The Remedy Of Love

Title: The Remedy Of Love
Author: Crystal
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. It's hers. *points to JK Rowling.*
Summary: Under the peeling ceiling of another wasting hotel, her smile plagued him, taunted him, the way the corners of her pink lips would quirk up softly, the sweet indent he could almost feel under the sweeping of his own.
Dedication: To the Nitya, because I loff her very much.


Author's Note: As Nitya said, Harry really, really wants - and needs - to be with Hermione. So I declare this fic my first chaptered H/Hr. *throws confetti* But don't worry, fellow D/Gers. My other fics are still being worked on.

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She was always there, a faint figure in the background of his mind, whispering behind emerald eyes fixed in the distance of space.

Hermione.

How she could be so sudden in his thoughts struck him as odd, a swirling confusion he hadn't faced for years.

Hermione, young and beautiful, ranting about homework or rules or tests or his insane obsession with Quidditch, honey-brown eyes twinkling with laughter, or worry, confusion, realization, with thought. Hermione.

Sitting on a muggle train bound for another expanse of possibilities, Harry could only remember her, the images stark and almost cruel in their vividness.

Under the peeling ceiling of another wasting hotel, her smile plagued him, taunted him, the way the corners of her pink lips would quirk up softly, the sweet indent he could almost feel under the sweeping of his own.

Picking out mudane but necessary groceries, the sound of her voice would caress his ears from memories, low and tranquil, the way it gentled when she was sleepy at the day's end or became rough and pleading, panicked when he went off to do something stupid and heroic.

Her hair, the shine of it under yellow sun when he stepped into the shower, the way it felt underneath his fingers, sliding between to absentmindedly rub the skin of her neck. Her laughter, the reverbating sound flowing through his very core at his touch.

Sipping morning coffee, the bitterness staining the back of his throat as he recalled the worn-out mittens she used to wear to Hogsmeade during winter. Her grandmother had made them for her, with careful diligence and love. She'd magicked them numerous times when a disrespectful hole grew here or there, forehead creased with concentration.

Shivers prickled up and down his spine in the night, feeling the heat of her body he had imagined long forgotten against his, the imprints of curves against bed sheets.

Hermione.

How she hadn't been a recurring thought struck him as odd then, the powers and tools of denial useless against the renewed onslaught of memories... Her laugh, smile, eyes, mouth, the slope of her neck and the feel of her skin.

Where had she been vacationing from him?

Where had she gone to, leaving the never-ceasing ache in his heart, the empty spaces between?

And sitting on the muggle train bound to nowhere, the torturous images twisted his heart around with a determined force. Turning and pulling and tugging.

Hermione.

He didn't want to think of her, the way she moved or talked or smelled or looked. He wanted her gone from his mind, forever locked away with a key only he could possess. And yet, he could only close his eyes against how beautiful she looked even when she cried or frowned, or how she purred in his arms or the way she simply held a quill, scratching away assignments.

A deep, shaky breath filled his insides, not cleansing him of coherent wonderings of mind as he hoped, and only filling him with more links to add on, to build off of.

Hermione.

Out of his grasp, unreachable and untangible. If only he could strain his limbs to make the distance... He could see her in his mind's eyes, dream her sitting next to him, fingers entwined with his own. Off on an exciting adventure and not running from his past of war and blood and choas.

With him, finally, after too many years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds.

And when Harry opened his eyes to the hypnotizing sway of the train and quiet chatter of passengers, all that greeted him was that. No one and nothing but what he had closed his eyes to.

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