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Note: The definition that appears in this chapter is from www.hyperdictionary.com.
See Chapter 1 for Disclaimer.
He sat there for quite a while, crumpled down into the sofa and with that ache inside him. He didn't have the impulse to throw anything anymore. He no longer had any impulse. He just felt the heaviness. He wasn't sure what made him pull himself up the stairs. He left the mirror, once again whole, laying on the floor where it had settled. He fully intended to go to Hermione in her room, and, well, say something. He wasn't sure what he was planning to say.
Weariness in his body caught up to him as he climbed the stairs. It was still an ungodly hour of the night, and he hadn't been able to sleep. His body was exhausted, his very soul tired, but something had been keeping him awake.
He entered his room silently. Seeing his wardrobe door closed, he sighed. He'd never known what he was going to say to her anyway. It was better if tonight he didn't say anything. He turned to face his bed, once again resigning himself to a sleepless night.
She was there. Lying in a half-curled position on top of his sheets, with the book laying beside her, was Hermione. She was sleeping, angelic, peaceful. He was taken. He wasn't sure what took him, but he knew it was something.
She had obviously gone upstairs and sat on his bed, reading, waiting for him. But he hadn't come, and she'd fallen asleep there. Some instinct deep within Harry made him put the book on his night-stand and pull the blankets up over Hermione. His hand grazed her shoulder as he arranged the sheets. He tensed. Her eyes opened, just slightly.
"Don't worry, I'm going downstairs," he whispered.
"Stay," she whispered in a barely audible tone.
He paused. He felt her small hand reach out from under the comforter and wrap around his wrist. He sat down on the side of the bed beside her. "Don't leave," she whispered again, before closing her eyes and fading back into slumber.
He looked down at her sleeping form. She appeared so tranquil laying there. He could feel the heat of her delicate hand, still clinging gently, but firmly, to his wrist. His mind told him to leave, but something else in him told him not to. She'd told him not to leave. She didn't want to be alone. In a way, a strange, foreign way, he didn't want to be alone either. I'll just stay until she's really asleep, he thought. He sat on the corner of her bed softly, her hand right over his pulse point.
"Don't leave me," he heard once more, even more softly than before.
I won't.
His eyes were slow to open, but the insistent brightness coaxed them to come out of their haven. The feeling of calm that washed over his body was truly blissful. He hadn't felt like this in so long. His every muscle was relaxed. The sunlight streamed into his room, and it seemed like, for the first time in months, he could see and feel its rays. It was an odd feeling to be so relaxed, so at peace. His mind was blissfully free of thought. The sun warmed him, along with the soft blankets and the soft warmth pressed against the full length of his back. The gentle weight of something around his waist comforted him and he stroked his thumb slowly across the smooth hand that he held tightly in his.
Wait.
Almost before he could fully evaluate the situation that he was most obviously in, that warm, soft mass sat bolt upright, nearly toppling him off the bed as she did so.
Oh my God, her mind screamed. She was trying to logically assess the situation, but had to calm down her racing mind.
Harry turned to face her, rising up onto one elbow and looking at her, a smile crossing his face. It was one of his old smiles, that lopsided smile that he hardly ever had anymore. The kind of smile that lit his eyes and turned her insides to jelly, though she hadn't remembered that ever happening to her before. Maybe that's one of the things that happens after you sleep with someone. Not a good choice of words, she mentally slapped herself. Terrible choice of words.
"Good morning," he said cheerily, more so than he'd sounded in months. His glasses weren't on yet and his eyes were bright, vibrant green. His hair, though never organized, had ruffled itself into a mess. Attractive mess, that horrific voice in her head said. She shoved it out of the way. He fumbled for his glasses, and after putting them on, looked at the clock. "Or, actually, I should say good afternoon."
She stared at him for several seconds. "I'm sorry," she said quickly, rising out of bed. "I didn't mean to fall asleep here... this is your bed... I wasn't thinking. And then I asked you to stay... I'm sorry." She tried to get up completely, but found that she couldn't. Her hand, the one that she must have snaked around his waist in her sleep, was still firmly held in his hand. She forced her eyes back to meet his questioningly. She felt him tugging gently on her arm, and by some impulse, gave in and sat back down on the edge of the bed.
"Don't apologize," he said. "I haven't slept like this in months."
She turned even more crimson than before. "I'm sorry, Harry, I didn't know that you... slept this way before," she finished quickly.
He raised one eyebrow. "I meant that I haven't slept this deeply in months. You're really the innocent, are you," he quipped playfully.
Her eyes shot wide open. "Harry!!!"
"I wasn't the one suggesting that I'd slept with girls before this." He paused. "That really doesn't sound right, does it," he said with another lopsided grin that simply screamed hormonal teenaged boy.
She blushed brilliantly again. "No," she said softly.
"It is funny, though," he said in a tone of voice that she'd hardly ever heard him use. It was a tone that she would bet a thousand Galleons on being his father's tone, the words coming from that renowned prankster, James Potter. Something in that tone gave her an incredible feeling of emotional release. Freedom.
I've never even been kissed and now I've slept with someone, the laughable thought came to her and turned her even redder.
"Well, my goodness, pure Hermione saying such things," he quipped.
She reddened even further, her blush now rivaling that of a Weasley. She had not just said that out loud. She couldn't believe that she had. "I'm sorry," she said very quietly.
"Really, don't be. Do you know how long it's been since I've slept? It's something about you. I slept last night. And I didn't have a nightmare. You shouldn't be apologizing. I should be thanking you." His long body arched and stretched gracefully, more so than she would have ever assumed that he could. Not that she'd assumed anything about how he would stretch, of course, not that she'd thought about it, just that his limbs were lithe and graceful. Not that she'd paid any attention to his limbs before now-
"Alright, Hermione?" he asked her, a tone of worry in his voice.
Shaking the abnormal thoughts out of her head, she turned back to look at him. "Yeah," she said. Not wanting the look in her eyes to betray her thoughts, she averted her eyes. They came to rest on the clock. "Two fifty-eight?!" she said, her jaw dropping.
"Looks like we both slept well."
"But... it's already two fifty eight?"
"Good observation, Miss Granger. Ten points to Gryffindor."
"Harry," she rolled her eyes and finally looked back at him, a smile breaking through her thoughts. She squeezed the hand that she hadn't realized that she'd still been holding. She didn't know why she did it, it just felt right. It gave her a feeling of safety. It was just then that all of the events of the previous day slammed back into her with blinding clarity. She'd Apparated there, seconds before a Death Eater attack on her home. Her parents were in hiding somewhere. The Weasleys too. And she was here. Alive and well. And filled with a happiness that held her heart lightly. That thought alone made her sick. Fighting it back into the recesses of her heart, she slipped her hand out of his and went back into her makeshift room, leaving him watching after her. Closing her door behind her, she leaned backwards against the firm wooden door and took a deep breath, pushing back the waves of pain and emotion. Finally opening her eyes, she focused her eyes once again. She would not show her weakness now. She wouldn't. She quickly dressed and pulled her bushy brown curls into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. She washed her face and went toward the door, pausing just seconds before turning the doorknob. Realizing at the last possible second that this door opened not onto her home hallway, but into Harry's bedroom, she knocked briefly on the door. Hearing no answer, she slowly turned the doorknob, and seeing that Harry wasn't in his room, she made her way out of his room and down the stairs toward the kitchen. She paused, though, seeing the pristine parlor, her own large piece of paper laid out across the table. The paper catching her eye, she slowly began walking toward it but paused after her bare foot felt something cold beneath it. She looked down and, trembling, picked up Sirius's mirror from the carpet. She laid it respectfully on a bare spot on the mantle.
Settling down onto the couch, she looked over the huge paper. Her trustworthy eyes scanned the page as they always had, seeing the script and the words. She'd always been good at intuitively reading between the lines. Her elementary school teachers never knew what to do with her. Gifted and intuitive, always drawn to a challenge.
That in which thought is hidden. Innermost secrets there kept.
Her heart beat faithfully. Innermost secrets there kept.
On leaves that hold life...
She thought painfully of the tree that stood steadfast in her yard back at her home. Her father had planted it the day that she was born. It had grown with her slowly. It had once been tiny, pale, weak. It had strengthened into a sapling; it was gangly and awkward and always craning toward the sun. Though it had now blossomed, it still reached eternally to the heavens.
Long gone yet inherently close.
She forced her mind away from the thoughts that that particular phrase invoked deep within her.
For there success is found, through miraculous life, present and past.
Miraculous. She had never been a terribly religious person, but she had felt miracles many times. She often felt that both her life and Harry's were miracles and curses at the same time. Codependent.
Only in this way may it happen.
There wasn't just one solution to any problem. Her mother had taught her that. There is always more than one approach to a problem. Always a way to solve it. Though the solution might be difficult and long in coming, it's always possible. Nothing is ever impossible.
Else plunge failure into darkness.
Failure. Not an option that she was used to facing. It was a deep-seated fear of hers, one that she had always kept within her. All the Gryffindor courage in Godric's soul couldn't fill the deep abyss within her. Failure was simply not an option for Hermione Granger. In school, even since the beginning, she could avoid failure for the most part. But really, her obsession on her schoolwork was simply a flimsy cover. School was the only place in which she could control her success or failure. The world... this new place in which good and evil lurked around at every corner, was filled with pitfalls and places for her to stumble. And now, failure could spell something much greater than just a poor grade or a few House points. Failure would cost everything. One misstep and it was all over. Everything.
But Hermione had never been one to hesitate. She knew that she needed to tread gently, but she had, luckily, never resorted to simply being frozen in fear of moving. Her eyes passed over the paper again, trying to take it all in. She again saw the image of her tree in her head. Blossoming. Leaves that hold life.
She got up slowly and picked up a dictionary from a nearby shelf. The book fell open in her hands. Glancing quickly at the heading at the top of the page, her eyes fell on the word on the top corner of the thin, parchment-like page.
Leaf (n): 1. The main organ of photosynthesis and transpiration in higher plants. 2. A sheet of written or printed material.
For some reason, she was compelled to read it over again.
A sheet of written or printed material.
A book.
Leaves that hold life.
She shifted on the couch, tucking one leg under her. She felt her wand poke into her stomach from its place in her pocket.
Magic.
A book that holds life... a book with magic... life long gone yet inherently close.
"Want anything, Hermione?" Harry appeared, poking his head out of the kitchen. Though he'd combed it, his unruly black hair still looked mussed. Despite the distance between Harry and Hermione, she could see the glint in his green eyes.
Comprehension suddenly hit her in a blinding flash of brilliance.