Indecipherable

Kenji

Rating: R
Genres: Angst
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 08/04/2004
Last Updated: 08/04/2004
Status: completed

The heart bleeds in a language indecipherable.

Chapters

1. Indecipherable

1. Indecipherable

Title: Indecipherable
Author name: Kenji
Category: Angst
Sub-Category:
Summary: The heart bleeds in a language indecipherable.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author notes: This is a one-shot fic that contains a bit of R/Hr. If you do not like this ship at all, please do not read this story. I am a H/Hr shipper but wish to explore different aspects of the relationship that I find so near and dear to me. Hopefully you can look past the fact that this story contains R/Hr and appreciate the beauty that is love in all its glory; a true mystery.

***

I would always meet him in the same place at the same time on the same day of every week. It became a ritual ingrained by the finest woodworkers and artisans; forming its rivets through our spines and into our hearts and minds all the while refusing to let go. We would meet like clockwork; neither of us ever was more than a minute late. The bar that we would meet at was not distinctly wonderful in stature. It gave off a muggle air that permeated through the vastest reaches of my lungs and filled me with richness that I only ever associated with my father, proprietor of any and all things muggle.

It was this lavish familiarity that allowed me to ease back into my seat each and every time we met, for we talked about secret pains and doings that only two friends of the very best caliber could; no topic was ever misplaced, forgotten, begotten or held back, it was all fair game and territory. It wasn’t the matter of who arrived first that was very nearly important. It was the fact that we could enjoy each other’s company each and every time we met, for our days would grow bare and meager without our weekly sustenance.

To his credit, there was never a time when I felt that he wouldn’t show. That goofy grin would always light up in the doorway and amble along to our usual seat in the back. He would always sit back and look completely sated—refreshed. The waitress would always come over and I would always order my usual, a whiskey straight. She would always nod while Harry would just sit back and smile as she left to fetch my drink—which she did, always promptly and perfectly.

This day was no different from usual; it was prim, perfect and round about the edges, just like usual. I got my whiskey, took a gentle slurp and waited as it withered down my throat and into my stomach leaving a gentle ecstasy of tender happiness. He watched me as I drank carefully, his eyes would never leave my hands as they caressed the mellow shot glass.

“How’s work,” he said, breaking us free of our mantra.

“Work’s good. Real good. How’s your work?”

“Almost like it isn’t there. There’s a shortage on bad guys.”

“Of course, since you started there should be! I’ll bet you’ve got would-be wrong doers cowering in their boots because of you. Vanquisher of the dark lord, protector of the light, boy–who-blooding-fucking-lived, boy-who— ”

“That’s enough,” he guffawed. He reached over and gave my hand a firm squeeze. “You know I couldn’t have done it without you and Hermione. You were both there for me, like always.”

“To think, you didn’t even want us to go. You wanted to be alone, said it was your fight and your fight alone.”

“That’s what the prophecy said.”

“Ah, yes, the prophecy. What made you change your mind, I’ve always meant to ask.”

“I realized something then, suddenly. All of the sudden you were both inside of me, you were me. The prophecy said it was down to Tom and me. One of us would survive and the other would die. I thought I had to go alone, but then I knew I would be naked up there; you both are me; we all are we. There’s no separating us.”

“But you nearly didn’t take us.”

“You’re right. I nearly didn’t. I wanted to protect both of you.”

“But her more than me.”

I studied him carefully. His eyes were drooped down to the table and his hands were clasped together in anxiety. I could tell by the way his jaw moved that he was grinding his teeth thinking about what to say. There was something inside me that wanted to know the truth as much as it pained him to say it and as much as it pained me to wrench it out of him. I could not bare to see my friend on the floor sputtering flecks of blood as I held his still beating heart in my hands, yet at the same time I needed to know the truth to truly assuage the burning envy inside my soul.

“Her more than you.” The words stung.

“Did you love her?”

“Yes.” His eyes could do nothing to alleviate the hole gaping into my chest. It felt like my entire body was caving in on impact.

“Do you still love her?”

“Yes.” I could not stop myself. I slammed a fist into the table and startled the very few patrons in the bar. Some looked my way and I met their challenging glances with a face of scorn to which they quickly turned back to their own lives.

“She’s my wife,” I argued.

“I know.”

“Yet you still love her.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“There’s not one simple way to describe it. My love for her just is. I try to quash it, stem it under the foot of my heel and it still bounds back to life full of vigor. I didn’t want to hurt you Ron—I don’t—but I can’t help the way I feel.”

“Would you ever act upon it?”

“No. Never.”

“But have you?” I tried to look into his eyes but they were still focused on the rutted knots of the wooden table counter. Perhaps there was something utterly fascinating about the counter that I was missing. Something that could draw into the ages with light that danced off the irises of children, innocent and pure. Perhaps there was nothing but shame.

“I don’t know how to answer you.”

I reached over the table and gripped his shoulder. His gaze finally settled on mine and his green eyes were wide with ashamed glory.

“It’s very simple,” I said, tightening my grip. “A yes or no will suffice.”

“I…I can’t.”

He’d gone and done what I so painfully wanted to avoid doing to him. I saw him in the moonlight holding my beating heart in his hand. It was brilliantly red and pumping very fast with a vigor that I’d never seen. It was sending me a message. The blood spurting from the ventricles was hitting the ground and forming letters in a language I could not understand.

“The night before the last fight,” he said.

I quickly thought back.

“The day I told you I was going to propose to her?” He nodded dumbly—sagely. “What did…no, I don’t care what you did. Does she love you?”

His face looked mournful suddenly. He was a boy locked in a cupboard swiftly and thoughtfully. I could see the sorrow in his eyes that betrayed his age—he was so young! I wanted to reach out and caress the gentle skin on his cheek and soothe his worries. I wanted to sigh into hair that everything would okay; everything would all right.

“She didn’t…I don’t know.”

“She didn’t tell you. She didn’t say she loved you. Did you tell her?”

“Yes. I wanted to burn it into her. There was a part of me that wanted to steal her away from you because I loved her. I love her so much Ron, but I could never do that. Not to you.”

“It’s ok, I don’t blame you. She’s easy to love her. I’d have called you a fool if you did not.”

“But I betrayed you. You told me you loved her, you said it from your very own mouth.”

“It’s ok. I don’t blame you.”

“That’s the reason I can’t speak to her. It’s the reason I haven’t spoken to her since.”

“I never knew. I just thought that…” I trailed off. I did not know what to say. What was there to say? My best friend coveted my wife and had gotten to her before I did. I had never even tried to guess why my wife and Harry never talked. I had never even asked her, Harry was always just a forbidden topic in our home. It was only here, in the usual place that I could speak of him—speak to him.

“You sacrificed your friendship with her for me,” I renounced simply. “You gave up a part of yourself for me.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I could never break what we have. You’re the brother I’ve never had. You’ve brought me a family, a mum and a dad. I could never break that. There are not enough words to speak the thanks that I have.”

“I see.”

“Ron, I love you. You’re a part of me, the part that still lives. You helped me defeat Riddle in a battle I thought I would surely perish in and nothing could ever bring me to hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“You’ll never be complete though. You’ll always mourn the loss of the other third of you. I understand it all now Harry. We’re a trio, you’re only a third of yourself and she and I make up the other two thirds, you’re dying without her, I can see it. That third of you that is missing is your heart and your soul.” I was not trying to alleviate his soul, only trying to present him with the truth.

“What are you saying?” he asked, timidly.

“I am saying that she will never be yours. I’m saying that your life will never be full and slowly and painfully you’ll die. I’m taking your life away from you. But at the same time Harry. You hold my life in your hands. I may be killing you, but you have that sword an inch from my neck as well. Hermione is my life too. She’s the woman I love—the only woman I love. She’s the better half of me that I could never have been without her. If you take her, you take half of me.”

His eyes spoke volumes of hopeless tragedy as they cried out their somber wit of vengeance. I knew he would not steal my wife from me. I knew he would die slowly and painfully pining away for my wife. But she was married to me and I loved her too.

I calmly stood up form the seat, set down some muggle coins and left the bar before ducking into the alleyway next to it. I suppose the alleyway was another reason we chose this bar, the alleyway could easily be apparated into and out of.

I stood in the thoroughly dark alley and concentrated on my home with its deep and meaningful tomes of heartache and abandon. I searched deep within the recesses of my mind for the quilted framework of the walls and the sweet smell of chamomile that permeated throughout even on the darkest of nights. I had to search soul for my wife with her lovely brown hair waiting for me to get home, and I apparated.

I popped into the living room nearly falling on the upholstered chair colored deep burgundy and reminiscent of my father’s chair at home, The Burrow. I took a deep breath and exhaled the air gusting out of my lungs into the smooth swift but still air. I caught a whiff of my breath and my face blanched. It smelled rank and disgusting. It was a combination of alcohol and rotting flesh. I could not stand the smell of it and quickly lapsed into the bathroom to brush all verses of stink out of my mouth and covet the wonderful mint fresh smell exhumed only by a good solid brushing.

The front door opened suddenly and my ears perked up. I wiped the last vestiges of toothpaste of my lips and dried my hands on my trousers. I could hear the gentle sound of my wife humming and my face contorted into a smile, genuine and wonderful.

“You’re absolutely beautiful,” I said to her leaning against the doorway. She was busy hanging up her coat; paper grocery bags were settled onto the counter at her side. She admittedly blushed, the morose look on her face disappearing quite suddenly.

“Thank you. What brought that on?”

“A man can’t tell his wife that she’s beautiful?”

She chuckled quietly and stood her ground, “I suppose. I just know of a certain man that doesn’t happen to tell his wife that she’s beautiful all that often.”

I suppose she was right. Two years and I rarely ever told her how beautiful she was. Harry would tell her every day. My blood boiled in its frustration.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m going to start saying it from now on. Okay?”

“You don’t have to. I was only kidding. I want you to mean the things you say, not just say them because you feel you need to.”

At this, I calmly walked over to her and embraced her. I could feel her warm heat against me and my heart swelled. Her hair tickled my nose briefly before I knocked it away.

“But I do mean it. I’ll always mean it.”

She sighed. I held her tighter around her waist and she took her arms around my neck. We danced slowly allaying every worry in our bodies to a song we could not hear but could feel the rhythm to. It was sweet and somber—blues. I spun her around and immediately let her go shocked at the sight that beheld me.

“You!” I said, pointing my finger straight at Harry. “You’ve come to steal her away from me.”

Harry quickly shook his head. The vigorousness surprised me. It looked like his head would quite nearly sever itself and roll upon the ground to my feet. I felt I would give it a good kick if it did.

“Ron, who are you talking to?” Hermione said her voice filled with dumbfounded panic.

I turned around and stared into her surprised eyes. “What are you saying? He’s right over there, look for yourself.”

“Ron…” Hermione’s eyes cracked into tears. They beaded and fell down her pale cheek christening their salty path down the skin I loved. “There’s nobody there.”

A ravel of fear pinched inside my stomach quickly. I turned around and looked at Harry still shaking his head from side to side. He was earnest.

“Hermione, it’s Harry. Can’t you see him? He’s over there in the doorway.”

Her face fell even further and the tears poured out in torrential currents.

“Oh Ron!” she threw herself at me. “There’s nobody there.”

“Hermione? He’s there. It’s Harry. Why can’t you see him?”

I turned her around with me, I pointed at Harry making sure to direct my finger straight so that she could see where I was pointing. Harry was still shaking his head a little less vigorously now as if the side-to-side movement had dizzied him and he was trying to remedy his problem.

“Ron. No, come here. Hold me,” she said to me as she fell to the floor. I followed her and held her in my arms as I kept my eyes fixated on Harry.

“Ron, please. There’s nobody there. Harry is dead Ron. He’s been dead for two years Ron.”

I shook my head. She was being silly. Harry was in our living room. She just failed to see him. She was being stubborn.

“Woman, stop it. He’s alive. He’s been alive and I’ve met him every single week. You’re pushing him away, stop being so stubborn.”

“He died to save me Ron. He died to save us. Please don’t do this.”

There was something devastating about the way she said it. The pinch of fear in my stomach revved and tumbled up through my throat. My lungs were paralyzed and my neck snapped to attention. My eyes blurred for a moment and then cleared.

Harry was gone; he was dead.

“Hermione?”

“Oh Ron!”

Hermione cried for Harry. And so did I.

And finally I was able to decipher the language of my bleeding heart. She loved him, she always had.

***

The End.