Painful and Melancholy Things

carondelet

Rating: R
Genres: Angst, Drama
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 21/01/2005
Last Updated: 21/01/2005
Status: completed

[completed] They sat at the table in well practised silence, waiting for nothing. Waiting for something. Waiting.

Chapters

1. Painful and Melancholy Things

1. Painful and Melancholy Things

Rating: R for language, angst, and adult themes.

Title: Painful and Melancholy Things

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred. Additionally, locations in and around the United Kingdom are used as a basis for "historical reality" or in a purely fictitious manner.

Spoiler Alert: This fic doesn’t really contain any spoilers; let’s just stick with the obligatory Books 1—5.

Summary: They sat at the table in well practised silence, waiting for nothing. Waiting for something. Waiting.

Pairings: Harry/Hermione

Author's Notes: I don’t know why I am beating Harry up of late, but I am at it again. And I am beating up on his friends as well. Something very wrong with me….

This is meant to be a one-shot. This is not one of my one-shot exercises. This is…excoriation. This is only the second time I’ve stepped out of Harry’s POV, though.

Even though it’s not an exercise, it’s exactly 1,300 words. I didn’t plan it, that’s just where it ended for me.

__________________________________________________________________________

PAINFUL AND MELANCHOLY THINGS

[] OR, HOW WELL WILL I BE ABLE TO LIVE MY LIFE?

__________________________________________________________________________

How could he?

Damn him, how could he?

It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t –

It wasn’t –

Hermione Granger slumped to the floor, her body jerking spasmodically as she choked back sobs. The wand felt heavy in her hand, so she let it slip from her fingers. The tip clattered loudly as it landed – the sound of wood against wood – as it hit the floor boards. The handle still rested in the palm of her hand, just. Her left hand held onto the console table, her knuckles white.

She hung her head and tried to swallow down the pain of losing Harry Potter.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ron Weasley stared out of the bedroom window. His eyes focused on nothing in particular. He wasn’t really looking at anything. There wasn’t anything of interest for him to look at, anyway.

Damn ignorant git. Selfish, hot-headed, impetuous. Idiot.

“You must have had some stupid plan, right, to go running off like that,” he said. Ron’s eyes widened when he realized that he’d said it aloud. His face momentarily creased with worry; then it fell back into a mien of detachment.

It hurt to think. He didn’t want to think. It hurt to know. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to hurt. Damn ignorant git.

“Stupid son of a bitch, you went off to die.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It felt like an hour or more had passed since he’d left…her. Maybe it was longer than that. Hermione couldn’t tell. Her body was already numb with disbelief and anger before he’d left Grimmauld Place. It was as if the rest of her expected what her mind refused to even consider. Sitting on the floor, her body pressed against the cold marble table as she cried her heart out, that hadn’t changed the feeling, hadn’t chased away the numbness. She was still numb. On the outside, at least.

Inside…well, inside she burned. Hermione thought the pain would come to consume her. She would be burned alive by the feeling from within and frozen to death by the deadness without.

“I think I know how you felt, Harry,” she managed to whisper. “I think I understand what you told me. I think I know what you meant when you said you were going to find out if you were really alive…” Her voice trailed off as she remembered all the things he said to her. Hermione’s mood suddenly shifted to a display of the anger she felt deep inside.

“Why did you tell me that? Why now? Why, when you knew you were going off to die, why did you tell me anything like that, Harry Potter?” Her voice shook with indignation. “Why didn’t you tell me before, you bastard? I wanted to know how you felt, what was happening to you. I wanted to know.” Hermione started to cry again.

“I didn’t want to know…like that. I didn’t want that to be the last thing you ever told me. Damn you. Damn you, Harry, for doing that to me…” Her voice trailed off as the sobs overcame her yet again.

Ron stood in the shadow and listened to her weep. He couldn’t comfort her. He had nothing to offer. There was friendship, perhaps, but she might not accept it. Hermione was not a common woman. Who was he kidding; Ron couldn’t comfort her because he needed to be comforted himself. He had nothing for her but tears of his own.

Ron turned and quietly ascended the staircase, allowing the darkness at the top of the stairs to swallow him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Grimmauld Place had lived up to its name. A desolate veil of mortality and despair hung over the manor now, threatening to suffocate those tormented within. The sorrow was so thick that even the portrait of Sirius Black’s mother did not speak.

The Order of the Phoenix no longer gathered there. They met in Hogsmeade at the Three Broomsticks. If they met at all. Ron and Hermione had no idea of what was happening in the Wizarding world or the Muggle world.

All they knew was that one week ago, their best friend, Harry Potter, had gone off to save the world.

On his own.

They were sitting in the kitchen of the deserted home. They sat across from one another, gazing vacantly at cooling mugs of tea. Neither of them wanted to eat, wanted to drink. But it was the only thing to do other than to speak…and they did not want to speak.

There was nothing left to say. Why had Harry run off like that? Have you heard anything from your father? Have you heard anything from Lupin? What happened? Where is Voldemort? What happened to the Death Eaters? What happened to Harry? WHAT FUCKING HAPPENED?

They had long since run out of questions and had never had the answers. There was little point in saying anything else.

No one knew what happened to Harry and Voldemort…the only thing that seemed clear was that Voldemort was gone. Dead. Presumed dead; the Dark Mark had been erased from Severus Snape’s forearm. Lupin told them that when it happened, Snape started crying. If they had not been so numb, Ron and Hermione would have been shocked by that.

It is hard to shock someone who is in shock.

It had happened quickly. Harry had left Grimmauld Place only a week earlier. Now it appeared that he had succeeded in his quixotic quest. He had defeated Voldemort.

But at what cost to him?

And so, it was on a morning, the day lost to Ron and Hermione in their grief, that they sat at the kitchen table, wordless, emotionless. Pale, ginger; pink, brunette. Gregarious, funny; intelligent, protective. Quietly resilient; passionately strong. Studied contrasts with one commonality: their love for a boy who died too soon.

Ron loved him as a best friend, loved him as a brother. He would have gone out into the night instead of him. He would have stepped in front of the Avada Kedavra curse a million times over to save his friend, his adopted brethren. But he was denied the chance.

Hermione loved him as a best friend, as a soul mate. She would have hunted Voldemort herself. She would have uttered the Avada Kedavra curse a million times over to spare him the pain of that, her friend, her love. But she was denied the opportunity.

There was nothing more to say than that. They had both loved and lost Harry in their own ways. They had both been pushed away by Harry in their own ways. They would grieve in their own ways.

They sat at the table in well practised silence, waiting for nothing. Waiting for something. Waiting.

When the tea had gone cold, Hermione took the mug in her hand and rose to leave the table. She turned to face the kitchen door.

The mug slipped from her hand and fell against the stone floor, shattering, its contents staining the slabs to dark grey.

Ron looked up with a start, and then stood, knocking his chair down behind him.

Pallid, bruised, bloodied, the black fringe of hair slicked back to reveal vivid green eyes circled by exhaustion. Round-frames with cracked lenses were precariously balanced on the tip of his nose. The clothes, the clothes he had been wearing the day that he’d left, were dirty and torn.

Ron and Hermione stared, not ready to believe, not ready to let go of their grief.

The lightning bolt shaped scar that had long defined his features, long defined his existence, was gone. And that is when they knew.

The grieving was done. The wait was over. It was time to live again. It was time for the Boy Who Lived to know life. It was time to welcome Harry Potter home.