Lies

Title: Lies

Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling's. Always and forever. We're just playing.

A/N: This is in no way connected to Webs, our much longer joint-creation. We did this one a while ago and the originals were posted on our respective livejournals. Kaze originally wrote the first part and Goldy couldn't help but write a companion.

For danielerin who originally issued the challenge to Kaze and didn't seem to mind when Goldy infringed on it.

Her mind lives in a quiet room
A narrow room, and tall
With pretty lamps to quench the gloom
And mottoes on the wall.
There all the things are waxen neat
And set in decorous lines
And there are posies, round and sweet
And little, straightened vines.
Her mind lives tidily, apart
From cold and noise and pain
And bolts the door against her heart
Out wailing in the rain.

“Interior”, Dorothy Parker

“I'm dying,” the words escaped her lips faster that she intended them to, the atmosphere plummeting from tense to bleak.

“Dying,” Harry repeated.

Hermione turned her head away from him. She couldn't bear to look at him now. She couldn't bring herself to offer any sort of comfort to him, when she had no idea what to think or feel. She wanted desperately to be strong and tell him that she'll be fine, but there was a numbness that had begun to settle inside her.

She should have kept it a secret.

She was too much of a coward to lie.

“Yes,” she replied, the aching in her shoulder becoming more and more aware. “They don't know what kind of curse I was hit by. Dumbledore even brought in specialists from St. Mungo's. They can't even settle on a timeline.”

She feels so dirty and useless at this moment. She can see his face in the reflection of the window. His eyes are wide and his brow furrowed. She didn't want to tell him this with the echoes of the war and scars of Sirius' death on his heart. But she feels she owes him honesty, especially with the importance he holds in her heart.

“No…”

Tears formed in her eyes as the aching sob finally escaped his throat. Another one followed shortly after as if he was a wounded animal.

“No, no, no, NO!”

She trembled violently. The anguish in his voice was ripping her to pieces.

“You're lying,” he hissed. “You're lying to me. Why are you lying to me?”

Her lips quivered and she forced herself to sit up. Honesty, her cold promise to herself echoes in her voice. Honesty would make him strong. She could never lie to him. She reached behind her neck and began to untie the straps to her hospital gown, her shoulder protesting the movement.

“Don't this,” he half-pleaded, half-growled.

“You need to see,” she responded hoarsely.

Hermione pushed her gown so that it exposed her bare shoulders and she closed her eyes. She felt as if she was exposing a monstrosity- it was in a way, her vicious downfall and destruction- She felt naked before him.

Shaking, she waited for him to do something.

“It's just a scar,” he whispered, his fingers trailing on the edges of her gown. “Tell me it's just a scar like mine. Please just tell me.”

“I can't,” she whimpered. “I can't lie to you.”

The scar is narrow and long, red and raw, and too painful to even acknowledge the true extent of its meaning as his fingers danced slowly across her skin.

“Please,” he begged. He brushed a kiss on her shoulder blade. “Please… just this once.”

She swallowed and turned to meet his gaze finally, her hair falling softly against her bare skin. The direct fierceness of his eyes is insanely painful, but she knew she had to stop hiding from him.

“I can't,” she whispered.

Another kiss landed in the crook of her neck.

“Lie to me,” his voice was a dark whisper.

She can feel him, the ever-changing man and the little boy, but she has to be honest for the both of them. She has to be honest for the future. He needed to learn how to live.

But for now, she does.

She could never refuse him after all.

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and I have the sense to recognize that
I don't know how to let you go
every moment marked
with apparitions of your soul
I'm ever swiftly moving
trying to escape this desire
the yearning to be near you
I do what I have to do
the yearning to be near you
I do what I have to do
but I have the sense to recognize

that I don't know how
to let you go
I don't know how
to let you go

-“Do What You Have to Do”, Sarah McLachlan

Harry went to beat something up.

Room of Requirement.

He'd never used a punching bag before.

Not that it mattered.

He pretended that he was hitting Voldemort (because it all came down to him)—he was hitting Dolohov (for cursing her)—he was hitting Dumbledore (for lying to him)—he was hitting Madam Pomfrey (because she couldn't fix her)—he was hitting Vernon Dursley (just because)—and he was hitting himself (because it was really all his fault, anyway).

Then, spent, he collapsed in a heap on the floor, breathing ragged, the taste of copper in his mouth. His knuckles were bloodied and torn and he felt a sort of sick pleasure in it.

But his knuckles would heal—and there would be nothing left—no lasting mark.

I'm dying.

I'mdyingdyingdyingdyingdying…

His stomach clenched until he felt sick.

He remembered the scar on her shoulder, the ugly, torn pink skin marring her…

Killing her…

He closed his eyes, his breathing hard and shallow. He could feel his knuckles throbbing, the wetness of the blood sliding over his hands, and it wasn't enough… nothing, no hurt at all…

You…. This isn't a criticism, Harry! But you do… sort of… I mean—don't you think you've got a bit of a saving-people-thing?

Please let's just check that Sirius isn't at home before we go charging off to London—if we find out he's not there then I swear I won't try and stop you. I'll come, I'll d-do whatever it takes to try and save him—

Whatever it takes…

You need to see.

They can't even settle on a timeline.

I'm dying.

It's just a scar like mine.

I'm dying.

Lie to me.

I can't.

Can't, can't, can't…

In first year, he'd saved her from a troll.

In second year, he killed the basilisk and saved the day.

In third year, he'd saved her from Dementors and rescued Sirius and Buckbeak.

In fourth year, he'd faced Voldemort and survived and came back and told Dumbledore.

In fifth year…

His recklessness got Sirius killed.

And now it was taking her, too.

And he was lying on his back in the middle of the Room of Requirement while she was spending (what could be her last moments) alone in the hospital wing.

He couldn't face her—he couldn't look at her. He couldn't look at her and see what he had done, what he'd caused.

He couldn't bear the way she looked at him without blame.

So he was hiding—hiding like a coward—because he was too ashamed to face her.

Coward.

As usual, he was making it all about him, when it wasn't really about him at all.

For once, it was about her, and only about her, and she was dying and he…

He was abandoning her.

It didn't matter what he felt, it didn't matter what he saw when he looked at her, it didn't matter that he blamed himself—because it was about her, and he couldn't abandon her, not when she'd sacrificed everything.

**

He snuck into the hospital wing in the middle of the night under the invisibility cloak.

Selfish… his mind whispered.

He didn't want to have to face her with other people around.

He sat by her bed, the cloak over him—a protective shield.

He looked at her and she looked so normal. Her chest rose and fell with the steady rhythm of her breath, her hair was a tangled mess around her face, and her light snores filled the hospital wing.

He looked at her—so normal—and he couldn't understand how she could be dying.

Lie to me.

He removed the cloak, needing to get closer to her. He kneeled by her bedside, brushing the skin of her cheek with his fingertips. She was warm and soft and couldn't—couldn't—

People who were dying weren't warm and soft and peaceful. No, they were ashen and gray and old and sick…

He grit his teeth.

It's about her.

Her eyes fluttered open and he removed his fingers from her cheek. Her eyes were deep and sad as they looked at him, but a small smile curved at her mouth.

“Hi,” she whispered. “I knew—I knew you'd come back.”

“Of course I came back,” he said, voice breaking—because he knew how close he'd come to hiding from her forever.

“I was worried about you.”

He couldn't fight his overwhelming urge to touch her—he had to reassure himself she was still there. She was still breathing and still warm and she still didn't look sick.

So he went back to caressing her cheek, and his eyes studied her face, looking for some sign—some sign of death.

She grasped his other hand, her fingers gentle as they brushed over his torn and bloodied knuckles. “You hurt yourself.”

“Stop,” he said. “Don't—don't worry about me. Please, don't.”

She nodded and closed her eyes as his thumb smoothed over her lips. She looked so vulnerable, so open and defenseless. So unlike Hermione.

“I promise you,” he said strongly, the tears coming now. “I promise you that I will kill him. I will kill Voldemort, I will kill Dolohov—I will kill them. They'll regret this, Hermione. I promise.”

His tears slid down the end of his face and unto her hospital bed. She gripped his hand until he felt pain shoot down his elbow.

They can't even settle on a timeline.

Something like hope began to blossom in Harry's chest.

“We don't know when,” he breathed.

“What?”

“We don't know when!” he said loudly. “For all they know… it could be years, Hermione.”

She swallowed and said, very quietly, “I don't think it's going to be years.”

Her words seemed to suck all the life from the room. The hope that Harry had felt seemed to die nearly as quickly as it had come.

“Then… it doesn't matter…” he said firmly. “It doesn't matter, because I'm going to spend the rest of your life looking for something to cure you. D'you hear me?”

“There's no cure.”

“I don't care!” he hollered, standing up. “There's always something, Hermione! There's always something! I can't—I refuse—I will not give up on you.”

She struggled to sit up and he could see tears glistening in her eyes. “Harry, please…”

“No,” he shouted. “No—this is who I am. This is who I am. I will save you.”

“You can't,” she said—begged.

He sat next to her on the bed. “Listen to me, Hermione. I got you into this—I will get you out of this. I will kill Voldemort and I will kill Dolohov and I will find you a cure. I promise.”

She was shaking her head. “You can't promise that, Harry. There's nothing you can do for me.” She dropped her voice. “I'm ready—I'm not…” her voice caught. “I refuse to be afraid. The only thing I wanted—the only thing I needed—was to have you with me. I'm ready to go.”

“I'm not.”

And there he was—making it all about him, as usual.

And he didn't care.

“Don't make me hope again,” she pleaded brokenly, ripping at his heart. “Don't give me hope, Harry. I can't bear it.”

“Hope,” he said, voice cracking. “Hope—it's the only thing that we have.”

Her chest hitched. “I'm ready to go,” she said again—and he wasn't sure which one of them she was trying to convince. “I'm ready to go.”

“No, you're not,” he said, sure of himself. “You're not—and I know you. I know you and I know you're not ready for this.”

“I am…” she whimpered, voice scratchy from her tears. “I'm not scared, I can do this, I can be strong…”

He gathered her in his arms and she broke down in earnest, sobbing and clutching at him. He felt his own tears slide down his face, but he kept control of his emotions, determined to be what she needed.

“Strong is fighting,” he whispered to her. “It's hard and it's painful and it's every day.”

She sniffled, her arms tight around his neck. She pressed her face to his shoulder and he could feel her surrender.

“You can fight,” he said, certainty making his voice stronger. “That's who you are. You're… you're the bravest person I know.”

“I'm not—” she said brokenly. “I'm scared. I don't—I don't want to die.”

“I know.”

“But you can't, Harry…” she whispered hoarsely. “You can't save me. You can't.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But I promise—I promise I will do my best to find a cure. I will do my best to get revenge on the people who put you here. And I swear to you, I swear—if I fail, it won't be because I haven't done everything in my power to save you.”

“Why?” she said. “Why are you—why are you doing this for me?”

“Because…” he faltered—unable to put into words his inability to let her go—his need for her. “Because… because you're Hermione. And I can't… it would be impossible to for me to do anything else.”

Impossible.

So he held her and promised her and swore to himself that he would not give up, not lose hope, because there was always a way, there was always something.

She'd taught him that much.

**

References (lovely, lovely things):

Couple of lines from the Am. Ed. of OotP that you probably recognize from pages 733 and 735.

Used some of Kaze's dialogue from Lies that you'll probably also recognize.

And… a Buffy quote.

“Strong is fighting. It's hard and it's painful and it's every day. It's what we have to do. And we can do it together.”

-Buffy to Angel in Amends and probably one of my favourite all-time B/A quotes.

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A/N: This is a companion to Lies more than it is Do What you Have to Do, but it's all the same `verse. Ron's POV to even out the other two. I forgot to post it the first time around, but was properly reprimanded (well, reminded) by Demosthenes.

Written by Kaze for Demosthenes who asked for a Psychologically!Stable!Ron.

Autumn

She resuscitates the hopeless
Without her, we are lifeless satellites drifting
Tool, “Reflection”

Every year, Autumn used to break his heart.

It was (no, it is) her favorite season. She lovedloves the changing of the colors of the leaves from a brilliant green to vibrant red, orange, and yellow. He loved these moments (he fell in love with her in one) with her, watching her dance in the leaves and a rare laugh escaping her lips.

(But those belonged to Harry now, with what little time she had.)

Everything in Hermione's eyes had a specific purpose, seen and unseen, perhaps one of the reasons why she could see many things in Harry that no one else could (he struggled to hate his best friend when they had those moments). He used to (still is) try and get a rise out of her just to see her eyes fierce with passion and her cheeks flushed.

Sometimes a purpose that people refused to see was the most beautiful thing in the world. From house elves to a first year that was picked on, she gave a chance or merely saw what others did not want or could not see.

He admired and envied her for it. She seemed to have a natural ability that he wanted so desperately to share in, but that right belonged to Harry and Harry alone.

He remembered the few scared moments that he had her to himself (it's never been a true three, a pair always emerges). Something so random as the color brown would be their argument of choice. Oh, he knew he was destined to lose to her. (He could never take his eyes off the curves of her hips and that, shy, shy smile.) So he would argued about the sheer stupidity and the plainness of the color brown.

But Hermione, dear Hermione, would huff and the sigh and then explain to him (in that tone of voice that made both Fred and George straighten up and behave) that autumn colors would not be the same without brown. Brown was inexplicably weaved with the red, the yellow, and the orange. Without it, Autumn would not be Autumn and there would be no change of seasons, Autumn to Winter.

(Now, the symbolism is not lost on him.)

He wanted to pretend that this was all a big nightmare that was going to settle down and go away, like change from Autumn to Winter. He wanted to pretend that it takes a Herculean effort to drag Harry out of bed and to his classes every morning because of the girl (their heart) that lies in a lonely bed in the Hospital Wing. He wanted to pretend that just once, they could just be seventeen and worried about the things that seventeen year olds did.

It's his turn to be the strong one.

As much as he wanted to hate Harry for dragging Hermione into the Department of Mysteries that fateful night (he still remembers Remus bending down and lifting her small, fragile body into his arms), he can't. It isn't fair that all of sudden the burden on him (he still remembers the little boy in clothes twice his size sitting on the train nervously) is growing. It isn't fair that he cries out every night in his sleep Hermione's name like a broken boyman.

It isn't fair that Hermione's going to be taken away from him and that Autumn will never hold that same heart-wrenching beauty that did for him every year. He preferred feeling to an empty numbness.

So he rose earlier than everyone else in the mornings and made the walk to the Hospital Ward with a small flower from the Greenhouse in his hand. He waited for her to wake up and asked her if there is anything she needed. (Although he knew, she'll never tell.) He made the walk back to make sure that Harry was up and ready for the day. He made sure that two of them (always him and her and her and him, but never the third) would get that rare time together. (He'd do anything to have that Autumn back.)

He made sure that they knew he was there for them (even though they'd never know).

And that was enough for him.

The End

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