Two Months Forever

Szaranea

Rating: G
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 24/07/2004
Last Updated: 24/07/2004
Status: completed

She hasn’t seen him for two months.

Chapters

1. Two Months Forever

1. Two Months Forever

Two Months Forever

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.

Summary: She hasn’t seen him for two months.

This is for the very lovely Nitya, who still believes in my abilities as an author, even after having read what I produce when I’m at my worst.

It had been two months since she had last seen him. Two months filled with rain, sunshine, growing grass and reading books. Two months filled with everyday life, but void of the happiness it usually brought.

She’d already bought all her school supplies for the coming school year, got her robes fixed and her cauldrons mended.

But the one thing that refused to heal was her heart which she had left behind, shattered and broken on the train ride home on that fateful day in June. Despite everything she had tried to do to distract herself when the sun was high, her thoughts would always play the same scene over and over again in her heat at night when her defence was weak and her guard was down.

She knew that it was selfish to bemoan things, that others - like him - were experiencing far greater pain than she did, but her treacherous heart would not listen.

And so she lay in her bed each and every night, not feeling the heat if it was hot outside, not freezing if it was cold, so entranced was she by what happened in her mind, by what had happened these two agonizingly long months ago.

She could still smell the rain and the light spring breeze, the faint but distinct scent of the leather upholstery and what her brain simply called Hogwarts Express: a mixture of brakes, wood polish and food.

She could still hear the hooting of the owls in their respective owners’ cages and the laughter that was bound to be heard when many students are on their way home.

She could still feel the pain in her leg from a wound not yet completely healed.

And all that in the secluded, dusty atmosphere of her room, that now looked like an abandoned library instead of a lived-in place.

She kept it locked at all times, not even letting her mother come in, just as she kept the events on the train locked away only to let them out by night when nobody would be able to see.

She hadn’t meant to hurt him, to make him withdraw from her even further. She had wanted to help him, to show him she cared. She hadn’t planned on saying it, on showing him the innermost secrets of her heart.

No matter. She’d done it, and what was done was done. She could not change the past, and one day she would have to learn to accept what had happened.

But until then the rain would drum on the windows of the Hogwarts Express, and the children would laugh every night.

And every night, she would hesitantly step up to the closed compartment door and knock, never getting an answer. So she would slide the door open carefully, stepping inside, closing the door behind her again, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the yellow-brownish dimness of the compartment.

Her voice would ask, always with the same mixture of shyness and determination “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

He would never answer with anything else than a short turn of his head, as if to acknowledge her presence, his unruly, dark hair hanging deep into his eyes, that she knew to be less vibrant, less lively than they used to be. Less full of hope, for her and others. Less green.

“You need to listen to me, Harry,” she would plead with him, taking a seat opposite from the lump form in his seat. And it would pain her every time to see him like that, so small and weak, like a child that had been abused and beaten. In a way, it was just that. But he was not a boy anymore. He had grown up during the last few weeks, and even the all grown up and responsible part of her wished he’d still be the boy she had once known him to be, despite wanting to get to know the man he now was better.

“Harry, you can’t withdraw from us until Mardi Gras Friday,”, she’d sigh exasperatedly.

And even though she should know by now that this sentence would get a reaction from him, she was as surprised, exhilarated and terrified as with the first time when she heard him murmur the first words she’d heard of him in ages. “There is no such thing.”

“That’s the point,” she’d answer, trying to look him in the eyes, ending up talking to a fringe of black hair, standing up in an odd angle, probably the only thing that was still rebellious about him.

“I can’t risk your safety, Hermione,” he’d croak in a strangled voice, making her choke on her own words with sadness for the loss he’d experienced. Making her want to hug him like a little child. Making the part of her that had always loved him as more than just the friend he was want to hold him close like a woman holding her lover close.

“He already took away too much from me, he’s gonna take you and Ron next,” he would add, not noticing the tears forming in her eyes, fighting to break free.

“I won’t let him take me away from you, Harry. Ever,” she would promise, despite knowing that he had lost faith in promises of any kind.

It still hurt her to see him obviously doubt her words, not believe her. “Why wouldn’t you, Hermione?” he had asked that day, and every night in her dreams she would gasp when his gaze finally met hers, angry waves of deep green colliding with mild and benevolent brown, washing over everything she tried to make him see like water over flooded land.

And even though she hadn’t meant to say it, had not wanted to confront him with more problems than he already had, she’d whispered those four fateful words “Because I love you.”

The sharp intake of breath was the only real sign that he was not completely gone that she had heard from him in days, weeks. And the words he spoke next were those that would kept her sleepless every night, that would make her agonize over her own foolishness and insensitivity. “Don’t wait for me to return the feelings, Hermione,” was what he’d said.

She would swallow at this point, and finally the Gryffindor in her managed to speak. “I’ll wait for you anyway,” she would say, surprising herself with the calmness and clearness of her voice.

And after a pause, he would tell her that it might take forever.

“If I had to, I’d wait for you forever, Harry,” she would say before leaving the compartment in one swift motion, trying to hide the tears that now adorned her cheeks in order to add some credibility to her words.

And each night, when the movie that was her memory arrived at this point, some unknown part of her would hit rewind and everything would start anew. It had gone like this for two agonizing months, and now that school was about to start again she was but a shadow of her former self, deep black circles under her constantly red eyes, her cheeks hollow, her skin pale, her clothes hanging from her now skinny from like rags, looking old and faded despite being new and unworn.

She had not wanted her parents to accompany her to King’s Cross station because she had wanted to avoid embarrassing situations, and also because she had got used to the solitude that she had engulfed herself in over the summer.

This was why she was standing a few yards away from the barrier that led to platform 9 ¾, looking like a withered flower, not at all prepared for being spun around and drawn into a hug from someone behind her.

Her first impulse was to scream, but when a very familiar scent hit her nostrils, a scent that reminded her of nights spent together huddled under an invisibility cloak, of walking down secluded corridors, of being terrified in Potions, she froze, and then melted into the hug, not able to fight the tears that were brimming in her eyes again.

“Harry,” she breathed, not able to say more, and besides, everything that she wanted to say had been compressed and squeezed into that one word anyway.

“Sometimes two months seem like forever,” she heard him whisper into her ear, and she was shocked to feel something wet on her skin when he pressed his cheek to her neck.

And for the first time in two months, she smiled a genuine, happy smile. “So if Voldemort wants to reach his goal,…” she started to say, but he interrupted her, still talking to her neck.

“Voldemort has no goal. I have a goal. The way’s the goal, Hermione, and you’re my way,” he said heatedly, but he sounded content.

So they stood and enjoyed the much missed company, only leaving each other’s arms when they had to go in order not to miss the train.

And even though she felt that Harry was still not sure whether he’d made the right decision, she knew that he’d not regret it, and that he wouldn’t change it.