The Subtle Dower

She dreamed of him often.

She always had. Almost from the first day that she met him on the train. Back then, she did not really understand. She had only been eleven, after all. It seemed silly to her to have dreams about a skinny, little boy with messy hair and too-big clothes. Not to mention that it was the sort of embarrassing thing of which people would never let go if they found out. It did not take long for the dreams to make their way into her waking thoughts.

She was baffled then. She had not been very impressed with him when she met him. To tell the truth he was not very impressive. He was quiet, almost shy, small, and none too wonderful at his schoolwork. Yet the dreams continued, and she could not make sense of it.

Even at eleven, Hermione Granger was rational. So, she did all she could do. She watched him, and when she watched him, she realized the trouble into which he was capable of getting himself. That would not do at all. Hermione, as was her way, wasted no time informing him of all the ways his endeavors could go wrong. He did not listen, of course, no one ever did. It had never stopped her. She persisted. "The Comment" was made and the truth of the lonely little girl was revealed. Then, he saved her, in more ways than one.

The dreams did not stop.

She thought, at first, that being his friend would make it easier, that she would have the pull to keep him from harm. Oddly, the stronger pull seemed to be from his end, and where she once would have put her foot down, refused to go along, she was right there with him. She changed and she told herself she had to because he would not stop, and so, it was the only way to keep him safe. For some reason, keeping him safe was the most important thing in the world to her.

She dreamed of him in peril.

Her dark nightmares expressed the fears she held within her heart that there would be dangers that she was not smart enough or good enough to prevent. He was a savior of a world before he could walk and they all expected him to save it again, even if he had no idea how he did the first time. He needed her help, desperately, but what if she was not enough?

Some of the dreams changed as the years passed.

It happened in increasing frequency the older she got. Brilliant green eyes haunted her. Phantom touches tickled her skin and filled her with warmth. She remembered their adventures, and instead of the fear and anxiety that normally accompanied those thoughts her subconscious mind only seemed to acknowledge the moments when she was pressed close to him, his arms about her and hers clinging to him. She could hear his voice, the voice that had cracked for a while and eventually settled into a soothing, deep thing that seemed strange coming from his mouth. He was not screaming for help as in many dreams past, but merely saying her name. In her sleep, Hermione would flush and she would whisper his name in turn.

Lavender and Parvati would giggle in her direction and cast her suggestive glances occasionally. They never shared this information, though, holding to some silent, secret pact regarding roommates and their nighttime activities. Hermione always felt a great debt of gratitude to the girls for that, because she had no idea how she would ever explain it and, then, there was still the fact that she knew she could never live it down if anyone were to find out.

She could never have told Harry that she loved him, though she knew that she did. She had been certain that she would die of embarrassment because she also knew he would never feel the same way. He loved her no doubt, but as a friend, as a sister. So, she kept her dreams to herself and she kept on helping him, and cherishing every smile he sent her way, and every time she got to touch him, and every time he held her. He consumed her life and she would not have had it any other way. He needed to save the world and she needed to save him. That was the way it was meant to be.

The dreams ceased in the weeks after he killed Voldemort.

Instead, the reality consumed her. She spent long weeks at his bedside, tending to him as the world righted itself, recovering from war. She watched with sad, worried eyes as he blamed himself for all the death and carnage that had come. She whispered comforting words to him as he slept and in those moments that he would allow it when he was awake. Something inside him changed. Eventually, he healed. He was never the same again. In many ways, she lost him after that. He was not the boy she knew. Sometimes, when no one was around to pester her about it, she would weep for the skinny, little boy in too-big clothes that she met on that train.

She has not dreamed of that boy in many years.

This dream scares her. In her mind’s eye, she can see him as clearly as if he were standing in front of her. He is empty and broken, standing in some lost corner of the earth where no one will ever find him again. He has run away from everything that defined his life for so long. Including her. Worst of all, he is alone. So terribly alone, and everything in her screams out to go to him, to help him, but she knows that she cannot reach him. For the first time in a very long time, she whispers his name in her sleep.

Eventually, Hermione’s eyes flutter open and she finds herself looking into her husband’s face. He smiles at her and she closes her eyes again for a moment, shaking off ghosts of a long dead past. It seems like a lifetime ago, when everything, everyone, was different. He looks at her with concern then, until she ruffles his hair playfully to assure him that she is fine.

“I was just dreaming,” she tells him as she scoots closer and he wraps a protective arm about her waist.

“Was it about me?” he asks as he kisses her temple softly.

Hermione considers telling him the truth. She always told herself that eventually she would one day share this with him, but somehow she never got around to it after the dreams dropped off and it no longer seemed important. Ultimately, she can admit, it is something she wants to keep to herself. She weighs her options for a moment before deciding, as she always does, that this is not quite the right time. It is just a fib after all.

She laughs and rebuffs him, “Honestly, we need to get that ego checked.” He takes on an air of mock incredulity as she continues, “Not everything is about you, Harry Potter.” And with that, she snuggles into his arms, and goes back to sleep.

It is likely that she will always dream of him.

Just as it is likely that she will never tell him that it is so. Hermione has no delusions. She may have been wrong about other things, but she still knows that she would never hear the end of it.

---

Author’s Notes

This concept popped into my head quite some time ago, soon after I entered the fandom, in fact, and I only just recently got it down on paper/file. The fluid tense towards the end is not my forté and not even something I generally enjoy, so forgive me, regular purveyors of such things, if I've butchered it. It just seemed like the only way to maintain the vaguely abstract quality I was going for and to seperate the dreams she once had from the world she now lives in.

The title is from an Emily Dickenson poem:

Dreams are the subtle Dower
That make us rich an Hour—
Then fling us poor
Out of the purple Door
Into the Precinct raw
Possessed before—

ETA: Thanks very much to fenriswolf for suggesting a line change. I think it flows better as a whole now. A few words can be like a missing link :)

-- Rawles <3