forest in sudden anger, “I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS HELL!” She faced Harry, her face flushed. “You bloody well didn't ask for any of this, Harry! Don't tell me that I haven't, because I have, damn it!”

Harry was struck dumb, watching Hermione's infuriated rage. She was shaking, like she was tottering precariously between cold fury and bursting into tears. And even though he was taller than her, she loomed over him. For a fleeting instant, he understood Ron; the receiving end of Hermione anger was horrifying.

But, Harry knew, this wasn't petty bickering.

“I've kept it inside for so long…” she started, softening. “Since I read those books about you the summer when I got my letter. For Hogwarts, you know. Mum and Dad were so proud… scared, but proud. They never knew about the Wizarding World. It was quite a shock.” She smiled in a melancholy way. “Mum bought me all sorts of books, and I just read through them…”

Harry stared at her.

“I suppose you understand how I felt, Harry,” said Hermione, her face shining, “Leaving home for such a wonderful education…”

She peered expectantly at him, and he nodded mutely.

“Oh, it was so interesting! All of those spells and charms… Imagine how easier life would be! It seemed too good to be true…” Hermione's smile darkened. “And then I read about him. And you.”

She seemed like she was holding back tears again. “I don't know, Harry… When I read about you, something stirred in me. I just kept thinking, `What if it was me?' And when I met you on the train… you were so… normal… It was uncanny…” She gave a short, reproving laugh. “I don't know who or what I expected, but it was like I thought you were going to be some all-powerful god… When I realized that you were a normal person, with emotions just like mine, it felt so wrong…”

She moved closer to him. “Since Lord Voldemort's come back to power, you've been hiding, Harry,” said Hermione matter-of-factly, “and Ron and I have missed you.”

He looked down at the ground determinedly.

“We're your friends!” He had the sudden feeling that she wanted to shake him. “Don't you understand at all?”

He ground his teeth together. She was acting like everything was so easy, so simple to sort out… Did she not know how guilty he felt whenever someone was hurt on his account? Did she not know how scared he was whenever she or Ron foolishly flung themselves into danger? Did she not know, or at least guess, all of the pain he had suffered throughout his life?

But before he could retaliate, she cut him off with a flick of her wrist.

Hermione took in a deep breath, looking in the other direction. “I just wish you'd stop blaming yourself for everything, Harry,” she said quietly. Her voice shook slightly.

Her words seemed to hover on the gusts of wind a moment before its meaning sunk in.

“It's hard not too, isn't it?” spat Harry forcefully. Her words touched a nerve, and anger flared up inside him. “Everything's my fault, right? This scar, my mum and dad's death, Sirius's death… Oh, look! Voldemort's back. I suppose that's my fault, too? And you know what else? I woke up this morning and fancied a stroll with the Death Eaters…”

“Stop it!” screamed Hermione, who looked stricken, “Stop it, Harry! That's not funny!”

Harry yelled, “Oh, no, Hermione, it's positively hilarious!”

The silence that followed was almost as awful as Hermione's glare. He had never seen her look as livid.

“I'm not going to have a shouting match with you, Harry Potter,” said Hermione in a deadly whisper. Without another word, she spun around angrily and stormed off towards the castle, her boots making imprints upon the soft ground.

“You never cared when it was Ron!” Harry shouted after her furiously.

Hermione turned on her heel, and the look on her face was so terrible Harry thought for a second she might attack him - instead, she just said in a shaking, would-be calm voice, “Don't you bring him into this.”

“Why not?” said Harry loudly, his temper getting the better of him, “Why can you fight with him, but not with me?”

When she didn't answer, he sprinted after her, moving to block her path. He didn't know exactly why this was such an important question he wanted answered, nor did he know why he was pushing this deadbeat matter so far - just, for some reason, everything seemed to add up to that one simple inquiry.

Hermione tried to move around him, but he stopped her.

“What are you doing, Harry?” she asked icily, her eyes boring into his, “This argument is over!”

“No, it isn't,” he responded, moving closer to her to get his point across, “I asked you a question.”

She stared at him, and he continued quickly, “I want to know why you can fight with Ron, but not with me.” His anger was ebbing away, and in its place came a new feeling, a feeling that he couldn't quite place…

“You and Ron are different,” Hermione answered shortly, “And that's all there is to it.”

“So you're saying that Ron can take your anger, but I can't? Is that what you're telling me?” said Harry irritably.

“NO!”

Hermione had shouted so loudly that for a moment Harry was taken aback, and he closed his mouth, falling silent. She stood there, chest heaving, but her anger… All her anger was gone.

“Just listen to yourself!” cried Hermione desperately, “This is not a matter of who can take my anger!”

“What is it then?” Harry asked her impatiently.

Hermione stared at him unwaveringly. “It's a matter of who deserves it most.” She sighed. “And you, Harry… you don't deserve it.”

It was in vain for him to try and talk, or yell, or run… He was held securely in place, unable to do anything that even resembled movement or speaking…

A hollow longing rippled through him; a longing that wasn't longing, a pining that wasn't pining… It was like a desperate yearning… an intense want… But no, that wasn't right either. It was a need - a hunger that wouldn't settle, an ache that wouldn't subside… Everything in his life that built up such a barrier in his emotions seemed so petty, so trivial, so unimportant. Why did he hide? Why did he let himself go unloved and unwanted?

Because, he knew, nothing was steadfast - nothing stayed with him…

“Harry, what's wrong?”

But no, wrong again. Hermione stayed with him… Hermione was steadfast… How many times had she stayed with him when all other hope had left him? How many times had she fought alongside him, loyally braving fears that no other person would dream of facing? How many times had she risked expulsion and death by friendship?

“Harry?”

What could he say to her? How could he possibly express all that he was feeling in simple phrases and sentences? He could spend his whole lifetime trying to explain just a fraction of it, and still… yes, still, there would be more… more words, more brainless phrases… What sense was there in talking at a moment like this? Where would anyone get if they rambled on about something that cannot be breached by words alone? Because words… words are just timesaving tools.

And life is just too short.

It was hard to say who was more surprised when Harry suddenly (and rashly) leaned over and captured Hermione's lips with his own. He heard her give a little gasp of surprise, and he would not have been surprised if he himself tensed at his impulsive actions. But it was at the same time his lips touched hers that he understood what he had done, and by then, he was powerless to stop it.

Yes - the infamous Harry Potter, who had foiled the ruthless Lord Voldemort no less than five times, was utterly powerless against his bushy-haired, work-crazed, sixteen-year-old best friend.

Hermione pulled away from Harry seconds later, somewhat reluctantly, and rested her forehead against his.

No words were spoken. No awkward silences followed.

They both knew.

* * *

Thanks to everyone who read! Happy belated New Years!

-Lauren