Author's Notes: This story was inspired by my friend Christina who will do anything for anyone even if it breaks her heart. And this story is dedicated to Mandy, my twin, my beta, my friend. She first got me hooked on H/Hr and we've been cruising these seas ever since.
AM I TOO LATE
Chapter One
Butterbeers and Brown Bags
By all accounts she should have been declared legally dead at the scene of the crime, at the scene of the declaration.
Her skin was ashen. Her heart wasn't beating-how could it when it had, just moments before, crashed through the wooden floor beneath her? She wasn't breathing. Her eyes held the glassy, unseeing blank stare of the recently deceased.
By all accounts she should have been declared legally dead, but when the body dies, there should be an absence of pain. And there wasn't.
There definitely wasn't.
The pain had burst inside her like an imploding Roman candle, a Polyjuice potion gone horribly awry, and there had been no warning, no safety belt, no crash helmet.
"Hermione, did you hear me?" she heard a faraway voice ask.
No. Yes. I don't know. I think I'm dreaming. That's it. I'm having a nightmare. Don't say it again. Don't say it again, she begged the voice.
She felt like her head had been shoved underwater. Hot water. Sweat beads broke out across her forehead. Her chest felt constricted as if she were trapped beneath a herd of Hippogriffs. Movements and voices around her traveled through the tar holding her senses hostage.
"I said I was going to ask Beth to marry me," Harry repeated clearly. "What do you think about that?"
And like a whip rolling out and cracking, the snap back to full-speed reality was instantaneous. Her safe house of glass shattered. Voices in the pub resumed, loud and laughing. Glasses clinked together, chairs slid across the wooden floor, people shouted out their orders to the bartender, someone coughed nearby, and the noises were almost overwhelming.
What do I think about that? Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Harry can't get married. He can't get married! Everything would change. He'd spend all of his time with her, and there'd be no more room for me…and I…I…
Her hands suddenly clasped her neck in a choke hold. She couldn't seem to catch her breath, but her lungs were screaming for air.
"Hermione are you okay?"
She looked frantically at her two best friends. She could see the concern on their faces.
"I can't breathe!" she finally blurted out hysterically. She began hastily unbuttoning the top two buttons on her blouse, but her fingers felt fat and clumsy. "I can't breathe!" she wheezed in a strangled shout.
Oh, God. Oh, God.
"Are you okay?" Harry asked, leaning across the booth to get closer to her.
"No, I'm not okay!" she snapped, pulling in a weak breath of air. With the second button undone, she fanned her shirt. "I'm burning up!"
"Are you having some sort of allergic reaction to the Butterbeer?" Ron wondered, casting a sideways look of concern toward Harry.
No, Ron! I'm having a reaction to Harry's statement. Tell him he can't possibly marry her because I…I…because I… Oh, God. Oh, God. I can't breathe.
She swung her legs out of the booth and leaned her head between her knees. She could practically hear the world crashing all around her. Blood rushed to her ears and momentarily blocked out almost all the voices in the pub. Almost all the voices-except his.
"Shit, Ron. Should we get someone? She's having some sort of fit or something. Maybe she is allergic to the Butterbeer," Harry said, and she almost screamed when she felt his hand burning a hole straight through her blouse to the skin on her back.
The shadowy hands of shock and despair were squeezing the air from her lungs and the hope from her heart. Suddenly a brown paper bag was thrust in front of her face.
"Here, honey, breathe in. Nice and slow now."
Hermione obeyed, clutching the bag like it had the power to fill her lungs with the air she desperately needed and the power to wipe away the conversation that had just sliced through her heart. The cool air began to fill her lungs as her breathing relaxed. The horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach, however, did not subside.
"What did you do?" Ron asked, staring at the witch who'd brought Hermione the paper bag.
"Oh, I didn't mean to intrude," the older witch said, "but I noticed the signs from across the room. The pale skin, the emotionless eyes, then the tale-tell head between the knees. She was hyperventilating. My oldest daughter did it quite often when she was younger. The little brown bag works like a charm every time."
Ron continued to stare at the strange witch as if she'd just told him she had once fathered Voldemort's children.
"What's with the bag?" Ron asked.
"I'm Muggle-born, and this is what Muggles do when they hyperventilate. I've found it works much faster with the bag, that's all. There now. Slow deep breaths. That's right," she cooed to Hermione.
The witch rubbed Hermione's back in a motherly fashion, and Hermione found it soothing. She tried to smile around the bag. She didn't dare look at Harry and Ron; she was afraid they'd see the truth in her eyes.
"You boys stressing out the misses?"
"Us? Stress her out? No way," Ron answered. "She doesn't need us to stress her out. She does that on her own. Quite well actually."
Hermione glared at him. The witch shrugged. "Usually my Emily would struggle with it when she received stressful news."
"Listen, we weren't doing anything. Harry here is getting married. I don't think that's the kind of information that stresses people out," Ron said defensively, and Harry blushed as the witch turned her attention to him.
"Are you now? Well, I'd say that's wonderful news and quite exciting." Then, the witch turned to look at Hermione. The two witches locked eyes, and Hermione knew she could see the truth hidden just behind the façade she was trying to quickly construct. The witch's gaze softened for a moment in an apologetic expression before she turned away.
"You two take care of her. Make sure she gets home safely." She looked at Hermione and touched her shoulder. "You hang in there. This will get better; you'll see." When she walked off, Hermione wasn't sure if she was talking about the hyperventilation thing or the 'I know you're in love with him and he doesn't know it' thing.
After an awkward minute of silence passed by with Hermione holding the bag to her mouth and breathing, she finally pulled it away. When she swung back around in the booth, she didn't look up at her two best friends. As she folded the little brown bag neatly, she clasped her hands together on the table and could feel the blush heat her cheeks. She painted on a weak smile and looked up at them.
"I'm sorry about that," she said quietly.
"Are you okay?" Harry asked, and for once in her life, she hated to see the concern on his face. Why couldn't he look at her with loathing? Why did have to look at her with those bright green eyes?
"Sure. It was nothing," she mumbled.
"Well, it bloody hell didn't look like nothing. What's wrong with you? Are you allergic to the Butterbeer?" Ron asked.
"No," she answered in annoyance, "I'm not allergic. I…" she paused as she tried to assemble a believable lie. "I'm stressed about work. We've been staying late, working overtime-"
Ron waved his hand dismissively and called over a waitress. "Yeah, yeah. It's always work with you Hermione. No wonder you had a fit; you're obsessed with your job." He looked up at the smiling waitress. "Yes, could we get another round of Butterbeers? Thanks." And he looked back at Hermione. "You're practically a work-a-holic. In fact, the word probably has a picture of you next to the definition-"
"-that's enough," Harry interrupted. He had a fairly good idea where that conversation would lead-a fight between his two best friends.
"You're right. It is enough." Hermione reached over and grabbed her robes from the seat. "I should be getting home."
"Do you want me to walk with you?" Harry asked.
Hermione's head shot up and she blurted, "No!" Sighing, she looked away from his gaze and smiled wearily. "No, Harry. Thank you, but I'm fine. You two have a good night."
"Don't forget your bag," Ron said teasingly.
"I don't need it anymore, Ron," she said, glaring at his lack of sensitivity.
As she slid out of the booth, Harry grabbed her arm. When she looked into his eyes, she wished they were still children, still years away from an adult life…years away from marriage proposals.
"Are you sure? I don't mind," he said gently.
"I'm sure. I'll see you…later."
"Okay, because I really want to talk to you about Beth…and this whole marriage thing."
"On second thought," she said, leaning over the table and grabbing the little brown bag, "you never know when this might come in handy. Well…goodnight."
She slipped the bag into her robes and walked away, pushing her way through the crowded, joyful pub. The cold outside air was like a slap in the face, but she needed it. She needed something to jerk her back into reality because evidently she had been under the false impression that she and Harry would be best friends forever, that she would be his only girl, platonic or not, for the rest of their lives. Clearly, she had been horribly wrong.