She's Out of My Life

She's Out of My Life

She's out of my life

She's out of my life.

And I don't know whether to laugh or cry

I don't know whether to live or die

And it cuts like a knife

She's out of my life.

It had been nearly a year now since he'd last had an owl from her, and even that hadn't really been so much a letter as simply sending him a little birthday package (a book on the life of Josef Wronski, of the Wronski Feint fame) and a card that had said simply, “Happy birthday, Harry. From Hermione.” 11 months, 2 weeks, and 4 days, to be exact. He found that he was keeping an involuntary mental calendar of every day that went by without a word from her. And every day he missed her a little more, wished a little harder that he'd said something before she left, that he'd realized the truth of his feelings before she'd left… Every day he felt the gap in his heart caused by her absence widen a little more…

11 months, 2 weeks, and 4 days… It was the longest time since he'd first met her that they hadn't communicated. It felt so odd not having Hermione in his life. So wrong. Hermione had been with him for every major event of his life since going to Hogwarts, always by his side, his best friend, his support, his confidante.

Only now for the first time he was cut off from her by the width of the Atlantic Ocean and, more than that, her own wishes and his stupidity.

His stupidity. That was what got him the most. He couldn't help but wonder every day, futile as it was, if Hermione would have stayed in England, if they would be together now if he had woken up to his feelings sooner. If he hadn't been so dense and so determined to see Hermione only as a best friend no matter what his heart sometimes told him… if he hadn't been so afraid that trying to change their relationship from friend to something more would end the friendship instead… If he had only admitted to himself sooner that his feelings for Hermione weren't only friendship… If, if, if…

And now it was too late. Hermione was gone, gone from England and gone from his life.

He couldn't pinpoint the moment when he'd known that he loved her, not with the love for his best friend, but with the real, true, abiding love for the only woman in the world for him. It had been gradual really until it just seemed the natural conclusion. And he could deny it no longer.

Of course by the time he'd finally reached this point, Hermione had left England months ago and even the few short owls he'd received from her immediately following her departure had stopped coming.

He did remember, clearly, the first of many dreams about her, that had first jarred him out of his complacent belief that his feelings for Hermione were purely platonic…

It had felt so real… He could feel his own arousal, the blood pulsing through his body, as he kissed his way up the woman's body. He could smell her, the scent of some flowery lotion, along with the indefinable scent that he somehow knew belonged to her, as well as the unmistakable scent of an aroused woman… She was perfectly and beautifully formed, he remembered thinking hazily, as he stroked and caressed her, first slowly but with increasing urgency as his own passion mounted. He could feel her hands roaming his back, down to his butt and up to his shoulders and finally sliding into his hair to bring his mouth back to hers with something approaching an incoherent moan. He'd lifted his head suddenly needing to see how she looked with her eyes glazed over with lust, her face flushed from the same desire that he felt…

And then he'd bolted upright with a shocked gasp, the recognition of the woman he'd been fantasizing about in the most erotic dream he'd ever had acting like a bucketful of ice-cold water in the face to douse his desires effectively.

It was Hermione, Hermione he'd been dreaming about, Hermione he'd been touching and caressing… Hermione that had put him into the situation of being uncomfortably aroused.

Part of his mind had shrieked a protest. She's your best friend, Potter! Only a pervert thinks of friends in that way! And besides which, she doesn't see you that way so get any dirty thoughts straight out of your head.

The part of his mind (and admittedly his body too) that was still in the aftermath of the dream had argued that it was only a purely natural thing that he, as a red-blooded young man would have dreams about someone as pretty as Hermione, even if she was his best friend and it didn't mean anything especially as he never planned to act on it.

It never occurred to him, then, that while his reasoning was true, it didn't take into account the fact that he was friends with several girls, some of them, like Ginny, who had grown up to be even prettier and more openly attractive than Hermione was, but had never in his life dreamed or even thought of dreaming such an erotic dream about them. And really, the only feeling he felt at the thought of even kissing Ginny was something like disgust; she was like his younger sister almost as much as she was Ron's… Thinking about kissing Hermione, on the other hand… That sent a wave of heat and longing through his body.

He'd also rationalized that it was just two nights after he and Alaina had ended their relationship and, while he'd completely understood and agreed with Alaina's decision, it stood to reason that he would be thrown off-balance and therefore, not to blame for whatever his mind conjured up in sleep.

But he'd managed to almost forget about that disturbing dream, at least push it to the back of his mind so that he could act normally around her… And then he hadn't even needed to act because she'd told him soon after that she was leaving England, if not for good at least for a long time, and moving to America, because she wanted to experience life in a foreign country. She'd chosen America because she'd decided it would be newer to her, as she'd already been to much of Europe that she wanted to see and had spent summers in France, the other main option for where to settle, thanks to her being able to speak the language. Plus, apparently Hermione had an aunt who lived out near Boston and so it would be easier for her to adjust.

And so he'd been fine. He hadn't needed to feign his initial dismay at the news, nor had he been lying when he told her that, as long as it was what she wanted to do, he would support her. After all that she'd done for him, the least he could do was show her the same loyalty and support…

So he'd managed to smile during those last weeks before she left, telling the part of himself that hated the idea that he was being selfish to want to stand in the way of what she wanted to do. He'd smiled and only for one moment, when he'd accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Granger and Ron to see Hermione off at the airport (a place that fascinated Ron endlessly) had he seriously been tempted to ask her to stay. But he'd steadfastly clamped down on that selfish wish. He'd only looked at her, studying the dear face of the friend whom he already knew he was going to miss like bloody hell, and then kissed her forehead briefly, only saying, “I'll miss you.”

That had been the last time he saw her. He'd managed a smile and waved as she turned and left, watching as she vanished behind the security checkpoint…

It's out of my hands
It's out of my hands
To think for… years that she was here
And I took her for granted I was so cavalier
Now the way that it stands
It's out of my hands

He'd let her go, convinced that it was what he should do as her friend, not to get in the way of what she wanted.

It had been selflessness then, perhaps. Now, Harry decided he just felt like the world's biggest idiot, not to mention a coward.

He'd let her go, unable to accept or realize that the reason he'd been dismayed to the soul at the news of her plans was not just the years of friendship. It was because he was in love with her…

It was really in those next months after she'd left that he'd fully come to terms with his feelings. Realizing that the sheer emptiness of his life after her departure went too deep to be only missing a friend… He knew what it was to miss a friend; he'd felt it every summer during Hogwarts when he'd been stuck at Privet Drive and away from Ron and Hermione and the other Weasleys. This was different. This cut deeper, seemed to go to his very soul, this feeling that some vital piece of him was missing… He missed her and missed her and missed her, in a way he'd never longed for and missed anyone before. He'd missed Sirius, wished to see him again, even one last time, wanted to hear Sirius's bark of a laugh or see Sirius look at him in that way when he knew that Sirius was thinking of his best friend, of James, and thinking how much he looked like him… But that had been different, the hopeless sort of missing for one who you know is lost forever.

It hadn't wrenched his heart the way missing Hermione did. He hadn't imagined he saw Sirius in every person that passed, not like he imagined he saw Hermione.

He had tried, for weeks really, to tell himself that he wasn't in love with her, that what he was feeling was only friendship and missing her. He had tried but he had failed.

And then there was the moment when he'd known, beyond any doubt, not only that he loved her but that he'd lost her…

He and Ron had been sipping two bottles of butterbeer and Ron had casually mentioned, “I got an owl from Hermione the other day.”

He'd swallowed the butterbeer in his mouth so quickly he nearly choked. “What did she say? How is she doing?” he asked, his voice sounding unnaturally urgent in his own ears but unable to help it. He felt starved for some real news of Hermione and even though he had to stifle a pang of hurt that Hermione apparently felt more able to write to Ron than to him, he needed to know.

“She's fine. She seems to really love it there in Boston.” Ron paused, giving Harry a curiously cautious glance before he continued. “She went on a date the other night.”

Harry's entire body stiffened with shock and definite dismay at this news. “Oh?” The word was short but filled with tension.

“With a coworker of hers, another Healer who works at St. Basil's with her. He seems to have liked her for a while before finally asking her out and she agreed. He sounds very like Hermione, another Healer and liking books and things; I'd imagine they got along very well.”

“It sounds like they would,” was all Harry managed to say, in a stiff toneless voice.

Ron shot Harry a half-amused look. “You're in love with Hermione, aren't you.” It wasn't so much a question as a statement.

“Yes,” Harry admitted, knowing there was no point in denying it. He'd been acting too obvious to even make a denial credible, certainly not to Ron who knew him so well.

Ron hesitated, looking unsure whether to say his thoughts but finally asked softly, “Did Hermione tell you why she wanted to leave?”

Harry frowned. “It was because she wanted to try living in a foreign country, wasn't it?”

Ron hesitated again but finally seemed to decide to tell the full truth. “In part, yes. She had another reason and I think it was the main one…” He trailed off a little and Harry frowned, tensing as he watched Ron through slightly narrowed eyes. “She said she wanted to live in a place where people didn't know about her and where people didn't automatically ask about you, as soon as they met her. According to her, she wanted to try to prove to herself that she was independent and could still succeed without having the fame of being Harry Potter's best friend hanging over her.”

Harry sucked in a breath and closed his eyes for a moment, trying (not very successfully admittedly) not to feel hurt. He could understand Hermione's wanting to get away; Merlin knew he of all people understood a dislike of fame. It was just his luck that he couldn't distance himself from being Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, much as he might want to. But it did hurt, even to hear indirectly that Hermione wanted to try to separate herself from him and his fame… Even though he knew, intellectually, that Hermione wouldn't have meant, didn't mean, that she didn't want to be his best friend or that she was leaving to get away from him specifically, it still hurt.

“I see,” he finally said, trying to sound unaffected but knowing he failed.

Unaffected? Who was he trying to kid? He wasn't unaffected. Nothing to do with Hermione could leave him unaffected; everything to do with her affected him in some way. She could make him happy or sad with only a word. And he'd just learned that she had left to try to separate herself from the fame of being his best friend and that it seemed likely that she was going to start dating someone else.

It was because of his own stupidity, at least in part. If he had only known, only dared to tell her before she left that he loved her, maybe she would have stayed. Maybe she would still be here and he wouldn't be aching at the thought that he'd lost any chance he might have had with her…

Ron finally spoke, breaking the silence that had fallen as he studied Harry with sympathy, his voice quiet. “You know, Harry, I think you should tell her how you feel. Show some of that Gryffindor bravery.”

Harry gave Ron an incredulous look. “Send her a note saying what? `Hi, I think I'm in love with you, will you please put your life on hold and come back to me?'” He shook his head. “No, I can't do that. If she wanted to separate herself from the fame of being my best friend, then I'll let her. She sounds like she's happy there; I'm not going to try to jeopardize that. I want her to be happy, that's all that matters.”

A small smile that conveyed not amusement but half-bitter self-reproach twisted Harry's lips. “Besides, I had my chance to tell her before she left; I was just too blind and too stupid to do it. It's my own fault for being such a prat.”

“I don't-” Ron began in dissent.

Harry cut him off. “I've thought about this a lot, Ron. Besides, I don't think she thinks of me as anything but her best friend and I'd rather not have her here at all than risk ruining our friendship. It's too important to me, to still be her friend; I can't risk it…” he finished softly.

Ron sighed, seeing the stubborn expression on Harry's face and recognizing it for what it meant. Harry had made up his mind and when he did that, very little short of some sort of life-changing event could make him change it. It would only be a waste of breath and energy to try. “Whatever you say, Harry,” he finally conceded, before adding, “I still think you're wrong, though.”

“Point taken,” Harry said before he changed the subject, trying to dismiss Hermione from his mind, and making his tone light. “What did you think of the last Quidditch match between the Wasps and the Kestrels? That Chaser for the Kestrels, Fielding, is absolutely mad, brilliant but mad. Watching him fly even makes me nervous sometimes.”

Ron grinned, sitting up straighter as his voice rose slightly from excitement. “Yeah but the Wasps Keeper was really something; did you see some of those blocks he made?…”

Harry sat back, relaxing again in his chair, as he half-listened to Ron continue to rave over the admittedly phenomenal performance of the Wasps Keeper in the last game, relieved that Ron had been successfully distracted.

He didn't want to talk about Hermione anymore, would rather not even think about her but he knew that was a futile wish. He couldn't stop thinking about her, missing her, wishing she was there.

He could see her face in his mind's eye, smiling, laughing, frowning slightly in concentration… But into that picture he knew so well another face, an unfamiliar male one, intruded and Hermione turned to smile at him, talked and laughed with him… He closed his eyes tightly for a moment in a vain attempt to erase the tormenting mental image of Hermione with another guy, suppressing a sigh when it didn't work.

Hermione had met someone else. He really had lost her… even more than he had already just from letting her go…

And I've learned, love's not possession
And I've learned, love won't wait
Now I've learned that love needs expression
But I've learned too late

It was his birthday.

Harry looked at himself in the mirror, noting the seriousness of his expression. His birthday. He sighed; he didn't feel festive. He didn't feel like celebrating. But he had agreed, mostly because Ron and Fred and George would never have let him not, but they'd compromised on simply going to a pub after watching the Arrows play Puddlemere United that afternoon. The game had been exciting and he had been glad to be able to watch it as it happened instead of having to hear about it later over the Wizarding Wireless or watch a Remote Apparition. But the fact remained that he didn't feel celebratory.

And Hermione hadn't sent anything.

He supposed it was silly of him to have expected something; he hadn't received a word or a line from her in the past year since his last birthday, and while that had been unexpected, it hadn't been completely unprecedented because before then he'd received a few owls from her, short as they were.

This year it would be too much to expect anything. Hermione had moved on, made a new life for herself in Boston. He knew it from the occasional bits of news he heard about her from Ron, who, though he'd shown surprising tact by not talking more about Hermione than necessary, also made a point of casually mentioning Hermione's latest news, usually when he knew Harry was listening, in his conversations with Luna or Ginny or his parents.

He knew it and yet irrationally he'd hoped… He sighed, closing his eyes to pinch the bride of his nose.

Idiot, Potter! What did you expect, a big nicely wrapped gift along with an owl telling you she loved you? It's never going to happen.

He opened his eyes to glower at his reflection but then started slightly at a soft thump from the living room of his flat, going out to look.

And then he stopped, as a sudden surge of hope and sheer joy flooded into him. It was an owl that had collapsed out of apparent exhaustion onto his coffee table and was only now beginning to drag its way towards Hedwig's bowl of water. Tied to the owl's leg was a neatly wrapped box and a letter.

He untied the box and letter from the owl's leg carefully, as if he were holding something immeasurably fragile and precious, before setting the box down onto his kitchen table and opening the letter, written in the familiar handwriting he knew so well.

Dear Harry,

Happy birthday. I hope this gets to you on time; I was meaning to send it earlier but I didn't have a chance because a sudden epidemic of the Dragon's Breath virus broke out last week.

How are you doing?

So, Ron and Luna finally started going out. I imagine Luna's thrilled (I always suspected she liked him) and Fred and George are teasing the life out of Ron.

I'm doing well. Boston is a lovely city, both the Muggle part of it and the Wizarding part of it. I've taken to spending several hours every weekend in the Harvard University bookstore and reading as they have a wonderful selection. Sometimes I go alone and sometimes Mitchell, who's a friend and co-worker of mine at St. Basil's, comes with me. He was Muggle-born too and so he's not uncomfortable about venturing into the Muggle town of Cambridge.

Enjoy your gift; I thought of you when I saw it and decided I simply had to get it for you. Happy birthday again.

Your friend,

Hermione

Harry dropped the letter onto the table as if it had burned him. Mitchell… So that was the name of Hermione's boyfriend. Ron had never said; had hardly even mentioned him since telling him the first time that Hermione had been on a date. Mitchell… He mentally conjured up the image of a tall, handsome wizard holding hands with Hermione as they walked and gritted his teeth.

Trying to dismiss the upsetting thought, he reached for the box to open it.

He smiled in spite of himself. Along with a box of Chocolate Frogs and Fizzing Whizbees, there was a small box, a miniature game of Quidditch with tiny players and all, the Fitchburg Finches versus the Haileybury Hammers, like Wizarding chess in that he could choose to control which players he wished and watch as the game unfolded.

Thank you, Hermione, he thought. He was suddenly reminded of Hermione's gift 9 years ago, before his 3^rd year at Hogwarts, the Broomstick Servicing Kit that he still had, feeling some of the same happiness at the thought that Hermione knew him and still cared enough to send him such a perfect gift.

He looked at the letter again, sighing at the shortness of it and the rather impersonal tone of it. But then there had been the gift, and that was enough to make him smile a little again.

Hermione was thousands of miles away from him and showed every sign of being happily settled in Massachusetts but something of their old friendship still held true, if she would spend the time and the effort to find such a perfect gift and remember to send it for his birthday.

Carefully, he put his gift and the letter away, sighing even as he smiled. She had signed herself as his friend… And somehow he knew that if she returned, their friendship at least would be unchanged… and that was comforting.

If only he could keep himself from wanting more than friendship from her…

He sighed, shaking his head to clear it as he put on his cloak preparing to Apparate to Ron's flat where he'd agreed to meet Ron, Fred and George. But just before he left, he turned to look at the gift and the letter that had simultaneously made and ruined his day. And spoke, almost involuntarily, to the gift, knowing it was ridiculous to talk to an inanimate object but somehow needing to say something to this one proof of Hermione's friendship… “Thank you, Hermione.” His smile faded as he added softly, wondering if this would be the closest he ever got to saying the words for real, “I love you.”

She's out of my life
She's out of my life
Damned indecision and cursed pride
I kept my love for her locked deep inside
And it cuts like a knife
She's out of my life

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