The Ficlet Machine

Disclaimer: Just playing around in JKR’s world.

Notes: For danielerin- who encouraged me to post this here. And for Anne- who gave me the idea for the title of this collection of my ficlets.

All these ficlets will have been previously posted at my ficlet journal: http://www.livejournal.com/users/avonlea_dreamer.

~Valentine~

Valentine’s Day.

The bane of every sane man’s existence.

One of the mornings he always dreaded waking up because he knew he’d be inundated all day with a steady stream of Valentine’s. The one day of the year when the fangirls who, at every other time, were content to leave him be and gawk from afar for the most part, would come out of the woodwork, it seemed, and try to get his attention. He’d received more Valentines than he cared to think about, most excessively sparkly, glittery, pink and red. Some asked for dates, some invited him into their beds, some sent their pictures along with the card as if seeing their faces would make him suddenly want to meet these girls. (He may be a normal, red-blooded man but he wasn’t an idiot. Any witch who’d send him a Valentine like that was automatically put onto his mental ‘Never in a million years’ list- no matter how gorgeous or sexy she might be.) He’d even received a proposal of marriage in a Valentine. (That probably took the award for Most Disturbing Valentine he’d ever received.)

Oh he’d received countless Valentines, the majority of which he never even read.

He’d written exactly none.

And now, for the first time in his life, he wanted to write a Valentine. He had someone to write a Valentine for.

And he wanted it to be special. She deserved nothing less and it was their first Valentine’s Day together. Their first Valentine’s Day since he’d finally admitted to her that he felt more than just friendship for her…

He wanted this Valentine to be special.

He stared down at the blank card at a loss.

What could he say to let her know how much she meant to him? That he loved to see her wake up in the mornings and seeing her smile at him every morning never failed to bring a lump of emotion to his throat. That he sometimes thought, when he kissed her leisurely, with no expectation of the kiss leading to anything more, that he could happily spend the rest of his life kissing her… That he sometimes looked at her and just could not believe that this amazing woman, so beautiful, so kind, so caring, so intelligent, loved him…

He thought suddenly of the Valentine Ginny had sent him so many years ago: eyes as green as a fresh pickled toad… The memory made him laugh, even in his current state.

Poetry. He didn’t think he could write poetry to save his life; he didn’t have a poetic bone in his body.

Random fragments of other lines of poetry he’d read years ago floated through his mind.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate…

He had a mental image of Hermione, her eyes flashing angrily, the expression on her face that boded ill for whatever provoked her. No she wasn’t that ‘temperate’; she was passionate, passionate about her beliefs, her loves, her dislikes. And he loved that passion, loved the fire in her.

It is the East and Juliet is the sun…

Hermione wasn’t just his sun. She was his- his everything. Everything began and ended with her. She was his anchor, his strength, his friend, his love, his reason.

She walks in beauty like the night…

He remembered the awe he’d felt when he’d first seen her body, maybe not perfect by model standards but perfect because it was her… She was beautiful, so beautiful his breath sometimes caught in his throat at the sight of her and he always wondered how in the name of Merlin he could have not seen it sooner. Why it took him more than a decade of friendship to see her beauty, the beauty of inside and out…

No, poetry wouldn’t do.

Nothing he could think of to say in the limited space provided could do justice to her and what she meant to him. No words could express it…

And then he knew.

The simplest and yet, in their own way, the hardest words to say, the age-old expression of a universal feeling that somehow managed to retain all its freshness and wealth of meaning… The words that somehow summarized all he felt for her…

The flowers were the first thing she saw on entering her flat that night. A dozen red roses with a card that read, Because it’s Valentine’s Day… And what meant more to her than the roses, another bouquet made up of daffodils and irises, her favorite flowers, with another card, equally brief and simple but which brought tears to her eyes, a smile to her lips, and a rush of love and happiness to her heart.

There were only five words written in the card.

I love you.

Your Harry

She heard him come in and greeted him with a kiss that said all she felt, a kiss of love, of thanks, of promise.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Hermione,” he said simply, smiling into her eyes.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.” And for that moment, nothing more needed to be said. They could simply smile into each other’s eyes, blessed with the simple happiness of loving and being loved.

Notes: Rather angsty. Written as an outlet for some RL troubles.

~Believe~

or The Comfort of You

She knew something was wrong when she got home.

Harry didn’t come out to greet her as he almost always did when he got home before she did; the house was dark as he also hadn’t turned any lights on. Another bad sign as it meant something was terribly wrong; Harry always retreated into darkness when he was troubled.

She frowned and hurried upstairs, not even bothering to hang up her cape and put down her bag.

She found him in the study, as she’d expected. (It was another of Harry’s habits that he avoided their bedroom when he was troubled. He had once explained that he never wanted to “taint”, as he put it, their bedroom with the “shit”, again his word, he experienced at work. He wanted to keep their bedroom apart from that, sacred only to their happiness, the good moments. So whenever he was troubled, he retreated to the study.)

She found him sitting behind the desk, his head resting in his hands, dozing restlessly.

Quietly she turned on just the one desk light and then kissed his forehead gently. “Harry? Harry, it’s me.”

He jerked awake so quickly she drew back slightly, startled. He hardly ever woke up so jerkily; it was yet another sign of how distressed he was.

He blinked and saw her and his face crumbled. He fell forward out of the chair, landing on his knees on the floor, wrapping his arms around her so tightly she gasped.

“Hermione.” His voice was muffled in her robe but she could hear the pain in it and flinched.

“I’m here, Harry. I’m here,” she said soothingly, holding him tightly.

She didn’t ask what was troubling him. He would tell her without her asking, she knew.

His breath hitched on something like a half-stifled sob. “They died, Hermione!” he finally said in an anguished whisper. “He was so young, so young. Only eight and he died!”

She winced at the agony of sorrow mingled with a sharp sense of disbelief and confusion, as if he was wondering how something so terrible could happen, which she could hear in his voice.

His shoulders shook with convulsive shudders and she knew he was reliving the awful occurrence. She tightened her arms about him, kissing his hair, feeling a surge of helplessness. She hated to see Harry suffer like this, hated that she could do so little, as it sometimes seemed, to help him.

It was some time before his shudders ceased and he seemed to relax slightly. His arms loosened their hold on her although he didn’t let go and he finally looked up.

And she gasped at the look in his eyes, as if something inside him had died that day. Dear Merlin, whatever had happened had truly shaken him to his soul, grieved him to his soul.

“They were Muggles,” he began dully, as if all emotion had been drained out of him. “Muggles. This psychopath wizard; his name is Abel Seton, broke into their home and killed them all. Killed the father first in front of his wife and two children. Then the youngest one, a baby only five years old. The mother was screaming over the body when he killed her. The 8 year old boy was all that was left, having watched his father, his little brother, and his mother be murdered. And then Seton killed the 8 year old before turning his wand on himself.” He told the dreadful story with no change in expression, except once when his voice cracked on describing the mother screaming over the body of her dead baby. He had already exhausted himself until there was nothing left, no more emotion left to feel.

She shuddered. Dear God… How was it possible for people, for humans, to be capable of such animalistic cruelty? And yet we call ourselves civilized…

“I- I don’t know what to say, Harry,” she finally said lamely. “I don’t know if I can help you.” And she didn’t. What could she do or say to ease the agony of having to see such a sight? Having to hear of it was bad enough but to have to see the dead bodies of such young children, the agony of sorrow on the mother’s face in death…

His arms tightened around her. “No. You do help. God, Hermione!” his voice broke on her name. “I don’t know how I would get through a day without you. Don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have you to come home to.” He lifted one hand to lift her chin until she met his eyes. And she was relieved to see the empty, dead look in them had receded somewhat; those green depths were still shadowed by the remnants of his pain but they no longer looked like the eyes of a man who’d lost part of his soul. He was whole again, her Harry once more.

“You don’t have to do or say anything to help; you just have to be. Every day it seems I see more of the sadistic cruelty, the evil humans are capable of; I deal with the dark side of human nature every day. But then I come home to you, you who spend your days helping people, healing them, not only because it’s your job but because it’s just who you are. And it’s because of you that I’m able to go on, able to keep doing what I’m doing. You keep me believing in the good in human nature, more than anyone else. So you shouldn’t ever think that you can’t help. You help just by being here, by being yourself. You save my soul, Hermione.”

She blinked back tears, touched to the depths of her heart by his words. Harry wasn’t given to speeches, only really talked about his emotions with her and even then, it was usually the more basic thoughts and feelings. The things that went deepest, that went to his soul, he only occasionally opened up about. So the rare times when something happened to break through the walls he kept around his innermost feelings, were all the more powerful for their very rarity.

She didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything. No words could express what she felt at that moment. She just leaned forward and kissed him, loving the familiar feel of his lips on hers, the familiar taste of him. It wasn’t a kiss of passion. The kiss was soft, gentle, a declaration of love. But more than that, amid the dark events of the day, it was an affirmation of life, an affirmation of the good, an affirmation of the belief that, despite everything, humans were not fundamentally evil. It was a kiss that healed his soul…

Notes: For my fandom friends (who know who they are)- thanks for all the support these past few weeks. *hugs*

~Rest~

“Minerva, go!” Dumbledore’s voice was taut even as he seemed to grow in stature until he looked like another wizard entirely, the wizard even Voldemort feared. Gone was his usual benign demeanor, the gentle humor twinkling in his blue eyes. In its place was the man Harry had only seen a few times before, the fearsome, commanding presence of the wizard who had defeated Grindelwald.

Harry noted this transformation only in some corner of his mind. It was too much. His head felt as if it might split open; his scar burned, searing pain on his forehead. He could sense Voldemort was coming, was nearly here. Here, actually approaching the grounds of Hogwarts. Here, where everyone had said they were safe. All the other students had been sent away and only the core group, those most affected and the members of the Order who’d come, remained.

Professor McGonagall, too, seemed to have grown in stature somehow, become taller, more formidable. But there were white lines of strain around her mouth and something very like fear in her eyes as she looked at Dumbledore. “Dumbledore, we cannot leave you!”

“You can and you must!” Dumbledore snapped. For just a moment, his gaze flickered to Harry and his expression softened ever so slightly. “Harry,” he began and then stopped, before continuing, “don’t be afraid. You have more power than you know.”

Dumbledore swept them with a glance that encompassed them all, from Professor McGonagall facing him, to Harry struggling to stay on his feet, to Ron, to Hermione dividing her worried gaze between Harry and Dumbledore, to Remus, to Hagrid, to Bill Weasley, Mr. Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Tonks and then returned to McGonagall. “Go!”

She hesitated again and then seemed to make a decision. “This way!”

The rest of that escape seemed to pass in a blur; Harry was too tired, too drained to recall much of it afterwards until they found themselves stumbling into Grimmauld Place. And for the first time since the end of 5^th year, he was too numb, too exhausted, to think of Sirius.

They all were and preserved a stunned, rather grim, silence, simply going up to their respective rooms. Dumbledore was gone. All the ramifications of his death would come later and, no doubt, nearly crush them all but right now, all they knew was that he was gone, the old man whom all of them had somehow believed would always be there, with his wisdom, his knowledge, guiding them… He was gone.

A footstep sounded outside in the hallway and somehow she knew it was Harry. How she knew it she didn’t know; she just did and immediately, she slipped out of bed, careful not to make any noise that would disturb Ginny, and out of the room.

She just caught a glimpse of Harry vanishing into what had used to be Buckbeak’s room and followed him quietly.

He was sitting on the floor against the bed in the corner when she entered and she stood there for a few minutes, simply watching him, unsure whether to join him or not, when he suddenly seemed to crumble.

His head went down to his knees and a muffled sob escaped him. And immediately she was at his side, sitting beside him, putting a gentle hand on his arm. She didn’t say anything, wasn’t quite sure what she could say and only waited.

He flinched when she touched him but didn’t move away entirely, only sat there, his face averted.

Until finally, he said, in a muffled voice, “I can’t do this.”

She passed her hand over his hair and back in a comforting gesture.

“I can’t do this without Dumbledore. I always thought he would be here to tell me how I’m supposed to defeat Voldemort. Without Dumbledore, I don’t know. I have no special powers. I can’t!” His voice cracked on the last word and she flinched at the combination of misery, sorrow and defeat in his voice.

Her heart broke for him, as she realized that what was truly troubling Harry now wasn’t even grief over Dumbledore’s death. He couldn’t even allow himself to grieve for Dumbledore as a Mentor; he was too preoccupied with worrying over the fate of the world to react to how Dumbledore’s death would affect him personally. And it was such a burden, too much of a burden for one 16 year old boy.

“Ssh, Harry,” she finally said, softly. “Don’t worry about it right now. Don’t. We’ll all help you, you know that. We’ll think of something. But right now, don’t think about it. Just get some rest. You don’t have to be a hero all the time.”

And somehow those words gave her pause. That was what it was. Harry felt he had to be a hero. From the moment he’d stepped into the wizarding world, he hadn’t really been allowed to be normal because everyone looked at him differently. Even as he resented his hero status (as he had last year), he had, deep down, accepted it as his fate.

She couldn’t even claim to have always thought of him only as a normal boy; it was difficult when things just seemed to happen around him and because of him. But he was just a boy. Before he was a wizard, a Hogwarts student, the Boy Who Lived, a hero- he was simply a boy.

Gently, she placed her hand on his cheek, turning his head so he had to look at her and meet her gaze. His eyes were wet with tears which he blinked back furiously.

When she spoke, her voice was soft and yet somehow intense too. “You don’t have to be a hero right now. Don’t worry about the fate of the world for a while. Just think about yourself, like any normal boy. You’re a boy, Harry, first and foremost, and that’s all you need to be. Just yourself. Harry.” She paused and then finished, even more softly, “I love you.”

He sucked in his breath and stiffened, staring at her. “What?” he breathed.

“I love you,” she repeated simply. And that was all she needed to say, for that moment. There was no expectation of a response, no need for more words. There were only those three words, three simple words that somehow summarized everything she had been saying. Those three words that spoke of a simple, unconditional acceptance that meant more to him than everything else she’d said. It was the ultimate expression of acceptance, of knowing and appreciating him for himself. Not as a hero, not as the Boy Who Lived but simply as himself. A boy. The boy she loved.

And that was all he needed or wanted to be at that moment. Just the boy she loved.

He let out his breath in a soft sigh, feeling the tension leave him as well, and let his head rest on her shoulder as he closed his eyes. For the first time in what seemed like years, he didn’t worry about what the next day would bring. For that moment, that night, he was just a boy, the boy Hermione loved.

The world could wait. And he could rest, forgetting to worry about dangers and Dark Lords and prophecies and all the other things. He could rest…

~*~*~

Peace

A silence fell but it was a comfortable silence, a peaceful one.

She could be quiet when she was alone with Harry, never needed to try to talk if she didn’t feel like it. It was so different in the few occasions she was alone with Ron; then she always felt the need to talk, about something, anything to keep a silence from falling. Because when it was quiet, she was always tense, wondering what Ron would next say to annoy her and wondering where Harry was and what he was doing and thinking. There was no peace for her when she and Ron were alone. It got very tiring after a while, she admitted to herself. Much as she cared about Ron, she didn’t like being alone with him. With Harry she was comfortable, could simply be herself.

Peace. And in these dark times, peace of mind or heart were rare sensations. But it was peaceful now, here with Harry leaning on her shoulder, even in this house where so much darkness, so many sad memories lingered.

He didn’t say anything and for a moment she wondered if he had fallen asleep. She rather hoped he had. He never slept very well these days, always had dark shadows underneath his eyes in the mornings.

“This is nice,” he said softly. He paused, then continued in a small, almost sad, voice, “I used to sit on the floor in the closet under the stairs and rest my head on my bed and I’d imagine it was my Mum I was leaning on. There was never anyone to lean on.”

And she knew he meant it in both the literal and the figurative. He had never had anyone to lean his head on when he was growing up or anyone to depend on for anything. He’d learned to deal with everything alone.

But now he had her. And she wouldn’t leave him, she promised herself (and him) silently but no less fiercely for all that. She wouldn’t leave him. She wouldn’t let him be alone again.

And yet underneath all her pity for him and her anger at the Dursleys, she was suddenly conscious of something very like relief, something almost happy. This was the most personal thing she’d heard Harry say in years it seemed like, this confession that had little if anything to do with the rest of the world or having to save it or Voldemort. It was only the confession, surprising in its poignance, of a 16 year old boy who’d never known his parents and who’d grown up alone. He was, finally, thinking only of himself. This was just Harry, the boy, talking.

And for that moment it didn’t even matter that she knew he would, at any other time, probably have rather cut out his tongue than make such an admission. Or that he very well might regret it tomorrow. But right now, tonight, in this room, he was just being Harry, not thinking about the rest of the world or his destiny or any teenage boy-ish horror of sentimentality and showing weakness. And she loved that he could be so open with her.

“I know,” she answered, equally softly and gently. “But now you can lean on me.”

“Thanks,” was all he said but it was enough. All the gratitude, the loyalty, the affection of the past 5 years of friendship was in that one word.

Again, there was silence and soon she knew Harry had fallen asleep, his head still resting on her shoulder.

She smiled to herself, letting her cheek rest on his hair and closing her eyes as well. She would let him rest. They could worry over what to do now that Dumbledore was gone later.

For now she just allowed herself to enjoy the sensation of peace. She had one of her moments of certainty that Harry would be fine; he would survive. And thought, once again, how Harry’s presence tended to have this effect on her; she couldn’t feel too despairing or hopeless when she was with him. He seemed to bring some sort of strength, a spirit of hope even, with him. She felt stronger, more confident, more hopeful in his presence.

And so she could stop worrying for this one night, close her eyes, and be at peace.

Disclaimer: See Part 1

Author’s Note: Another ficlet produced by the Ficlet Machine.

For Anne U- *hugs*

Partly inspired by the line at the end of “Spiderman 2” when MJ says to Peter, “You’ve been so busy saving the world. Isn’t it about time somebody saved you?” or something to that effect.

~*~*~

Saving Harry

It was getting dark. He should be getting inside the castle.

He knew that. He of all people should not be sitting out here alone. He should be getting inside.

And yet, even as he thought the words, he couldn’t bring himself to get up. He didn’t want to go back inside. Didn’t want to rejoin the company of others.

There was something comforting about the growing darkness, the encroaching dusk. It matched his mood and his thoughts, grim and bleak as they were, much better than the bright candle-lit interior of Hogwarts.

It was getting colder as well and he shivered a little. But still he remained.

His eyes stared out over the dark depths of the lake but he didn’t really see it, didn’t really see anything. He saw other things instead. The faces of his parents. The face of his godfather, Sirius’s expression when he fell through the veil in the Department of Mysteries. The cold, red eyes of Voldemort. The flash of green light and the body of Cedric falling down. A flash of purple light hitting Hermione and her still form, lying on the floor of the Department of Mysteries.

And he heard Trelawney’s voice, the strange, hoarse tones of it, coming from Dumbledore’s Pensieve, those fateful, horrifying words echoing in his mind yet again. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives…

So many times since that day he’d remembered the words. They were branded on his memory and burned there. Burned with an urgency he could never forget, couldn’t escape.

He shuddered convulsively, changing his position to stare blankly at his hands. His thin hands that looked so pale in the darkness. He had a power the Dark Lord knows not?

No he didn’t. Whatever Dumbledore’s cryptic words meant, they didn’t give him any added powers; how could they? He felt just the same. He was only a boy.

A boy who was going to have to face and defeat Voldemort- and probably die in the process. That was his fate, his doom more like.

He was going to die. And not for the first time, he felt rebellion at the idea bubble up inside him. He wanted to live! And live without this curse hovering over his head. He wanted to live…

She hesitated when she got close enough to see him, suddenly unsure of herself. Maybe she should just leave him be.

And yet she knew she couldn’t. The emotions she felt well up inside her at the sight of him were too strong; she couldn’t leave him be. Even if she couldn’t help him much, she had to try. She cared too much not to.

He looked so- so young, and so vulnerable, she thought, with a pang of sad surprise. He was sitting in one of his customary positions, knees up, one arm around them while his other arm rested on his knees, his hand in his hair as if supporting the weight of his head.

She knew when he sensed her presence because he stiffened slightly and then spoke, his voice as cold as the wind in mid-winter, not looking at her. “If you’re here to tell me I should go inside, don’t.”

“I’m not here to tell you that,” she answered truthfully, just standing beside him, not quite daring to sit down without some sign from him that she was welcome.

“Then what?”

The bluntness of his question wasn’t at all encouraging and yet she sat down beside him anyway. He hadn’t gotten angry and told her to leave at least. “I was worried about you,” she said softly.

He opened his mouth to make some sort of scathing response but something stopped the words in his throat. She was worried about him… And maybe it was just a product of his bleak mood, maybe it was from his having just relived all the stark apprehension and fear of that afternoon in the Department of Mysteries, the soul-stopping dread that she was dead and it was his fault. But somehow those simple words, I was worried about you, resonated in his mind and heart.

She was worried about him. She cared about him…

And he- he didn’t know what he would do without her. He knew that now, after that horrible moment of thinking she was dead and he’d lost her, knew that he needed her. He couldn’t put into words this feeling he felt, something more than friendship and yet he shied away from giving it another name. But he knew he needed her.

And while hearing almost anyone else in the word say they were worried about him would have made him flare up in anger that he wasn’t a child and could take care of himself, he didn’t mind hearing her say them.

He finally turned to look at her, meeting her eyes even though he couldn’t quite see their expression in the darkness. “I’ll be ok,” he said simply. And in that moment, strange as it seemed, he believed it too. Somehow, sitting here beside Hermione, he couldn’t quite believe that he was going to die… He didn’t know how he would survive, exactly, but he couldn’t believe he was doomed to die facing Voldemort. Irrational, and yet he knew he’d never been more certain of anything in his life. He was going to be ok. Somehow, some way, as long as he had Hermione by his side, he was going to be ok.

Hermione put her hand on top of his where it was resting on his knee and squeezed it companionably.

He said nothing more and neither did she, just sat there, quietly, each lost in their own thoughts.

And for that moment, they were at peace.

She glanced at him, relieved to see that his expression had cleared and he was no longer glowering out into the darkness but looked calm.

In the silence of the evening, she made a vow, no less sincere and no less strong for being unspoken. Harry was going to have to save the world, and he would, she knew. She—she would save him. How she didn’t know; all she knew was that she would save him, if only by being with him, helping him however she could… She would save him.

Disclaimer: See Ficlet 1.

Author’s Note: These ficlets are all what I call Soul-Sucking Angst, after Kaze and Goldy’s writing. They’re all dark and very depressing. Read at your own discretion. Combined together into this one post, partly because, individually, they’re a bit too short and partly to make it easier for you to skip if you don’t want to read this depressing stuff. I promise a fluff ficlet will be next to make up for the misery of this post.

This first ficlet was inspired by the absolutely brilliant and wonderful Lori and her equally brilliant, if heart-breaking, AU cookie from her PoU universe, called “Appomattox” (posted at the PoU Yahoo!Group).

The Price You Pay

He hovered outside the window, under his Invisibility Cloak, and just watched her. Watched her smile at her new family, watched her talk to her husband, hug her daughter… Just watched her be happy…

It was the one time, one day every year when he allowed himself to come here and see her, whom he loved and would always love. Her whom he loved more than anything else and for whom he had given his life…

He was an empty shell of a man, his heart and soul deadened to emotion for most of the year, except on this one day, these few moments when he watched her and allowed himself to feel…

And as he watched, he remembered those days before. Those days when he had been truly alive as he wasn’t now… Days and nights spent with her…

He remembered the joy and the sorrow and finally the agony of the end… The simple happiness in seeing her every day, the moments of quiet companionship, the passion, the love… Remembered their joy on the birth of their son…

But more than that, he remembered the way she’d cried, convulsive sobs racking her body. Remembered gathering her into his arms, surrounding her body with his as if he could somehow draw out her pain into himself, wishing he could… Trying somehow to comfort her in his own benumbed state of grief, guilt and rage, too deep for words or tears, because even then, the sight of her suffering was the last blow to his heart which he couldn’t bear… He heard again her voice saying brokenly, “I’m sorry, Harry. I just can’t do this anymore” and saw again the look in her eyes, those windows to her soul, the look which haunted his dreams… Part of his soul had died at that moment, of seeing in her eyes the look of hopes shattered, the anguish of a person who’s lost the most precious thing in life to them, but beyond that, the look of a broken spirit. He had known then what he had to do, known that their happiness, their life together, was over—killed with the same breath that had spoken the Curse which had snuffed out the life of their son…

It had been amazingly uncomplicated to perform a Memory Charm to remove her memories of their life together, their son and his loss. Amazing that an act that changed, no, ended his life could have been so relatively simple to perform.

He had done it, felt his heart be ripped out, a large part of his soul dying… But he had done it for her, because he had finally understood after the months of slow devastation, that it was the only way for her to go on living. It was the price he had paid for her to be happy, the price he continued to pay with every day that passed, every day of feeling another fraction of his soul wither away.

And so he watched her from outside her window, his eyes burning with the tears he never shed anymore. Watched her until he turned away, returning to his exile and his curse.

“He has endured much for a lower being,” the disembodied voice spoke watching the solitary figure.

“He has sacrificed voluntarily his life and his happiness for the sake of another,” another voice replied, the faintest hint of a rebuke in its disembodied tones, “the highest price it is possible to pay for another’s happiness. He is not a lower being. He is in his own way, as much a higher being as we. And he will receive his reward in another time.”

“So that is what it is to be,” the first voice responded.

“Yes, that has already been decided. His love for her, and hers for him, will continue, and receive a new life when their spirits are reborn.”

There was no response from the first voice to this declaration. The Higher Power understood. Such occurrences were rare in this human domain which they watched over but they did happen. Two souls, separated in one life and denied the love which was their destiny, were permitted to return, in another form, another time and another place, and given their second chance at happiness. It was the one gift the Higher Powers could give, a reward for a level of sacrifice and a depth of love and purity of feeling not often achieved by humans, lower beings as they were. And this would be granted to this man and the woman he loved so deeply- because he loved her so deeply...

~*~*~*~

Author’s Note: For Kaze, as it was inspired by her.

Cold and Blood

She was crying now.

He felt every tear like a stab in the heart. How could he do this to her? And yet he knew he had to. Had known what he had to for the past few months. He just hadn’t quite expected it would hurt this much. Hadn’t expected her pain to tear at his own heart.

He turned away, closing his eyes, his mind, and his heart to the pleading in her voice.

“Harry, why won’t you let me help you?”

“You can’t. I don’t want you to.” He spoke coldly, forcing all emotion out of his voice, somehow knowing his seeming indifference would convince her more than any anger or sorrow. He had to convince her he didn’t care. Had to end this friendship, this connection, this feeling that had kept him alive for 5 years now… For her sake. For her safety. He knew it, knew he needed to do this.

But dear Godric, this was killing him!

It had been easier to reject Ron. Easier because Ron’s own temper and his little streak of jealousy assisted him making Ron give up easier. He had left furious with him, and Harry knew he wouldn’t be back. That had hurt, too, seeing his first friend leave but again, he’d done what he had to do.

Hermione was much harder. It hurt him so much more to see her pain, hurt him so much more to have to reject all her pleadings, her arguments. Her loyalty, her friendship (the two most precious things he had, he suddenly thought- two precious things he couldn’t keep) refused to let her simply give up.

He felt cold all over, the cold extending to inside him, coldness in his heart, his mind, his very soul… Cold and dead.

He had turned his back on her, was staring blindly out the windows instead. And he heard her broken sob and the anguish in it tore at him viciously.

A broken sob and then hurried footsteps leaving the room and then the sound of the door being shut with abnormal gentleness that yet rang with finality. Leaving silence behind.

And he broke. Crumpled to the floor, feeling hot tears sting his eyes. Tears which he couldn’t allow himself to shed.

The compulsion to run after her, to tell her he’d been lying, was almost overwhelming. He wanted to tell her he needed her, needed her friendship, her affection, her loyalty… Just needed her… Tell her he- he- he loved her…

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t.

His nails dug into his palms painfully as he cowered there on the floor and he bit his lip to keep from calling her name, bringing her back. Keep himself from screaming out his own suffering, keep himself from making any sound which she might hear and which he knew would still, even after all he’d said and done to her, bring her back to his side. And somehow knowing that nothing he said or did could ever completely destroy the depths of her caring and concern shattered what remained of his heart and soul.

He bit his lip until he tasted the sickly bittersweet tang of his own blood in his mouth. And felt himself die a thousand deaths every minute of her being away from him, every minute of knowing he’d broken her heart, every minute after he’d tried to kill the most precious thing in his life: her friendship.

He shivered. The cold had intensified, not a physical cold but a cold which possessed him. As cold as any Dementor had ever made him feel.

Cold. And the taste of his own blood in his mouth. That was all that was left for him now, until it was all over. Cold and blood.

~*~*~*~

The Red and the Black

Red.

It was over.

She had failed.

It was over.

He was dead. He was dead. He was dead…

She had failed.

Red. Blood. On his face, on his chest and on his hands.

Red staining the ground beneath his body.

She was broken now, on the ground beside his body, her stomach heaving with convulsive sobs, her eyes burning and yet dry. She couldn’t cry. This went too deep for tears.

The red of his blood spreading until it mingled with the black of his hair.

Black- the color of his shirt, stained now but still black. Unrelieved by any hint of color.

She felt waves of despair roll over her and simply succumbed to it. She had no strength left, no will. She was empty inside. And all there was, was pain, this endless agony of knowing he was gone. She had failed and he was dead.

Black- the color of her world, her life (if life without him could be called life…) Black. There was no more hope, no more joy. There was only this darkness swallowing her whole.

It was over.

Author’s Note: As promised, some fluff to make up for all the angst of the last post.

Her Happiest Thought

“Think of your happiest moment, Hermione. Something that never fails to make you smile. And just hold on to that thought.”

I nodded, facing the trunk which was shaking, in the Room of Requirement.

Harry nodded slightly and then stepped back slightly in front of me, opening the lid of the trunk with a muttered spell.

A dementor came out, large, menacing and dark, lifting one bony, spectral hand to point threateningly at Harry. I was vaguely aware that Harry had gone completely white, beads of sweat breaking out. And knew he felt the same clammy coldness that had seeped into my very bones as well.

Think! I told myself sternly. I needed to concentrate, think of my happiest moment. I remembered one birthday where Mum and Dad had taken me into London and we had spent the day in the British Museum and then at Hatchard’s; it had been a wonderful day, just them and me and so many books and interesting things to see in the British Museum… My happiest mo—

But it was so cold, so dark.

The memory of that day in London flickered- I couldn’t think anymore, could only feel…

Somewhere in my mind I heard a scream, saw a body fall off a broom from high in the air, heard my own voice screaming, “Harry!” and felt the same certainty, the same horror that he was dead… Harry was dead… I couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything but the same cold deadness inside. Saw the cruel face of Antonin Dolohov as he pointed his wand at me, felt the piercing pain of his curse go through me again…

I had shut my eyes but I forced them open and I saw the black form of the Dementor again… Then I felt a hand grip mine- Harry’s- and heard his voice yelling, “Expecto Patronum” and immediately saw the burst of bright white light that heralded the Patronus as it herded the Dementor back into the trunk where Harry locked the door with a trembling hand.

I sat down heavily. “Dear Merlin,” I said faintly. “I’d forgotten how bad Dementors were.”

Harry sat down beside me, handing me a Chocolate Frog, while he also ate one. “Yeah,” he said, his voice grim. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

I shook my head. “No, Harry, I do. I can conjure my Patronus on my own but I’ve never tried to do that facing a Dementor. I need to know how to do that, need to practice.” I repeated my old argument, the one that had first started this. Harry had agreed reluctantly and we’d finally managed, through the help of Dumbledore, to get a boggart trapped into a trunk which we’d then moved into the Room of Requirement (since obviously we couldn’t find a real Dementor somewhere, nor would we really want to). This was our first real practice session with it. And I’d already failed the first three attempts.

“You might want to try a happier moment or just think of whatever makes you happiest, whether it’s real or not and concentrate only on that,” Harry advised quietly, his voice weary.

I looked at him sharply. “Are you sure you’re ok, Harry?” I didn’t mention, knew I didn’t need to, that he was actually more affected by a Dementor, even a boggart-Dementor than I was. And much as I wanted to know I could conjure a Patronus against a Dementor, making Harry suffer to do it was out of the question. Harry was more important than my own need to know.

But Harry shook his head, his lips set rather grimly. “No, I’m ok, really.” He managed a ghost of a smile. “Come on, ready for another go?”

I stood up, tightening my grip on my wand. “Yes.”

Again the Dementor loomed up before us and again I felt the chill seeping into my bones, my very heart and soul, it seemed.

I shut my eyes against the black-ness the Dementor carried with it, and focused instead on happiness, what made me happiest…

And suddenly I knew. Saw the smiling faces and heard the cheers but I didn’t care for any of that; all I cared about and all I heard and saw was his voice, yelling in jubilation and triumph, and his face, lit up with the widest of grins… I closed my mind to any other thought but that and opened my eyes again, the second I cried, “Expecto Patronum!”

And then there was bright light and I saw my Patronus otter push the Dementor further away, back towards the trunk.

I heard Harry also yell, “Expecto Patronum” and saw his stag leap out and help my otter push the Dementor back, back, until Harry managed to close the trunk on it.

My otter gamboled playfully around the stag’s head before both Patroni faded.

I looked over at Harry’s smile, which I returned, as he handed me another Chocolate Frog.

“That was great, Hermione, you did it!” Harry smiled.

I grimaced rather ruefully. “For a time there, I wasn’t sure I could. How did you manage to do it 3 years ago?”

He shrugged, suddenly looking somber. “I don’t know. I did it because I knew I had to. You and Sirius needed me to do it.” His voice softened, faltered slightly on saying Sirius’ name.

I only nodded, putting my hand on his arm. Harry’s grief over Sirius was one thing I knew I couldn’t really help him with by talking about it; all I could do was let him know I was there for him. As I always would be.

We were both silent for a moment when Harry finally said, “Come on, we should get back. We’ve done enough tonight.”

“Yeah, and I still need to do some reading for DADA tomorrow,” I agreed.

We left the Room of Requirement together and were nearly back at Gryffindor before Harry asked curiously, “What happy thought did you use to conjure your Patronus?”

I smiled slightly. “The first few times I used the memory of my 10^th birthday when my parents took me into London to see the British Museum and Hatchard’s. But then that didn’t seem to be working so I changed it. To what I knew was definitely what made me happiest.” I paused, hesitating. Should I- could I tell Harry the truth of what my happiest thought was? It would tell him so much more, put into words what I’d been trying not to think of for months now… But then I knew I couldn’t lie to Harry, not about this. It was too important. I looked back at Harry, who was looking at me curiously, and spoke softly. “I thought of you, your face when you won the Quidditch Cup. Your happiness made me happy too. My happiest thought,” I finished simply, “is you.”

~*~*~*~

A/N 2: This is the sequel ficlet to “Her Happiest Thought”, from popular demand to know how Harry reacted.

Care

“My happiest thought is you.”

The words echoed in my mind and I forgot to keep on walking. Forgot everything except her words and what they meant…

I- I was her happiest thought? Did that mean she-- My mind stuttered on the thought.

She stopped and looked back at me with a curious little smile on her face. I studied her, suddenly wondering if I’d ever really looked at her before, ever really seen the warmth in her eyes when she looked at me, the boundless affection and loyalty.

I remembered the way she’d come with me to the Department of Mysteries even though she didn’t approve of what I was doing (and she’d been right, too, I remembered with a half-stifled sigh).

“I- Hermione, does that mean you- you-” I couldn’t say the word, love. It seemed to get caught in my throat. I tried again. “Does that mean you care about me?”

Hermione walked back to where I was, lifting one hand to cup my cheek in her palm. Her eyes met mine and I had the sudden thought that I could happily look into her eyes like this for the rest of my life. Those eyes filled with so much emotion, the eyes I knew so well.

She smiled softly. “Harry, I’ve always cared about you and I always will.”

“I-” I opened my mouth to say something but then closed it again, suddenly unsure of what I could say. I returned her smile. “I care about you, too.”

Hermione’s smile deepened ever so slightly and then she raised herself up on her toes and before I could react or guessed what she was going to do, she brushed her lips against mine. It was the most fleeting touch, so light I could almost have thought I’d imagined it except for the way my mouth tingled.

And then before I could think about moving again, she stepped back and continued on towards the Fat Lady’s portrait. Leaving me to stare after her.

She cared about me- and I cared about her. She was still Hermione, my best friend, but for the first time I wondered if maybe, one day, we would be more than friends. And I felt it for the first time, the potential for a deeper, closer relationship than what we already had. It couldn’t happen yet; neither of us was quite ready for it. But it would happen, I suddenly knew. Because we cared…

Disclaimer: See Ficlet 1.

Author’s Note: Two companion ficlets.

For Gil aka Romulus Lupin.

The Promise

She was getting married tomorrow. In just over 24 hours, she was going to be standing in front of all her nearest and dearest and pledging to love, honor and be faithful to her best friend, for the rest of her life.

But before she did, she had a final visit to make.

Late morning sunlight shone down on Hermione as she gazed at the tombstones of Harry’s parents and his godfather.

She knew that somewhere, Lily and James and Sirius were looking down and watching over Harry. She knew it because she knew of the depth of love they’d felt for Harry, how much they had been willing to sacrifice, how much they had sacrificed, for his sake. And she knew they would be watching over him, because it was what she would do, were she in their situation. Theirs was the same love, the same depth of devotion, which she herself felt for Harry…

And so she stood here in this small little cemetery, paying a last visit to the tombstones of two people she’d never actually met and one man whom she’d known only for a few short years. She knelt and started speaking softly, somehow believing that somewhere, Lily, James and Sirius could hear her.

“Hello. I wanted to tell you, I’m marrying Harry tomorrow. I wish you could be there, for Harry’s sake as well as my own, but since you can’t, I want you to know how much I love him.”

She fell silent, thinking. She wasn’t nervous about tomorrow, felt none of the stereotypical bridal jitters. She knew that Harry loved her just as much as she loved him; she trusted him completely. And she knew that tomorrow’s ceremony was only going to publicly affirm what was already true.

And yet, for all her certainty, all her trust, all her happiness, there were still some lingering fears. Fears she couldn’t quite put into words, fears that went deep into her soul… Fears she couldn’t really tell to anyone she knew, except, she suddenly thought, to these three people…

“I’m not nervous; I know this is right. I’m just afraid, afraid of all those things that make Harry who he is, afraid that he won’t let me save him from himself… He always has this tendency to think he needs to do things alone, save people on his own, not because of his ego, you know, just because it’s the way he is and also because, more often than not, he has had to be alone… I’m just afraid he won’t let me help him the way I want to, the way I should help him…”

She paused, then continued with more certainty in her voice. “I’m not afraid that he’ll stop loving me or that I’ll stop loving him. I’m not afraid of what might happen in the future, as long as we’re together…”

And she wasn’t afraid of those things… What she was afraid of, the one fear that ate at her soul when she couldn’t sleep at nights, the fear that encompassed all the others which she had just mentioned… She said it in a whisper, as if the thought was too terrible even to say out-loud. “I’m so afraid of losing him… That something will happen, which I can’t protect him from, and take him from me before his time, before our time… He’s always going to be in some danger from someone or other; it’s part of being who and what he is, the symbol of the good in the wizarding world… But he’s more than that. To me, he’s my- my friend, my support, my strength, my love… He’s mine- and I’m so afraid I’ll lose him…”

There was silence for a minute as Hermione tried to compose herself.

There, she had admitted all her deepest fears that she’d until now been afraid to put into words even to herself… And it was a relief to have done so, even if only to three people who were long-dead, a relief to have put all her fears into words and expressed them aloud… She took a deep breath, letting her hand rest on the tombstone of Lily and James, and stood up straight now, feeling some of her confidence return. Her fears weren’t gone, couldn’t be completely put to rest, but they were relieved in some measure by the simple act of putting them into words and speaking them aloud.

She looked down at the names of Harry’s parents, his godfather, and felt more words well up inside her, the words she needed to say to them, first, before she said them tomorrow in front of the rest of their friends and acquaintances.

“I, Hermione Granger, promise you that I will love Harry Potter for the rest of our lives. I promise to be his friend, his partner, his strength when he needs it. I promise to help him, support him, believe in him, and take care of him. I will be faithful to him. I promise to protect him from anything which threatens him, with all that I have in my power. I promise to save him from himself, even, when I need to. I promise to always be by his side, for better or worse, no matter what happens.”

The words were spoken quietly and solemnly, the depth of her commitment clear in her tone and in her eyes, if anyone had been there to see.

She stood there for another minute, her hand resting on the tombstone, before she stepped back.

“I promise,” she said, softly, one last time, before she turned to leave the cemetery.

And now her steps were sure, confident.

She was getting married tomorrow.

Whatever the future held in store for them, she and Harry would face it together—and they would survive. Together…

The Blessing

The young man stood alone in the graveyard, his gaze fixed on the little group of three tombstones in front of him.

He was getting married tomorrow… And he was happier than he’d ever been in his life. He was happy with that deep, profound joy which comes from the heart and soul and results not in smiles and laughter but a curious kind of solemnity. And yet, tonight, at this moment, he felt sad too, although the deeps of happiness beneath were not stirred.

He was getting married. To his best friend, his lover, his soul-mate, his true partner in every way… He was getting married. It seemed he couldn’t think it often enough; it still served to make him feel the same surge of almost incredulous amazement at his own good fortune. He was getting married tomorrow…

Harry smiled slightly at the memory of his bachelor party, which had been just days ago where his best friends and what seemed like every person he had ever met in his life and then some, had come and cheered him on raucously as he proceeded to get thoroughly smashed. And tonight, he and Ron had a quiet evening planned, just the two of them, the best mates, before tomorrow he vowed that another person, their other best friend, would forever be the most important person in his life. Not that she hadn’t been already, but something about having it made official in the eyes of the world made it solemn and so they’d quietly decided to spend his last evening as a free man (as Ron put it with a teasing grin) together. But not yet.

He had one last visit to make. And this one pilgrimage he had to make alone.

His gaze moved over the words etched in a graceful script on the tombstones…

James Potter

Lily Evans Potter

A love never forgotten, and in death not divided…

Sirius Black

Mischief –and heroism- managed.

He blinked rapidly to clear his vision from the tears that had welled, as they still tended to do whenever he read the inscription on Sirius’ tombstone and remembered the way he’d gone, before his gaze returned to the graves of his parents.

He could see them in his mind, so clearly. His father, smiling, looking so much like an older version of himself, only with hazel eyes and slightly different features… His mother, also smiling, with those same eyes which he saw in the mirror every day… And began speaking aloud, almost unconsciously, hardly realizing what he was doing but knowing he needed to do this.

“Hello, Mum, Dad… And Sirius. It’s me. I wanted to tell you- I’m getting married tomorrow. I’m marrying Hermione Granger. You know, Sirius. I-” his voice cracked slightly on the words, no matter that he’d said them so many times before but somehow this time seemed more sincere, more significant, than any other time. “I love her. I love her so much, Mum and Dad. She’s been with me through everything really. She makes me strong, she makes me brave, she makes me good. She makes me every good thing I am and every good thing I ever will be. I- I wish I could tell you just what she’s like, wish that you could meet her. Mum, you’d like her; Remus once said that in a lot of ways, Hermione reminds him of you. I-” His voice faltered and he added the rest of the sentence so softly it was almost just for his ears, “I’m glad to know that; it makes it easier to know something of what you were like, Mum.”

There was another pause, as Harry blinked away the tears that had welled up again at this admission, one he’d never before made, even in his own thoughts. “Mum and Dad, I wish you could have known Hermione so you could see what she is to me.” Again, he paused, swallowing down the lump of emotion that seemed to have lodged in his throat. He hadn’t meant for this to become so emotional and part of him was embarrassed at it, but somehow, it felt necessary for him to do this, to express somehow part of what he’d missed all his life. “I’d like to have talked to you, Dad, about how it feels to love someone the way I love Hermione. It’s- it’s so consuming sometimes- I look at her and all I feel for her just seems to well up inside until I think I’ll burst if I don’t kiss her and tell her just how precious she is and how much it means to me that she loves me for some reason.”

His voice had gotten softer during this confession as he bared his heart in a way he’d never done to anyone but wanted to, odd and illogical as it seemed, tell his father. He was sure that his father had felt the same for his mother. It was clear from what he knew of how his father had sacrificed his life for her sake as well as for Harry’s; it was clear from what Remus had told him over the years of his parents and their relationship. And it was clearest, perhaps, in the pictures which Hagrid had given him at the end of his first year. He hadn’t truly noticed before, hadn’t known enough to recognize the emotion for what it was, but he did now, because of Hermione. He recognized the look in James’ eyes as he smiled at Lily in their wedding pictures; he recognized the emotion, the possessiveness, the protectiveness, in the way James had his arm around Lily’s shoulders, in the way he held Lily’s hand. He recognized it because he felt it too. It was much like what he himself felt when he looked at Hermione, the same desire to have and to hold, to quote the Muggle wedding vows, to protect from anything that might harm her…

And because of this knowledge of this shared emotion, he felt a closer bond to his father than he had in a long time—as close to his father as he’d felt that one horrible, wonderful, magical night at the end of third year, when he’d thought he’d seen his father conjure the Patronus and then to realize that the Patronus stag was his, the part inside him which he invoked for protection…

Harry let out his breath in a long, slow sigh, feeling the emotion drain away leaving him feeling cleansed. He had talked to his parents, told them about Hermione… And somehow, somewhere, he was sure his parents could hear him… There was just one more thing to say, and he said it so softly it was barely a whisper. “I wish you could be here tomorrow, Mum and Dad. I wish you could be here to watch me marry Hermione and to give me your blessing. I wish you could be here…”

There; it was finished, the last thing he had needed to do before he married…

He had turned and was walking slowly away when he felt it.

A warm breeze that passed over and around him, bringing with it a scent he knew, the scent of lilies, and the faintest suggestion of a flutter of wings, like that of a Snitch, hovering by his ear…

It lasted only a moment, was gone almost as soon as he was conscious of it but he knew he hadn’t imagined it. And he knew what it meant.

His parents had given him and Hermione their blessing.

~*~

There were many guests, many smiles and many happy hearts the next day as Harry Potter and Hermione Granger exchanged their vows. This was, they all knew, a day long in coming and the beginning of well-deserved happiness.

And everyone saw the smiles on the faces of the other guests, knowing they shared the same sense that this, more than anything else, was right.

But there were three more smiles which no one saw, three more happy hearts watching the ceremony. Somewhere, above the earth, two men and a woman were standing, looking down and watching the boy, the young man, whom they all loved and had given their lives for.

They exchanged smiles, while one of the men, with hazel eyes behind his glasses, bent and kissed the woman’s cheek, as the other man chuckled.

They watched and knew that now, their task was truly over and they could rest in peace now that Harry was happy and had a friend, a partner, a wife, who loved him and would save him from anything she needed to save him from, including his own self at times.

Their task was over and with one last smile, one last unseen blessing, they turned away to bide their time.

Disclaimer: See Ficlet #1.

Author’s Note: Because it occurred to me that Hermione’s parents should know what’s going on in their daughter’s life.

Follow the Heart

Her mother was crying.

Softly and trying to hide the tears, but crying nonetheless.

And the sight of it sent a sharp pain made her heart clench. Her mother didn’t cry; her mother was so strong, so capable. She didn’t think she’d ever seen her mother cry. But she was crying now.

It had started with the owl that arrived that afternoon.

No, she acknowledged with a silent sigh, it had really begun from the moment she had seen her parents again at King’s Cross just a few weeks ago. She hadn’t decided yet what to tell them, how much to tell them, of what had happened in the Department of Mysteries but in the end, she hadn’t needed to decide that.

Her parents had studied her sharply on seeing her and once they had arrived back home, had asked, “Have you been ill, Hermione? Or were you hurt?”

She hadn’t thought that they would be able to see the difference in her, sense the difference in her. But the eyes of love could see what would have been invisible to anyone else and her parents had guessed that something had happened and she’d been badly hurt.

And so she’d had to explain, as gently as possible, about the Department of Mysteries, about Dolohov’s casting the Eviscerating Curse on her. That she would be fine, felt very little discomfort anymore, but would still need to be careful about what she did for a few months and would need to continue taking potions to help her insides heal for the next three months. She had left out the truth that the Eviscerating Curse was usually fatal; only the silencing curse placed on Dolohov had mitigated the effect of it enough that she should, after some months of continual treatment, be fine.

She had always tried to spare her parents worry about what went on at Hogwarts, had laughed off the Polyjuice mistake in 2^nd year, had shrugged off being Petrified, and hadn’t really told her parents much of what had happened in the following years. Her letters home, while admittedly filled with Harry and Ron and their doings (increasingly with what Harry was doing), emphasized the classes, the Quidditch games, the Hogsmeade visits more than anything else.

And now, it was all out. The truth that the Wizarding World was actually at war, that Harry and because of her closeness to him, she too was at the center of it. But even that hadn’t been enough to make her mother cry.

No, that had been the owl she had received earlier that day.

Hermione,

A few members of the Order will be arriving tomorrow to escort you back to Grimmauld Place where you will be safe.

Professor Dumbledore has decided that your parents should be placed under additional protection than what they have already been provided; he recommends that the Fidelius Charm be performed with a member of the Order as the Secret Keeper. Your parents will, of course, be able to continue going about their daily lives as the Fidelus Charm is only effective on wizards and members of the magical community which should be an effective protection for them against Voldemort and his Death-Eaters.

Hermione, I’m sure you understand that, in this, your parents are not being allowed a choice. Send back by return owl the name of the person whom you would like to be the Secret Keeper.

We should be arriving at your house around 4 o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Have your trunks packed and ready.

Remus Lupin

Hermione swallowed back the lump in her throat. “Mum, please don’t. Really, I’m going to be fine.”

Her father grumbled a little. “Surely there are other wizarding schools you can attend. Elsewhere in Europe or in America even. You can finish your magical education there, where you’ll be safe and not in the middle of a war.”

Her mother looked up, hope shining in her eyes. “Your father’s right, Hermione. Surely there must be some other school you can go to. Hogwarts can’t be the only wizarding school in existence. Just transfer to another school.”

She sighed. “There are other schools. Beauxbatons in France and Durmstrang in northern Europe but Durmstrang doesn’t admit students who are Muggle-born like me. And there’s the Salem Witches Institute in America. But Mum, Dad, that doesn’t matter. I can’t transfer; I’m not going to transfer. I can’t just leave Harry to fight Voldemort on his own; I can’t just run away now. I can’t!”

Silence fell and then, her mother asked quietly, “Your friend, Harry- you feel more than friendship for him, don’t you?”

She flushed but had to answer honestly. “Yes.” Her voice was soft but confident.

“Is- is he your boyfriend?” her dad asked, beginning to frown.

“No!” she burst out in automatic reaction, not able to bear the hurt in her parents’ eyes at the suspicion that she could have started dating someone without telling them. She had told them all about Viktor, had also told them that he was only a friend.

“No,” she repeated more quietly. “He- he doesn’t feel that way about me,” she finished, her voice the merest whisper with a tiny thread of hurt at the admission.

Her mother sighed. “Hermione, can’t you--”

“No, I can’t!” she interrupted fervently. “I can’t and I won’t leave him alone. He- he needs me and I- I need to help him. I do.”

“But- but think of the danger, Hermione! How are your father and I supposed to live, seeing you only a couple times a year and knowing every day that you might be seriously injured or- or even killed in this war! Please, Hermione,” her mother pleaded. “For our sake, won’t you consider transferring?”

she couldn’t hold back the tears any longer but neither could she agree. She hated knowing her parents would worry so much about her, hated knowing she had to go against their wishes in something so important to them. But she couldn’t… “I- I can’t do it, Mum, Dad,” she said miserably. “I can’t leave Harry alone. I- I love him and I can’t leave him now.” She moved closer to her mother, taking her mother’s hands in her own. “Mum, please try to understand. If Dad were in trouble for some reason, could you leave him to face it alone? Would you leave him to face it alone?”

“No,” her mother sighed, her shoulders slumping. “No, I couldn’t.”

And she knew she’d won. But it was a bitter victory to have, knowing she left her parents to worry about her so much and knowing she couldn’t really say or do anything to alleviate their concerns.

It was dangerous; she was in danger. She’d been hurt before and she very well might be again. She knew that.

And yet, not even for a moment, did she consider doing anything else.

There was no choice, no decision to be made. Or rather the decision had already been made for her, the moment she realized she loved Harry.

She loved him and that was all she needed to know.

Disclaimer: See Ficlet 1.

Author’s Note: These two ficlets are a return to more soul-sucking angst. Feel free to skip if you don’t want to put yourself through it.

This first one was inspired by Goldy’s “There Goes the World” (which is even more soul-sucking and brilliant than this fic- I highly recommend it if you love angst.)

What Is Not Meant To Be

He watches her walk away from him, her step is firm but to him it seems as if she’s moving in slow motion. Everything is moving in slow motion, this entire moment being drawn out in one long, seemingly-unending agony.

He never knew before that the sight of someone’s back could kill.

Now he knows. It can. Because the sight of her back is killing him. He can feel it. The sight of her back, getting further and further away from him, is like a hand reaching in and tearing out his heart, squeezing it until every last drop of his life-blood is out, staining the ground in red.

And he hears again his voice, echoing in his mind, and somehow he knows the echo of that moment will haunt him forever. It wasn’t meant to be. We can’t be. It just wasn’t meant to be…

He knows what he said is true, knows she knows it too. She would never have walked away from him otherwise.

It wasn’t meant to be…

Those 5 words killed his soul. The realization of its truth—he doesn’t even know what that did to him except to think, distantly, numbly, that it is probably very similar to what a Dementor’s Kiss does. Only a Dementor’s Kiss doesn’t leave agony in its wake. Soul-less people cannot know this searing agony. It is the curse of having a soul, to know this pain. To remember, to think, to feel… To dream only to have the dream be shredded… To love only to know the love is doomed…

It wasn’t meant to be…

The words would haunt him for however long he has to live. For a moment, he is sickeningly sure that somehow, despite all this, he will still live for many years to come. And he doesn’t want it. Life—or rather this semblance of life consisting of breathing, eating, occasionally sleeping, performing the mechanical actions of existing in the world—is unbearable. But somehow he’s sure this existence will continue for years to come. It is only fitting, after all. In life, he was never lucky enough to have the easy way to go; he’s sure the pattern will hold now and death, the easy, merciful release from this blank existence, will be denied him for a long time to come.

Years to be haunted by his words to her, years to be haunted by the look in her eyes as she accepted the truth of his words, years to be haunted by the heartbreak in her voice as she whispered, “Goodbye.”

It wasn’t meant to be…

But there had been a time when he’d thought it might have been… When he’d hoped that maybe, after all the bad in his life, he’d be permitted this one happiness to make all his other sorrows seem insignificant…

And he’d been happy. God, he’d been so happy! To love her, to look at her, to smile at her… It had all been bliss.

Bliss that had been snatched away all too soon to be replaced with- with the stark uncompromising truth.

He was who he was; he couldn’t escape his destiny, his doom. Just as he couldn’t escape the power that came with it.

Power. He lets out a bitter little laugh that grates harshly on his own ears. Power.

Some idiots long for power, seek it. Little do they know. Power had been the one inescapable curse of his existence. Power- unconscious power at the beginning, but slowly, insidiously, consciousness of it had seeped into his mind.

Power. And the knowledge he had it- poisoning his mind, slowly but surely overtaking the part of him that fought to remain unaffected, the part of him that wanted to care about things like rules, ethics, good and evil. The part of him that still felt love…

It had begun with little things. Manipulation here, some magical persuasion there… Little things, really. But the smallest pebble can still cause wide-spread ripples in a pool of water.

Little things but they began to grow, piling on top of each other, chipping away one by one at his scruples and his soul…

Until one day he’d looked at himself in the mirror and found he no longer recognized himself.

One day when he’d come face to face with the knowledge that he had to go. It was the last gasp of his old self asserting himself. The only good thing he could do.

It is ironic, in one of Life’s endlessly bitter, cruel ironies, that while power had poisoned and destroyed every other part of him, the part which loved and felt pain somehow remained.

And so even now, when he stands a shell of what he once was, seeing her pain will haunt him. Seeing her walk away kills him.

Because he still loves her.

It is the one thing even power such as his cannot fully destroy, warp or mutate. Love.

He still loves her and it is because of that one part of him that cannot be killed, he is leaving now. The one part of him that is triumphant now, as he does the one good thing he will ever do, even as it is the part of him that is being shattered by the pain of doing this.

It wasn’t meant to be…

She is gone now, out of sight and he resists the urge to simply close his eyes and see where she is. She is gone. And he will not, cannot, taint this one good deed with a use of his power. She is gone. He will never see her again. It was the only way for him to do this. End this completely. He can never, will not allow himself to, see her again, whether in person or in that vague realm of his mind where his power resides.

She is gone.

He closes his eyes and soon he is wandering one last time the grounds of Hogwarts before he finds himself, where he intended, in the wilds of New Zealand. Far from civilization and as far from her as he could get.

He doesn’t know if he will stay here. All he knows as he looks around at the sky, the vast open spaces, the distant mountains surrounding him, is that he will never return to England. He may stay, he may go, but he will remain alone.

It is the only thing he can do.

He is who he is and he was meant to be alone.

They were never meant to be…

~*~*~*~*~

Author’s Note: This ficlet was inspired by the ever-so-brilliant Lori and her AU PoU-verse cookie, “Caretaker”, posted at the PoU Yahoo!Group.

Rated PG-13/R. Read at your own discretion.

His Ecstasy

Sometimes she wonders why she does this.

And then she sees him, the black hair that no comb in the world could make lie flat, the green eyes that are usually filled with so much pain and emptiness, the scar on his forehead that represents everything in his life he’s ever lost, all that he’s suffered… and she knows…

It’s because she loves him in her own way though she knows nothing will ever come of it, has loved him since she was growing up and hearing of his life, hearing of everything the Boy Who Lived did… Then it was only a crush, her first schoolgirl crush… She got over it but she remembered it all again the day she met him for the first time. And somehow seeing him in person made her fall back in love with him. Is it his hero status? Yes, in part, she has to admit it. There’s something thrilling about knowing that she knows what it feels like to feel the Hero of the Wizarding world moving inside her… Has seen him at his most vulnerable, the moment of his climax…

She never thinks of that moment as his ecstasy for she knows that, for him, being with her never is and never can be his ecstasy. His ecstasy, his perfect passion, is not for her.

She knows it and yet she opens her door to him at nights when he visits, welcomes him into her bed and into her body.

And tries not to look into his eyes, usually shutting hers, as his hands, his lips, roam over her body… Even as she moans and cries out, sometimes crying out his name- she tries not to look into his eyes.

If she looks into his eyes, the moment and their time together is ruined.

She had always heard it said that a woman can tell when a man looks into her eyes and sees someone else. She’d never quite believed it, had always been skeptical of that sort of strange instinct…

Until the first time he kissed her, tentatively as if he wasn’t sure what he was doing or why or whether she’d let him… He’d kissed her and then when the kiss ended, she’d looked into his eyes, looking for—what? Not love, she hadn’t expected love, and yet what she did see was unexpected and oh, so painful…

She’d seen- blankness. And a longing, so pure, so strong, it nearly made her gasp with the force of it—but the longing wasn’t for her. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name, as surely as she knew his name…

She didn’t know- then- who the longing was for, but she did know that it wasn’t her… She knew that when he kissed her and he closed his eyes- her face wasn’t what he saw in his mind… She knew it even the first time they had sex, the first time she let him ease some of her loneliness and eased some of his as well…

After that first time, she’d promised herself, never again… Surely she respected herself too much to sleep with a man who didn’t love her, who was really only using her for some physical relief despite the friendship they had…

He’d come back several nights later though. He’d come back and confessed that he’d been using her that way and apologized. Part of her had wanted to say, “I forgive you but now I don’t want to see you again.” But instead she heard herself say, “I knew it when it happened, and I don’t mind.” She’d felt herself move to sit next to him, felt herself put her hand on his thigh and lean in to kiss him, closing her eyes tightly so she couldn’t look into his eyes again…

That was really the beginning of it…

And that night she’d discovered who he saw when he closed his eyes, who the longing in his eyes was for…

She’s never told him, knows she never will, that he cried out her name in the throes of his climax…

He cries out her name when he comes, sometimes murmurs it when he’s pressing kisses to her skin, and often murmurs it when he drifts off to sleep beside her, spent from their sex… He cries out her name… “Hermione…”

And every time, she shuts her eyes tighter, closes her ears and her heart-- and just feels with her body the sensations he evokes.

She knows he’s grateful for her and that he still feels guilty about using her… She knows he likes her, cares about her even, considers her something of a friend…

And somehow, because it’s him, that’s enough.

And so she closes her eyes, her ears and her heart… and never allows herself to consider the what-ifs…

And all she wonders in the times she allows herself to think about her, is whether she knew before she died, just how much the Boy Who Lived loved her… Whether she knew that his heart and soul were hers, so completely that even now, years after the fact, he cries out her name in climax… Whether she knows now, somewhere, somehow, that every kiss, every caress, is really for her…

She will never, can never, ask him, just as she will never and can never tell him the truth- that she knows perfectly well who he really loves and will always love.

But she wonders…

She does not cry when she hears the news that he’s gone. She finds instead that in some strange way, she’s happy… Happy for him, because now he is at peace. The bleak years that he lived after her death are over now, and he has gone to join her…

She knows that wherever they are, they must be together… A love like his can have no other ending.

And so she does not cry, hardly mourns.

She smiles despite tears that are suddenly in her eyes… For she knows that now, he is truly happy… She knows that by joining her, he’s found his ecstasy…

Author’s Note: Fluff to make up for the angst of the last post.

Inspired by one line in Goldy’s ‘The Virtue of Patience’.

No Words Necessary

Hermione was careful to be quiet as she entered the Gryffindor Common Room. It was late, nearly 1 am, and she didn’t want to wake anyone up as she made her way to her own room.

And then she nearly dropped all her books as her precautions for silence were shattered to bits in the next moment.

“Where the hell have you been?” Harry’s voice sounded like an explosion in the late night quiet.

She whirled around, startled, not having seen him as he practically leaped up from where he’d been half-dozing, it appeared, in one of the armchairs before the fire.

He took a few quick steps toward her, looking as if he couldn’t quite decide whether to hug her or to strangle her and then the anger seemed to win out.

He repeated his question, in a slightly softer tone but still much louder than his normal speaking voice. “Where the bloody hell have you been until now? Do you have any idea what time it is?” he demanded furiously.

She stared at him, not quite understanding why he seemed so worked up. And he was upset, very upset. He was flushed and breathing hard, his eyes flashing angrily.

“I- I was in the library, Harry,” she said calmly, trying to placate him.

“The library closed three hours ago!” he snapped. “I was expecting you to be back hours ago!”

“Madam Pince let me stay late to finish up some research after I finished going on my rounds,” she explained. “Harry, I don’t understand. I haven’t done anything wrong! You’re not my keeper, you know,” she said, feeling some annoyance stir within her at this unjust upbraiding on his part.

He didn’t look at all appeased, looked even more irritated truth be told. “In future, don’t. If you need to finish research, just ask Madam Pince to let you bring the books back to your own room; she should let you do it since she trusts you.”

The cool command in his words angered her and now it was her turn to raise her voice. “I won’t! Since when do you think you have the right to tell me what to do, Harry! You’re my friend, not my father! If I want to stay late at the library to finish research, I’ll stay late at the library! I’ll stay at the library all night if I want to!”

“You shouldn’t be walking around alone so late at night!” he said in something approaching a shout. And then he seemed to deflate, his anger gone suddenly to be replaced with a look of weariness and something else. “You shouldn’t walk around alone late at night,” he repeated more softly this time. “It- it isn’t safe anymore. Not even Hogwarts is safe anymore, you know that.”

Her own anger died as well as she began to get a glimmer of understanding into why he was so upset. He- he’d been worried about her. That was why he’d stayed up late, waiting for her in the Common Room, instead of going to sleep. Harry was worried about her. And that explained, too, his otherwise almost irrational anger at her coming back to Gryffindor Tower so late, much later than she usually returned.

“I know,” she finally answered, her tone gentle. “I’m sorry. I’ll try not to be so late again.”

He opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again, before finally seeming to make up his mind. “Next time if you’re not back here at 10, I’ll meet you at the library and go on your rounds with you.” He paused before continuing, “I- I don’t want you to be walking around alone so much at night.”

She studied his face, the faint shadows under his eyes, the tired lines around his mouth, that all spoke of sleepless nights, but his concern for her over-rode any other considerations of his own weariness. And her instinctive protest that she could take care of herself and was certainly capable of going on her rounds on her own, died on her lips. She couldn’t protest, couldn’t and wouldn’t deny him this when it was only motivated by concern for her.

“Okay,” she agreed. “And thanks, Harry. I’ll feel better myself if you’re with me,” she added, stretching the truth without a shred of guilt. It was the least she could do to repay him for the sacrifice of time he was making. And if accompanying her on her rounds relieved his worries even a little, then she’d be satisfied. He had so many other things to be worrying about and the fact that he cared enough to worry so much about her touched her more than anything else could.

“We should go to bed,” he said softly and then stopped, coloring. “That is, you should go to sleep in your room and I should go to sleep in mine.”

She laughed softly, exchanging grins with him, suddenly profoundly glad that even now with the threat of Voldemort drawing ever closer, they could laugh together over something like this. Because they were friends… It wasn’t only about his being in danger; it was simply because they were friends, best friends who could laugh together, could still enjoy life and take pleasure out of simple things like an unintentional innuendo.

They were friends…

“Goodnight, Harry. Sleep well,” she smiled at him.

He returned the smile with one of his own. “Goodnight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She was smiling as she entered her own room.

Yes, they were friends, best friends… And he cared about her, loved her even. She knew it with a certainty that admitted no doubt, even though he never said anything to that effect in characteristic reluctance to talk about his feelings. He didn’t need to say anything; his actions spoke more clearly than any words could. He did love her… And she loved him… And someday, they would become more than simply best friends… Someday…

~~~~~

What It Means to Be a Hero

Silence was a funny thing.

It could be so different depending on the situation and the company. Could feel awkward or tense or expectant or sad or calm and comforting.

The silence of friendship, as it was now, walking through the empty corridors of Hogwarts with Hermione on her rounds as Head Girl.

The silence of death- as it had been for Sirius, for Cedric. Dying had been so quiet; it seemed strange as if the end of a life should happen with a burst of noise, something to mark the passing of a person, but it didn’t happen like that. It had been so sudden, so quiet really. Silent as the grave was really true in more ways than one.

He shuddered slightly, involuntarily, at his morbid thoughts. He thought of death and dying often these days, couldn’t help it with this waiting, the growing apprehension. The end would come soon, he knew it; he just didn’t know when or how or if he was ready.

He was most likely going to die before the year was out.

He sighed heavily, feeling the familiar coldness grip his heart at the thought.

And then felt the warmth of her hand slipping into his.

She didn’t say anything, didn’t ask what was wrong or why he had sighed. She knew, somehow, even without his saying a word. And that was more comforting than any words could have been, just the touch of her hand.

He relied on her little touches, small gestures individually but taken together, so important, he suddenly realized, more important than he had really thought before, taking them for granted as he had. But they were… Those touches showed that she cared for him, cared about him. They always had. She didn’t say much about her feelings; it didn’t quite suit her logical mind but she did understand and she did care. And she showed it through her touch, the touch of her hand on his arm or shoulder, her occasional hugs, her even less frequent kisses on the cheek and this, slipping her hand into his. She cared…

She loved him… The thought came and went through his mind with a startling speed and somehow he knew it was true.

And he—well, he cared about her too… Cared about her, trusted her, respected her judgment, worried about her, wanted to keep her safe… Yes, he loved her too.

He could talk to her, tell her things he couldn’t tell anyone else.

“I’m so scared,” he admitted, his words so quiet they were barely audible and yet with a thread of shame running through his voice. “I’m scared when I think about facing him, when I think about what’s to come. And I shouldn’t be, can’t be scared. I have to do it; I know I do; it’s my task, my fate. I have to be brave, have to be heroic. But I’m not. I’m scared, terrified.” He stopped, keeping his gaze averted.

She tightened her grip on his hand and when she spoke, her voice was confident, admitted no doubts. “You are brave and you are a hero.” She paused and he shook his head in automatic denial of her words before she continued. “ ‘The brave man is not he who feels no fear but he whose noble soul his fear subdues.’ You’re still brave even if you’re afraid. You’d be stupid if you weren’t afraid.” He couldn’t help a flicker of amusement, despite the seriousness of the moment, at this oh-so-Hermione-like statement. “What makes you brave is that, no matter how afraid you are, you’re going to face him, never even think about not facing him, of running away or hiding. You’re brave because you’ll face your fears. And that’s what makes you a hero, that and the fact that you’re doing this for the right reasons, to help others, to protect others, not because you want fame.”

She stopped walking, turning to face him, and making him meet her eyes. “You are brave, Harry, and you are a hero. Never doubt it.” She finished with a hint of her old bossiness but now, he didn’t mind it. It was just part of her and he loved it about her if only because it made her who she was. Plus, she was usually right and he trusted her opinion probably more than anyone else’s.

He let out his breath in a sigh. And looking into her eyes, he didn’t doubt, did believe her. She understood.

He moved closer to her, just the one small step, and his lips touched hers for the first time. A soft kiss, a gentle one, a kiss that said, thank you. I love you. A kiss that somehow offered infinite promise for more, later…

They didn’t say anything, only smiled slightly, before continuing to walk. But he kept his hand in hers and knew she understood what he felt.

Disclaimer: See Ficlet 1.

Author’s Note: A short angst ficlet, inspired by Kaze’s “Haze” and Goldy’s “Red Sea”.

What Dreams May Come

He was dead.

He was dead and people were mourning.

He was dead—and somehow, all he felt was relief.

So it was over then. It was over, all the worry, all the fighting, all the fear. It was all over and he was at peace.

He was dead—and he was relieved…

Mrs. Weasley was crying, sobs that seemed to come from her very soul shaking her entire frame, as she clung to Mr. Weasley to keep from collapsing. He tried to speak, to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but failed. His hand seemed to pass straight through her shoulder.

He was dead and he could only watch.

McGonagall was there, her expression unusually soft, tears in her eyes, as she sighed heavily. “Harry Potter,” she said, under her breath and so softly he knew he was the only one who heard her, and her voice was sad, wistful. “He was special; I always knew it. Poor boy. Poor dear boy…” And she sighed heavily again, reaching up to wipe a tear out of her eyes.

Snape was there. He did not look to be mourning, looked as grim as he always had, grimmer even. And looking at his hated professor, he somehow knew what Professor Snape was thinking, Potter, I never wanted you dead.

Ron and Ginny were standing together, Ron with a comforting arm around Ginny’s shoulders.

Ginny was pale, crying brokenly. Her breath hitched in her throat as she listened to Ron’s hoarse, broken voice say, “I didn’t need to tell her. She already knew when I came. She- she’d sensed it.”

His heart stopped on hearing those words. Hermione. Hermione was the ‘she’ Ron was talking about. And Hermione was the only person not there.

Hermione. Where was Hermione?

He found he was running, running even before he knew it, running, searching, wondering. Where was Hermione?

He felt her presence even before he saw her, his eyes searching frantically until he saw her still form by the lake.

She looked as if she’d fallen, simply crumpled to the ground where she had been standing when her knees gave out on her. She was pale, her cheeks stained with tears, her eyelids swollen. Her stare was vacant as she looked out over the still waters of the lake as if she saw things that no one else could see.

And then she began to speak. Her voice was only a whisper, a breath of sound but he heard it. “Harry, where are you? Where did you go? Why did you leave me? What am I supposed to do without you? Live? I can’t; I don’t know how to live without you to care about. I don’t know how to live without you. Didn’t you know that?” Her voice was almost toneless, as if she was numb inside. Tears slipped soundlessly down her cheeks, simply overflowing from her eyes as if all the energy, the passion of her grief, had already been sapped and now all there was left was this horrible emptiness. She looked hollow, a shell…

He knelt down beside her, tried to hold her, to comfort her- and couldn’t. He couldn’t help her. He could only watch her heartbreak.

And his own heart broke.

His heart broke for the pain in her eyes, for the despair, for the hopelessness. His heart broke for her, for the girl she had been, the girl he knew and- and loved… His heart broke for the girl she had been, who had died along with him…

He was dead- and now he grieved… Now he regretted…

He dreamed he was dead.

And he knew that no matter how hard things were, he didn’t want to die.

He didn’t want to leave Hermione in such a state.

He didn’t want to die.

It should have been an obvious thing, should have been something he didn’t need to think about. It wasn’t.

He dreamed he was dead and he had felt relief.

But now he knew.

He didn’t want to die.

And that meant something.

The hardest thing in this world is to live in it. ~Buffy, the Vampire Slayer

Disclaimer: See Ficlet 1.

Author’s Note: 3 unrelated fluff ficlets to make up for the angst in the last one. Enjoy!

~*~

This first one is for Gil- just because. *hugs*

The Morning After

He opened his eyes and saw her.

And memories of the night before flooded his mind. He still didn’t understand exactly what had happened or why or how. How one minute he could just have been talking to his best friend and the next minute it seemed he was kissing her… How one minute she was just his friend and the next she was suddenly the woman he needed to kiss, to touch…

He saw her, sleeping still, her face calm in sleep. And wondered that he didn’t feel odd waking up next to her.

If he had thought about this happening, he would have thought that waking up would feel awkward. That he would be lying here wondering what he had done, crossing a line one just doesn’t cross with one’s best friend. He would have expected to feel regret. Apprehension at ending a friendship. Dismay.

But he didn’t.

He looked at her, letting his eyes wander from the face he already knew so well in all its moods, to the body which he’d only just discovered…

And all he felt was- peace. Peace. Because somehow, some way, this, waking up next to her, felt right. This was what he had been made for, he suddenly thought. He had been made and meant for this girl, this woman, his Hermione.

And she was his. He was sure of it somehow, even though no words had been said, no promises made… (Except maybe in the universal language which their bodies had spoken the night before…) She was his.

And he was hers.

He shifted closer to her, putting his arm around her, gently so as not to disturb her, and closed his eyes, letting himself drift back to sleep.

He was at peace, lying here with her by his side. All was right in his world.

~*~*~*~*~

Note: Inspired by Libbie’s NC-17 “Kitchen Table Redux” posted on the erotic_elves LJ community.

Rated PG-13.

Hear

It started with hearing her voice.

Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one. At the time he’d only noticed the bossiness in her tone. What he should have noticed and thought of before was the kindness in it, this concern on behalf of a boy she’d only just met. How many other kids would have volunteered to go up and down the train searching for a toad she’d never seen for a boy she’d met just minutes ago?

He loved her voice, had heard it when she was happy, or afraid, or angry… He knew what her voice sounded like choked with tears, the sound that always hurt his own heart on hearing it…

It was her voice he heard in his mind most often, her voice which guided him and helped him when he didn’t know what to do…

Her voice he heard in the Infirmary even before he saw her, full of so much worry and concern he felt the beginning of tears build up behind his eyes…

It was her voice which had spoken the most beautiful words he’d ever heard in his life… I love you, Harry. He still remembered, knew he’d never forget, the tenderness, the wealth of emotion, in her tone as she said those words it seemed he’d been waiting his whole life to hear. The way his world had narrowed down to that one moment and the sound of her voice saying those words echoing in his mind…

He knew what her voice sounded like throaty and full of desire, a sound which never failed to send heat and a rush of blood down through his body. Knew that he’d never hear anything as arousing as the sound of her voice saying, I want you, Harry. Never hear anything as sensual or that would provoke the same surge of lust and love as her voice saying, Now, Harry. Please.

He knew the sounds she made when he touched her, the gasps, the moans, the cries… Knew the sound she made when she came…

He knew and loved all the sounds of her.

But now, at this moment, he knew he’d never heard anything so beautiful, never heard anything which meant more to him, never heard anything like the love, the trust, the confidence in her voice as she said the two words which would make her his for life…

I do.

And those two words were all he needed to hear.

~*~*~*~*~

The Reason

She was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes.

Her familiar face was the first thing he saw, blurrily, in that one moment when his eyes flickered open and somehow just knowing she was there filled him with an inexplicable sense of comfort… Just the sight of her face broke through the pain-induced haze he was in…

She was there, beside him… He felt an odd sense of peace in the moment before his eyes closed and he slipped back into the mindless, dreamless sleep of complete and utter exhaustion. She was there… And that was all he needed to know…

She was gone when he opened his eyes again, only Madam Pomfrey leaning over him, murmuring under her breath something about sending helpless boys out to face Dark Lords. And he felt a sharp stab of loss.

Where was she? She should be here; she was always here when he needed her, always here when he was hurt… Mingled with his sense of loss was an irrational fear. Where was she? She would be here with him if she could be. Where was she; was she hurt, sick, or--?

“Hermione,” he managed to gasp out, ignoring the sudden pain and the supreme effort it took to croak out even that one word. Just her name. Because he needed to know…

“Miss Granger? I sent her off to sleep for a while. She hasn’t left your side in days and I told her straight off that she’d be lying in another bed in here if she didn’t get some sleep,” Madam Pomfrey replied, busily, but there was an odd gentleness in her tone and in her touch, as she moved him to sit up more so he could drink some vile-tasting potion.

He felt heaviness overtake him again, waves of oblivion washing over him and he succumbed, closing his eyes…

She was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes again.

Her brown eyes filled with worry and fear and affection and- and love, he suddenly recognized, shimmering with unshed tears…

She caught her breath when she saw his eyes open, scooting in closer. She didn’t say anything but he read everything he needed to hear in her eyes. All the worry she’d felt, all her fear that he may not wake again, all the long hours she’d spent waiting, and finally, her soul-deep relief that he was awake…

And looking up at her, seeing the shadows of sleepless nights spent worrying about him under her eyes, he suddenly knew the reason for it all. The reason he’d fought, the reason he’d tried, the reason he’d survived…

It was for her… More than anything else, more than his desire to avenge his parents and Sirius, more than his vague wish to make sure no one else was killed because of Voldemort—he’d done it for her. So she wouldn’t have to be in danger anymore, so she wouldn’t have to fear for his life or the lives of anyone she cared about… And he’d survived because of her too, because he couldn’t bear to leave her. Not now, not like this, not yet… She was his reason.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, that would somehow tell her all this, that she was the reason he’d done everything, she was the reason he was alive… And all he could say was, “I- I love you.”

The words slipped out of his mouth without conscious thought; if he’d thought about it, he somehow knew he wouldn’t have been able to bring himself to say those words he’d never said to anyone before. But they did slip out and he did say them and he knew, too, that they, perhaps better than any other words could, expressed what he wanted her to know.

She smiled, her beautiful smile that he loved to see. “I love you too,” she said softly.

And he didn’t need anything else. He was home.

Disclaimer: See Ficlet 1

Author’s Note: This angst ficlet was inspired in part by reading CheeringCharm’s absolutely brilliant WiP, “Better Late than Never”.

I should also note that I consider this fic to be almost AU in one sense because this is the last thing I imagine will ever happen in canon and because I can’t imagine any man existing who is perfect for Hermione whose name isn’t Harry Potter. I wrote it to exorcise a plot bunny and that is all.

And again, the next post will be fluff to make up for this.

The Wedding

He was dying.

He knew he wasn’t dead yet because you don’t feel pain when your’re dead. Come to think of it then, he wished to Merlin that Voldemort had succeeded in killing him. It would have saved him this agony.

His cheeks were beginning to hurt from smiling. He didn’t dare allow himself to stop smiling even though he knew that right now, no one was looking at him. If he stopped smiling, he knew he’d never be able to make himself smile again.

Not even for her sake could he make himself smile again. He would do anything for her. But at this moment and on this day, he knew he wouldn’t be able to smile again if he dared stop. So he smiled, stiffly he knew, but a smile that would fool anyone glancing at him. And he knew that she, the only person who had always been able to tell if his smile was forced or not, was too happy to notice the stiffness of his smile.

Her happiness was killing him.

He felt a bitter, ironic little laugh well up inside him and swallowed it back, not wanting to look like a lunatic. Yes, her happiness was killing him. He, who would do so much to keep her happy, who would give his life without a second’s thought if only it would keep a smile on her beautiful face… He was dying now because she was happy.

And yet, conversely, her palpable happiness was the only thing keeping him alive.

Dear Merlin. It was time. She was speaking her vows, promising to love and be faithful to one man for the rest of her life.

He felt every word she spoke in that clear, confident tone as if it were a dagger to his heart. (He found the clichéd thought oddly compelling at that moment.) The love and trust in her gaze as she looked up at him (Harry never thought of him by his name; he was always only ‘him’ or in his less-polite moods, ‘that lucky bastard’ or some other variation on that theme) were slowly but surely turning the handles on the figurative rack he was on, increasing his torture.

If there were any poetic justice in this world, he should rightfully have simply dropped dead on hearing her speak those words, he thought, with the miniscule part of his mind that had managed to retain some detachment and therefore some macabre humor.

And he suddenly realized that up until that very moment, some small part of him had never really given up hope. That maybe she would suddenly look up at him and see what he’d been too stupid to realize earlier and would simply leave with him, to hell with the lucky bastard and all their plans… He knew it had been a completely preposterous hope; she could never be that fickle or that faithless or that cruel or-- He loved her for it too. But he’d somehow hoped anyway. Harry decided his own heartbreak was clearly making him irrational and incoherent.

But now it was too late. Too late. Too late. Too damn, bloody, sodding, effing, bugger-it-all, late. It had been too late when he’d realized how he really felt about her (the day she’d announced her engagement). It was absolutely too late now when she was officially married to the lucky bastard.

He wished he could hate the sodding lucky prick. And there were moments when he was almost sure he did. Hated him for the very un-hate-able-ness of him. Hated him for loving Hermione so much; hated him for being able to make her so happy; hated him for having the brains to claim Hermione and make her his before anyone else (i.e. before Harry) could; hated him for being clever and funny and kind and successful and-- … Hated him for being, to all intents and purposes, the perfect counterpart to Hermione.

Harry caught Ron’s eye and again was thankful for his forced smile, which Ron returned with a half-grin that was perfectly sincere. He didn’t know whether to bless Ron for being oblivious to Harry’s agony or curse him for the same reason. He’d never told Ron about his feelings- even after he woke up to them. Never admitted them to anyone except himself, Hedwig, his empty flat and the bottles of firewhiskey that had become his constant bedtime companion after the Revelation.

The Revelation. He always thought of it in capital letters. It had been too stunning a moment to be called anything less. The moment when he’d finally been alone after Hermione’s floo-calling him to announce, ecstatically, that she was engaged to be married. The moment when his knees had literally given out on him and he’d collapsed to the floor of his flat, not seeing anything or hearing anything or aware of anything except that his life was over. Hermione was engaged and happily in love with someone else. And he, her best friend, was and had been for years, completely and irrevocably and hopelessly in love with her. The moment when all the lies to himself about his feelings for Hermione, all the justifications (and excuses) for the way his stomach flipped when she smiled or the times he found himself distracted from her conversation by the shape of her lips or the times he found himself comparing some other girl to her only to find the other girl lacking had been revealed, once and for all, for what they were: lies.

He was jolted out of his thoughts by the announcement of Mr. and Mrs. Damon Westhaven.

Mrs. Damon Westhaven. Oh why, why, why couldn’t he be dead? Just those three words should have killed him by rights. But no. He wasn’t that lucky.

He watched as Hermione and her- he flinched inwardly- husband turned and began walking back down the aisle.

She was beautiful, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, the most beautiful women in the world.

And for just a moment as she passed, their eyes met and held. She smiled at him, her eyes thanking him for being there today, on her day of days. And for just that moment, he stopped having to force his smile. She was happy, blissfully so. And for that fleeting second, that was enough for him.

Then the moment was gone; she moved on, past him. And he thought as he stared at her back, Goodbye, Hermione, love.

Because in that moment, he knew what he was going to do. What he had to do: leave England, for good. He couldn’t stay here, not when he would then have to see her occasionally, be constant witness to the fact that she belonged to another man. No, he would leave. And though the thought of not seeing her at all was enough to rip at his heart, it was nothing compared to what the thought of having to watch her happiness with the lucky bastard did to him.

So he watched her walk further away from him, finally allowing the mask to drop and all his pain, all his hopeless love, to show on his face, safe in the knowledge that everyone else was looking at the newly-married couple. And said goodbye in the silence of his own heart, to his Hermione- his no longer- and his love.

Disclaimer: See Ficlet 1

Author’s Note: Fluff, as promised…

This ficlet was written for Thanksgiving and is something of a past/future cookie from my WIP, “Complicated”, although it can be read on its own.

~You’re Welcome~

“Today’s a day to spend with family,” the waitress, whose name-tag read Elizabeth, said with a smile as she handed the young man the entrée he’d ordered. “Where is your family today?” There was only some idle curiosity and some kindness in her eyes.

“I have no family,” he answered automatically.

“Oh. I’m sorry. But happy Thanksgiving anyway. And enjoy your meal,” she said as she turned away, leaving him to his thoughts.

I have no family… His automatic response to questions like that and yet, today, even as he thought the words, ten familiar and well-loved faces edged into his mind, belying the words. 8 of them with flaming red hair, one middle-aged man with graying brown hair, penetrating but kind gray eyes and an equally kind if tired, smile, and one who stood out among all the rest… A girl with brown eyes with amber flecks in them, eyes which he’d seen warm with affection, friendship and laughter, dark with worry and fear, flashing amber sparks in anger, and filled with unshed tears… A girl with bushy brown hair, nearly as untamable as his own… A girl whose smile could brighten up his entire day…

~*~

He threw himself wearily into the chair of his hotel room later, his eyes automatically drawn to the stack of stationary embossed with the hotel’s logo and the pen beside it. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for the pen and a sheet of paper, beginning to write, the words flowing from the pen without much conscious thought…

November 2-, 1998

Dear Hermione,

It’s Thanksgiving here.

Thanksgiving, from what I’ve found out (I went to the library to look it up- you see your influence on me) is a Muggle American holiday. It first originated in the 1600’s when the first settlers here managed to survive their first harsh winter and then, through the help of some Indians, celebrated their first harvest with a big feast, to give thanks. It became a national holiday and now it’s one of the big American holidays. It seems, more than any other holiday, to be the holiday you’re supposed to spend with family. Which is, I think, why I’m writing to you now.

Someone asked me today where my family is and I said that I had no family, before I realized. I think I was wrong about that. The Weasleys, Remus, they’re my family in a lot of ways. And you, of course. You, more than anyone else, are my family.

Thanksgiving also seems to be a holiday about food, specific foods like turkey and something Americans call stuffing and pumpkin pie. But it mainly is a day to give thanks.

Which has made me think, a lot. And I want to thank you, since I don’t think I really have, properly at any rate, for everything you’ve done for me. I know I haven’t told you this but it’s easier to write than to say and so I’m telling you, I don’t know what I would do without you. Thank you for being my best friend, the one person who’s always been there for me. Thank you for going to McGonagall about my Firebolt in our 3^rd year; I didn’t like it at the time but I know you only did it because you cared. Thank you for helping me save Sirius that year; you were brilliant in coming up with the plan to save Sirius and I couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you for helping me with the Summoning Charm; that Horntail would probably have fried me to a crisp within minutes without your help, and I know that. But more than that, thank you for believing me when I said I hadn’t put my name into the Goblet. You were the only one that really did and I haven’t forgotten it.

Thank you for being the only one willing to tell me I was being a prat, in 5^th year, for trying to keep me from going to the Ministry. I resented you for it and I’m sorry but I remember how you went along and helped me in Umbridge’s office even though you didn’t like what I was doing.

And I guess this is really the most important thing I want to thank you for; thank you for sticking with me, for not letting me be alone. It’s taken until now for me to fully appreciate it but thank you. Thank you for being so loyal, for being such a friend, for helping me, for saving me. Thank you for being you.

And Hermione, this is another thing it’s easier to write than to say, one last thing I want you to know. I love you. And not just as my best friend but as my- well, my everything, really. I love you.

I won’t be sending this to you; I can’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I wanted to say it. And maybe someday, I will send it to you. And I’ll tell you in person that I love you… Someday…

~*~*~

Years later…

He found it while rummaging through a box of old papers he had saved. Found it and read it again.

He’d forgotten about this letter that he’d written but never sent because he’d realized that if he sent it, Hermione would know where he was and he knew her too well to think that she would simply not follow him, no matter what he said. Not after everything and not after the way he’d left. So he hadn’t mailed it; had only saved it thinking that maybe one day he would send it to her.

He smiled a little and then sighed at the memories the letter conjured up. The loneliness of that time, the nightmares… The constant feeling of running, of avoiding something that he couldn’t escape no matter where he went…

He gave it to her that night as she was preparing for bed. “I found something of yours while I was searching through that hall closet today.”

She gave him a curious look. “Something of mine? What is it?”

He handed it to her, watching the expression on her face change from puzzlement on seeing the hotel stationary to surprise to tenderness.

When she looked up at him, her eyes were shining with tears even though she was smiling. “Thank you. It’s the most beautiful letter I’ve ever read.”

He smiled as he reached for her, kissing her with all the love in his heart and feeling the familiar warmth of her response. He broke the kiss to say softly, half-teasingly, against her lips, “I think, from what I remember saying in that letter, the proper response would be, You’re welcome.”

He felt her smile and her lips part to speak but he kissed her again, swallowing her words. He didn’t need to hear her say it. The time when he really would have needed her to read what he’d written because he couldn’t say it aloud was passed… There was no need for words between them…

And as he kissed her, loving her with all his heart, body, mind and soul, he could hear her voice in his head. You’re welcome…

Disclaimer: See Ficlet 1.

Author’s Note: This little ficlet was inspired by one line in vicariousleigh’s wonderful WiP, “Nightingale” and so this is for her.

Stay With Me

Stay with me.

The first time he said the words to her was in the Infirmary at the end of 6^th year.

He opened his eyes to the consciousness that Dumbledore was gone. Dumbledore, the only person standing between him and Voldemort, was gone now. There was no hope anymore… He didn’t know what he would do now, how he was supposed to face Voldemort and defeat him… He had no special power, no special knowledge…

He blinked back tears at the thought and shut his eyes again, for once thankful for the sleeping potion Madam Pomfrey had insisted he take earlier. Sleep, and the oblivion that came with it, was a welcome refuge right now and he gladly succumbed to the waves of exhaustion sweeping over him.

He awoke to see her watching him with a worried frown creasing her brow. She started up on seeing he was awake. “Oh, Harry, how are you feeling?”

“I’ll live,” he managed to say with an attempt at flippancy which fell sadly flat. Oh he would live through this—the question was how much longer after this he could survive against Voldemort…

He sighed and then felt her hand smooth over his forehead and then down to cup his cheek. “Don’t think like that, Harry. It isn’t hopeless and you’re not alone.” He felt no surprise that she knew just what he’d been thinking; she just understood…

He met her eyes, warm, concerned… “Thanks.”

She moved to stand up. “I should tell Madam Pomfrey you’re awake.”

He grabbed her hand almost without thinking about it, holding her back. “Stay with me,” he said. “Please.” He didn’t understand exactly why he didn’t want Hermione to leave; he just knew that he didn’t. He knew he couldn’t bear it right now if she left. He needed her with him to give him hope, to make him believe, even if only a little, that maybe, just maybe, he could defeat Voldemort, somehow. Her belief in him made him believe in himself more; her faith strengthened him…

“Stay with me,” he repeated softly.

“I will.” And it was a promise, in her tone and in her eyes.

He let his eyes drift closed again, still holding her hand. “Thank you,” he murmured.

She stayed with him the rest of that day, still holding his hand. Even if she had wanted to try to move, which she didn’t, she didn’t think she could. His grip on her hand was too tenacious. It seemed as if even in sleep he was conscious on some level of her presence and comforted by it.

Stay with me.

She said them to him a few months later when he woke her up in the Common Room. She’d fallen asleep over her books. He’d been unable to sleep and had come down to the Common Room and found her, moving restlessly, making small noises of distress.

He put his hand on her shoulder, shaking gently. “Hermione. Hermione, wake up.”

She awoke with a slight gasp, her eyes immediately going to his face. “Harry. You—”

“It was only a nightmare. It’s okay,” he said reassuringly. “You should go back to sleep. It’ll be morning soon enough.”

“What about you?”

He shrugged. “I’ll manage.”

She relaxed a little back into the couch, reaching out for his hand. “Stay with me, Harry.” She needed to hold on to him, to know he was there and safe. To know he wasn’t lying outside somewhere bleeding with Voldemort standing over him, as she’d seen in her dream.

“I will.” He pulled up one of the big armchairs, settling into it. “Sleep, Hermione.”

Long after her breathing had become deep and regular, he stayed, watching her, remembering the time in the Infirmary he’d asked her to stay with him. She was his comfort, his hope… He was only glad that at this moment, he could be her comfort too…

It was good to see her sleep; she seemed to sleep so little these days, staying up late studying for N.E.W.T’s and studying every DADA book she could get her hands on in the search for something to help him face Voldemort. There were shadows under her eyes on most days now, it seemed. Shadows which bothered him because he knew they were there mostly because of him… He stayed, watching her sleep, until he dozed off himself.

Stay with me.

After that, it seemed to become a phrase they always associated with each other. Seemed to summarize the way they depended on each other, for support, for reassurance, for strength, for friendship…

He said them to her when he regained consciousness fleetingly, the first time, after the final battle, the only words he managed to whisper before lapsing back into oblivion. She blinked back tears at the words, so soft she’d barely heard them. And answered, even though she knew he wouldn’t hear her, her voice half-choked with the lump of emotion, of fear, in her throat. “Of course. I won’t leave you. As long as you stay with me, too. You have to get better, Harry. You can’t just go like this; I won’t let you. Stay with me…”

And he had…

He said the words quietly now, breaking the comfortable, sated silence. “Stay with me.”

Hermione looked up at him curiously. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

He shifted a little on the bed, closer to her, moving his hand from where it rested on her stomach to caress her cheek. “I didn’t mean now. I meant, forever. I want you to stay with me always. Stay with me, as my best friend, my lover—my wife…” He paused to smile slightly, tenderly, into her eyes, where glad tears were beginning to shine. “I love you, Hermione. Stay with me; be my wife?”

“Yes. Oh, yes,” was her only answer before she slipped her hand behind his neck, bringing his head down to kiss him, letting her kiss communicate the words of love, of happiness, she hadn’t said.

His hands slid down her body in a leisurely caress and there was no need for words anymore. There was only this, skin against skin, lips on lips, and the silent communication of two loving bodies…

Stay with me.

Always…

Disclaimer: See Ficlet 1.

A/N: Inspired by a manip ladyofshall0t posted on the harryhermione LJ community recently.

Rated R- so skip if you’re under age, please!

~~~~~~

To Watch You Sleep

These were the moments she loved best, when she was happiest.

She turned her head to look at him, sleeping peacefully, looking oddly young and vulnerable with his glasses off as he always did. His breathing was deep and regular, reassuring.

These were the moments she loved best. Just watching him sleep…

She loved the other moments too, loved every moment with him—but these were the moments she loved most.

She loved when he kissed her, loved the feel of his lips on hers, the familiar taste of him. Loved to feel his breath tickling her cheek, hear his voice whispering soft words, endearments.

She sometimes was amazed to think that she, Hermione Granger, was actually Harry Potter’s girlfriend, his lover—more amazed to think that everyone knew it too.

He slept most nights in her room (and never had she been so thankful that as Head Girl she did have her own room as she’d been since this had begun). This sort of arrangement was normally frowned on, to put it mildly (she knew there had been Head Girls and Boys in the past who’d been sacked and replaced with someone else for having done so much) but McGonagall and the other professors turned a blind eye. Because this was Harry and they all knew. She didn’t let herself think that it was also because everyone wondered how much longer he had to live—but sometimes, the thought intruded tainting those moments of happiness and haunting the quiet moments of peace.

They didn’t always do anything other than sleep. The nights after his Occlumency lessons, he was usually too drained to do much more than mumble, “Goodnight” before falling asleep immediately.

But there were other moments, too. When he would reach for her and his hands would wander all over her body, petting, caressing, stroking, when his lips and tongue would make her gasp and shiver and cry out… When she would touch him in return, marveling that she, plain bookworm Hermione as she was, could arouse him so much. But then she wasn’t just plain bookworm Hermione with him. She was more than that; she was a girl, a woman, and beautiful and sexy and passionate—because it was him and he made her feel like all those things, made her a different person than the one she was every day in public.

She loved the moments when he was moving inside her, filling her, completing her—and she could only hold him that much tighter, kiss him that much more passionately, and know that he, of all the people in this world, really knew her and loved her. Those moments when the rest of the world faded away and nothing mattered but him and her and the wonderful, amazing feeling they shared…

But these were the moments she loved best, the quiet times when he was sleeping beside her. These were the moments she cherished, the moments she missed and thought of during the day.

These moments when she knew he was safe and nothing could happen to him. She didn’t even fear the occasional intrusion of Voldemort into his dreams for she knew that while he was beside her, she could wake him and she could help him.

These moments when she could allow herself to forget, for just a little while, of the danger he was in. When she could forget the look she sometimes saw in his eyes, the look that always made tears well up in her eyes—the look that said he didn’t expect to survive the final confrontation…

These were the moments she was happiest. Just to watch him sleep and know he was safe and happy and at peace…

Very gently, so as not to disturb him, she ran her fingers through his hair, her finger brushing the scar on his forehead with the most feather-light of touches.

And then she lay back down beside him, her arm around him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest and the beating of his heart and closed her eyes and allowed herself to relax.

These were the moments she loved- when she could watch him sleep and promise herself and him, in the silence of her heart and soul, that no one and nothing should ever be allowed to separate them if she could help it.

These were the moments she loved best—just to watch him sleep…

Disclaimer: See Ficlet 1.

Author’s Note: These are two companion ficlets, Hermione’s PoV from the end of GoF.

Fear

They are talking to each other, Cedric and Harry are- she can just see their figures in the center of the maze and the Tri-Wizard Tournament Cup shining, a small dot, in the center. She forcibly unclenches her hands that are hurting from how hard she’s been clutching them. She knows, though she doesn’t look at them, that they’re red and will be sore for the next day or so thanks to how hard she’s been squeezing them and digging her nails into her palms.

Cedric goes over to Harry and helps him up and she strains her eyes to see how Harry looks. It’s too far; his face is only a pale spot standing out against the black of his hair but she can see he’s limping and has to restrain herself from the mad impulse to (yet again) leave the stands and go to help him. But she can’t help him; she can only watch.

They both put their hands out to touch the Cup—she holds her breath. They grasp it—and then they’re gone.

Gone.

She is only peripherally aware of the cries of dismay and surprise going up around her; she’s too busy staring at the spot where Harry last was—the spot that’s now empty.

She turns frantically to look at Professor Dumbledore and the other judges and sees that they all look as shocked—Professor Dumbledore looks grim—as everyone else.

And that’s when she realizes she’s stood up—she wasn’t aware of doing it, doesn’t remember exactly at what moment she did stand up. But she realizes she had—because that’s the moment- on seeing that not even Dumbledore was expecting Harry to disappear like that- that her knees give way and she sits down heavily again.

Something’s wrong. Something’s very, very, very wrong—and Harry is gone. Where she doesn’t know but she knows that it’s not good. It’s never good when unexpected things happen to Harry and she can’t stand not knowing where he is or what’s happening to him. He could be hurt, in danger—and again she can’t do anything.

Oh God, oh God, oh God… Harry—where’s Harry, what happened to him?

The Cup must have been a Portkey- but a Portkey to where? And who did that, if Dumbledore didn’t even know about it?

Harry, Harry, Harry—what’s happening to Harry?

The words run through her mind in a litany of dread and apprehension, vague fears taking possession of her.

She feels someone—Bill, she finds out later—pull her up, jerking her out of her daze and then she’s running, running along with the Weasleys and the other people in the stands, to where the Professors are heading into the Maze.

She can hardly breathe, can hardly think—every bit of her consumed with the one stark question—where was Harry now? What was happening to him?

She hears the Professors telling everyone to stay out of the Maze, to wait for more information outside and she stops, more because she’s still caught in the crowd of people than through any conscious choice.

She knows all she can do is wait—but waiting in the uncertainty of what had happened to Harry was torture.

She doesn’t know where Harry is, what’s happened to him, what he’s going through right now.

She’s aware for the first time that there are hot tears stinging her eyes, tears of belated reaction, of stress, of worry, but more than that, of fear. Fear, cold and all-consuming. Fear, reaching in and crushing her heart in a cold fist. Fear, twisting her insides, numbing her thoughts.

She isn’t used to this kind of fear—usually in danger, she manages to keep her head. But right now, she can’t. Because this is different—this is Harry. Fear for Harry—and it is stronger than anything else at this moment of not knowing.

Fear and dread. They were all the she knew at this moment.

Harry, where are you? What’s happening to you? Are you okay? Harry…

Please, she thought desperately, be safe. Be safe. Come back to me, to us. Harry…

She tastes the bitter tang of fear—and she knows, with a certainty that enters her soul, that the most important thing in her life is Harry. Helping him, keeping him safe- matters more to her than anything else in the world.

She doesn’t stop to analyze why; the reason isn’t important. All she knows is that she needs to help him—and right now, she can’t. She can only wait—wait and fear…

~*~*~

The Beginning

People were still milling around in confusion and fear when there was a sudden escalation of sound, the vague murmur of voices rising.

She tensed, forgetting to breathe, as she tried desperately to see what was going on amid all the people surrounding her.

And then she heard it, a cry and an exclamation that seemed to echo in her mind. “He’s dead!”

“My God, he’s dead!”

And she knew what it was to die herself.

She grabbed a hold of the person standing beside her (she later discovered it was Ron) as her knees began to give way.

He’s dead…

A strangled shriek ripped from her throat. “Noooo!!! Harry…”

She was dead. She died a thousand times over in the space of a moment.

She couldn’t see (her eyes were too filled with tears), she couldn’t breathe (her throat was too tight from suppressed sobs).

There was a buzzing in her ears when she heard as if from very far away, “Cedric Diggory! He’s dead!”

Cedric Diggory! Not Harry!

Oh thank God, thank God…

She came to an awareness of her surroundings to hear the heartbroken wail of a woman—Mrs. Diggory, she somehow knew, Cedric’s mother—and felt a surge of guilt that her first and only thought on hearing of Cedric’s death was relief that it wasn’t Harry.

That Harry, at least, was alive.

She looked around frantically trying to see him, needing to see him.

My God, what must have happened to kill Cedric—what had Harry just been through!

Harry- how was he? He was alive—but he must be hurt. How badly was he hurt? Was someone taking him to the Hospital Wing?

The questions crowded into her mind with all the rising urgency and swiftness of growing panic.

Oh she needed to see him; she needed to see him…

And then for a fleeting second, the crowds around her parted and she did.

He was limping, looked about ready to collapse if it weren’t for Professor Moody’s supporting him, paler than she’d ever seen him—pale with an awful, frightening pallor—and there was something about his expression that spoke of unspeakable torment that tore at her heart.

But he was alive.

Professor Moody was helping him, half-carrying him really, seemed to be questioning him.

He was alive.

He was alive. He was safe now.

But what had happened?

What kind of horrible thing had Harry just endured, just witnessed?

There was another disturbance and she saw Headmaster Dumbledore with Professors McGonagall and Snape following him, walk quickly away.

She had only a glimpse of Dumbledore’s face as he passed but it was enough to fill her heart with renewed dread.

He looked—he looked like the one wizard Voldemort feared, a terrible anger and suspicion in his eyes.

And she knew something was still wrong. Very wrong.

It wasn’t over yet.

Harry was still not safe.

It wasn’t over yet.

Oh God! Harry! How much more would he have to endure tonight!

It wasn’t over yet—and somehow she knew the danger, the dark times, were only just beginning.

And her heart broke for the instinctive knowledge that Harry’s life would become even harder in the days to come.

Harry would need all his strength, all his courage…

And whatever it took, she would help him.

Not just because he needed her but because she needed to help him. She needed to help—and no matter what it took, she would. There was no question, no doubt, about that. It was just something she knew…

Soon

Disclaimer: See Ficlet 1

Author’s Note: Inspired by this sketch of Hermione by the oh-so-talented Demosthenes: http://www.livejournal.com/users/demosthenes91/21933.html#cutid1 -so this is for her. *hugs Tara*

And posting fluff to wish my very dear and very brilliant Gil, aka Romulus Lupin, a very happy birthday!!! *glomps Gil*

Three fluff ficlets, all related. PoV changes- but it should be obvious from the beginning whose PoV it is.

~~~

Soon

You know that look on her face she gets when she reads one of your or Ron’s essays and there’s one of those (in her mind) ridiculously mistaken statements in there.

You’re watching for it now as she skims through your latest paper for Potions—you’d written it in the middle of the night last night when you woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep and you have no doubt you wrote a lot of nonsense as your only purpose in writing was to make the essay the required length.

And then it comes. The little crease between her brows, the way she wrinkles her nose slightly— the expression that almost makes it look like she’s smelled something that disagreed with her, but is, right now, an indication that she’s partly confused, partly amused, partly irritated at the gibberish you’ve written and that she’s now having to read.

And you duck your head to hide your half-sheepish grin. You’d known she’d get that look on her face. And part of you even tries to write things which you know are wrong just to see that look on her face.

That part of you that made you give a thousand Galleons of the unwanted (undeserved) prize money from the Tri-wizard Tournament (blood money, you think, with a slight shudder) to the twins just to help them make people laugh—the part of you that can’t help but seek out the fun and the humor in just living when every day it seems you hear more news of death and war and battles and danger.

But even after all the war-time, some things haven’t changed.

She still reads over your papers—even without your asking her to—still makes corrections when necessary, suggestions. You still don’t know how you’d manage to be keeping up in your classes on top of the war preparation going on if it weren’t for her. (Then again, you still don’t know how you’d really do anything, how you’d still be alive, if it weren’t for her.) You still don’t quite understand her love of books or the library.

And you still get a fluttery sort of feeling when you see her smile. You still try, going out of your way, to make her smile—because there are times when you think that her smile might be the only bright thing in an otherwise dark world.

And so you almost intentionally slip mistakes into your essays sometimes—just to see that look on her face.

You don’t tell her this, of course. It’s your secret.

So you hide your grin when you see her wrinkle her nose in that way before scratching something on the parchment with her quill—and you think, she really is so- well, cute- when she does that.

And maybe- one day- you’ll act on the impulse you always get when you see that look on her face- and just kiss her.

She’s still wrinkling her nose like that as she reads on—and you think, soon. You’ll kiss her—soon…

~*~*~

Where You Belong

You always read over his papers for him. It’s just one of those things you do (and by now, it’s almost as much of a habit for you as worrying about him is)—and you don’t mind, not like you sometimes mind reading over Ron’s essays because Harry tends to care more but mostly because Harry always looks slightly sheepish and grateful for the help, unlike Ron who seems to take it as his due.

You pause, reading over the sentence. You can feel the frown on your face, the look of confusion and some incredulity as you wrinkle your nose automatically.

“Harry,” you begin, “what is this? You just wrote that boomslang skin is an essential ingredient in only the Paralysis Potion and I know you know better. Boomslang skin is a key part of lots of potions, including the Polyjuice Potion! You know that, I know you do! I--” You stop, because you’ve finally looked up at him after correcting the sentence and you see it.

He tries to hide it but you see it—he’s trying to hide a smile—and you see, too, a flash of guilt in his eyes. He tries to look chastened but you know him too well.

You narrow your eyes. “Harry,” you start slowly, voicing your suspicion that’s rapidly becoming a certainty, “You made that mistake on purpose.”

He doesn’t say anything but he refuses to meet your eyes too. And you know.

“You did do it purposely! Why?” you demand, though without anger. “It couldn’t have been just to annoy me because you’re not like Ron and you wouldn’t do that.” You pause, feeling a sudden pang of hurt, of suspicion. “You wouldn’t, would you?” You hate the thread of uncertainty in your voice—but this is Harry and you’ve never been able to not care about anything he does. This is Harry and you’ve always been vulnerable where he’s concerned somehow.

Now he looks up, his cheeks tinged with red but his eyes clear and direct. “No! It- it wasn’t—I--” he flounders and you suddenly realize it doesn’t matter. You know whatever reason he had, it wasn’t to annoy you and you could never be really angry at him for something so small.

“It’s okay,” you say. “Never mind.”

But he interrupts, the words coming from his mouth quickly, without thought, as if he just had to say them. “It- it was because I wanted to see that look you get on your face when you wrinkle your nose. ‘Cause you, well, you look cute when you do that and I like to see it,” he finishes quickly, his voice dropping until you can barely hear the last words.

He looks at you—looking a little nervous, a little guilty, a little sheepish, and a lot adorable. And you can’t help but smile, even as your heart gives an almost reluctant flutter of pleasure at Harry saying he thinks you’re cute. (Cute—from any other boy, you’d probably have been insulted but from Harry, it’s a compliment and you can’t help but like it.)

You can’t help but smile—and then before you realize what he’s thinking or have any time to prepare, he leans forward, one hand going up to touch your cheek, and he kisses you. His lips touch yours, for just a moment, and it’s a little awkward and a lot surprising and when it’s over, you’re half-convinced you only imagined it. (Goodness knows it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve imagined Harry kissing you.)

But your lips still feel a little tingling, you can still feel the fleeting warmth of his breath on your cheek—and you see the uncertainty in his eyes and you know it really happened.

Harry really did just kiss you.

You smile and, before you can chicken out, you kiss him quickly on the lips too.

He freezes, just staring at you until you can see the beginnings of a smile in the back of his eyes.

Your eyes meet his; you smile—again—before turning your attention back to his essay.

Then his warm hand covers yours as it rests on your knee.

You look up at him to meet his eyes and you see—something—in them, something warm and deep and sincere, something more than friendship.

And you know he can see all that you feel for him in your eyes too. Because he’s somehow always been able to understand what you’re thinking or feeling by looking at you.

And for that moment, you’re completely happy. There’s nothing else you want or need and nowhere you’d rather be than here in this deserted back corner of the library—with Harry. Always with Harry—where you belong.

~*~*~*~

Because of Her Smile

He didn’t plan to kiss her.

It just sort of happened.

He had blurted out his reason for purposely making a mistake in his essay because he couldn’t bear to hear that tiny note of uncertainty in her voice—and then she smiled.

And her smile- as always- just affected him because she was so pretty when she smiled and he had been thinking how cute she could look and how she made him feel and… And when he saw her smile he just couldn’t help it.

He did it because of her smile—the way it curved her lips and brightened her eyes and made him think of hope and friendship and all the things in the world he cared about…

It was an impulse, one he just acted on, forgetting to think. So he leaned forward until his lips brushed hers and he could feel the softness of her lips and her cheek under his fingers, the warmth of her breath, smell the familiar combination of books and ink and soap and shampoo mixed with some other smell that was just her…

Before his mind intruded and he stopped, suddenly realizing just what he was doing.

He was almost afraid to look at her, afraid of what he might see—but finally he did look at her and saw her smile.

His heart stopped and then leaped and then before his brain could form anything approaching a coherent thought, her lips were on his again. Quickly, fleetingly, but surely and lingering just enough to make his heart start racing, his breath catch.

She had kissed him. Hermione had kissed him. Hermione had kissed him.

He could feel the beginnings of a goofy grin on his face as he looked at her—so familiar and so dear—when had she suddenly become so important, so precious? When had she gone from being just Hermione, his best-friend-who-happened-to-be-a-girl, to being Hermione, the girl?

He didn’t know; he just knew she was.

She had gone back to reading over his essay—what would he do without her?

So he just moved his hand to rest on hers- a simple touch that still changed things as he’d never done such a thing before.

She looked up and he could see—something—in her eyes, something that warmed his heart and told him more than anything else just how much she cared about him…

And he was happy.

For that moment, the Prophecy, Voldemort, the war—nothing mattered. He was with Hermione—and he was happy.

Disclaimer: See Ficlet 1.

Author’s Note: HBP Spoilers ahead!!!!

This is sort of Hermione’s POV during one moment at the end of HBP- where it seems she snaps out of whatever insanity she was under during the rest of the book… Another attempt to justify her behavior in HBP- futile as it might be to try to explain away everything…

Because She Cared

Everybody plays the fool, sometime…

~Aaron Neville

The door opened and she saw him.

She didn’t even see Ginny standing beside him at first—she didn’t have eyes or attention left for anyone but him.

And she just ran- ran and hugged him. Hugged him hard—just to feel him, to know he was alive, he was safe.

His arms went around her in a half-hearted response but she didn’t care; she knew it wasn’t that he didn’t want her to hug him but that he was too drained, too beaten, to respond to any affection.

He was pale, his eyes blood-shot and haunted in a way that she’d never seen. Not even when he’d returned from seeing Cedric be killed or from seeing the ghostly forms of his parents come out of Voldemort’s wand or from seeing Sirius die… Not even then had he looked this hopeless, this exhausted- physically, mentally, emotionally…

And she knew she’d been an idiot. A fool.

A fool not to understand- not to realize that for all her fears of getting too involved, of losing him, of losing herself in him—fears she still had—none of that mattered.

Because it was just too late to keep herself from caring too much about him.

She cared about Ron—she did! She hadn’t been acting, or faking it, or leading him on. She had disliked seeing him with Lavender (Lavender… honestly! Lavender who didn’t seem to have ever had a serious thought…) And for Ron to choose Lavender over her; even though she’d always known that Ron rather fancied her… And it had felt—nice—to know that he fancied her, that she always had him…

She did care about Ron.

But she cared about Harry too—not more, per say, but in a different way… A scary way. The way that she couldn’t think rationally or reasonably when he was in danger or at risk… The way that she knew, if she let him, he’d become the most important thing in her life and she’d give everything else up just for him… The way that she knew she’d do anything just to bring a smile to his face… The way that nothing and no one mattered anything at all to her, except for him…

It was different. Harry was different—as he’d always been. Her feelings for him were different—intense and real and consuming and so frightening she’d reacted instinctively by retreating, by hiding, by turning to Ron…

Ron, who was so- well- normal… Ron, who was safe… Ron, whom she could understand because he was, well, just Ron and didn’t have a troubled past or a dark destiny to face… Ron—who wouldn’t die before he turned 18…

That had really been it. Harry—Harry dying—had always been a fear but it had become her biggest fear in the last year and half or so—and she just knew if she let herself care for Harry the way she was terrified she already did, she’d be devastated, a shell, hollow, if he died…

He meant too much to her.

She didn’t know how it had happened or when but she realized it after everything that had happened in 5^th year. He meant too much to her for her to recover if anything happened to him.

And it scared her.

It scared her that the thought of Harry in danger robbed her of her reason, her rationality. It scared her that he was becoming the center of her very existence, the reason for her very existence.

She was scared of losing herself.

But she was more scared; she was terrified—with a terror that stopped her heart and chilled her blood and made her tremble—of losing him.

But she knew when she saw him again that her fears didn’t matter. That whatever it was that connected her to Harry, that made her worry over him so constantly, whatever it was that made her willing to do anything for his sake—was more important than her fears.

And it was too late.

She couldn’t stop caring about Harry the way she did. She couldn’t care any less about him than she already did.

She’d been deceiving herself to think she could. To think that doing everything short of tying herself physically into a chair to keep herself from going to see him in the Infirmary after that one Quidditch match would do anything to make her care any less. If anything, it had only meant she worried more. She hadn’t been able to work or study or read or do anything except worry about him… She’d annoyed Ron by her constant asking after Harry and then annoyed Ginny when Ron had blown up at her…

It hadn’t worked—it was too late.

She knew that when she saw him again—saw the look in his eyes.

It was too late.

Because this was Harry—and she just cared—more than any fear, more than any doubts.

And she knew that she couldn’t hide from it any longer, couldn’t try to deny it any longer.

She would stay with him, help him—no matter what lay ahead. And in the end- no matter what happened- in the end, she would know that she had helped him, that she had faced her fears and her feelings…

Because she was a Gryffindor and that’s what Gryffindors did, right?

Because she cared too much to do anything less.

And maybe- just maybe- it was the caring about him, about anybody, that much, that really mattered... She cared- more than she was afraid for him, for herself; she just cared...

Vivir con miedo es como vivir a medias.

To live in fear is a life half-lived.

~“Strictly Ballroom”

Disclaimer: See Ficlet 1

A/N: Written before the release of HBP for Anne’s birthday and finally getting posted here.

Hope

It was calling to him.

The Veil, fluttering slightly in a nonexistent puff of wind, was calling him.

He could still see in his mind the look of surprise on Sirius’s face as he fell, and thought with a twist of bitterness that there was something wrong that the moment of death was also a moment of grace, the way his body had arched backwards—until he’d disappeared.

He was standing in front of the Veil again, drawn inexorably across the room by its odd fascination.

He could hear the voices whispering, calling. The Veil fluttered again as if to beckon him in.

His parents were there, he somehow knew. His parents were waiting for him, with Sirius. He could go to them, could join them.

It would be so easy- so very easy- just another step and he could be through… Just another step and he could see his parents again. He could see Sirius again…

And he’d be free. There would be no Voldemort, no Prophecy. He’d be free—and happy…

His scar burned and he flinched and heard in his own head Voldemort’s cold, cruel, hissing tones, “Yes, give up, Potter. Why stay here when it’d be so easy to just give up? You can’t defeat me; you have no chance. Just give up and never feel pain again.”

Never feel pain… He remembered Dumbledore’s saying that his pain and his grief over Sirius meant he was alive. Alive—and hurting. Being alive meant to feel pain.

But why—why, when it would be so easy to go through the veil and be free? Free from pain, free from fear, free from worry, free from the burden of being Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived?

His hand reached out of its own volition, slowly, fingers stretched to just touch the Veil…

He could hear the whispers. “Harry…” “Go on, Harry…” His mother’s voice, “Harry, we’re waiting, we’re so close…”

Another inch—a centimeter—less—and his fingers would be brushing the Veil. So close. So easy.

“Harry!”

He jerked, his hand dropping. The voice was louder, in his ear.

It was Hermione—her voice higher than usual and taut with fear, with concern.

“Harry! Wake up, Harry, it’s me…”

The Veil was vanishing, the stone room going too.

It was gone.

And he was in the Gryffindor Common Room, Hermione’s worried face bending over him.

It had been a dream—and he felt a stab of loss, of disappointment.

So close. He’d been so close…

And for a moment he was almost angry at Hermione for waking him up and stopping him.

“Harry, what is it? Are you okay?” Hermione was pale, looking to be close to tears at whatever it was she could see on his face.

“I- I don’t know,” he heard himself say. “I don’t know how to go on like this, don’t know why I should. I- I just don’t know… Is it worth it?”

He stopped at the look on Hermione’s face, feeling immediately guilty for blurting out his doubts like this. It was his problem, his questions; he shouldn’t be burdening her with the odd, depressing musings of his tired brain.

She sat down next to him, staring into the fire in thoughtful silence before she sighed. “I don’t really know; I can’t explain. It’s too much, too unfair that you have to go through all this. But Harry, I think—I think, in the end, it is worth it. Life is worth it. Because—because of hope. We just have to hope and believe that somehow it’ll be better tomorrow and better the day after that… We just have to hope.”

He sighed softly. Hope. But sometimes it was the hardest thing to do.

“And Harry,” Hermione began softly.

He turned to look at her, seeing the sympathy and the simple caring in her eyes.

“You don’t have to do it alone. You have Ron—and me. I’ll help you. I won’t leave you.”

He didn’t say anything—he couldn’t. a lump of emotion was obstructing his throat and he knew if he spoke, he’d say something to embarrass himself.

But he met her eyes and managed a slight smile—and knew she understood.

And then he leaned back against the couch, somehow very conscious of the warmth from Hermione’s arm as it brushed his.

Hope.

And at that moment, sitting next to Hermione, he couldn’t help but feel that maybe—just maybe—this, this feeling, this comfort, this friendship—this girl—was what would make it all worth it. Maybe, after all, it wasn’t such a hard thing to hope…

Never forget that, until the day God deigns to reveal the future to man, the sum of all human wisdom will be in these two words: Wait and Hope.

~Alexandre Dumas, “The Count of Monte Cristo”

Disclaimer: See Ficlet 1.

Author’s Note: Some very old ficlets (written before HBP) that I’d forgotten to post. Angst ahead! (Followed by some fluff.)

I Know…

She didn’t cry when she heard the news.

She didn’t feel grief when she heard that he was gone.

She didn’t feel pain.

One doesn’t when one receives a bullet to the heart.

All she knew was numbness, emptiness, filling her, consuming her…

And in all the emptiness, one thought that grew until it filled all her mind, heart and soul: she hadn’t told him she loved him.

She hadn’t told him she loved him—but she did. She always had. Loved him with all there was in her to love, loved him with all the passion in her being—and she’d never told him. She’d wanted to wait. Wait until he told her he loved her, wait until he wasn’t in danger anymore, wait until- until the time felt right.

And now she never could tell him.

Because he was gone.

He had left this world not knowing that she loved him!

She crumpled to the ground, that one thought somehow slashing at her heart more cruelly than even the knowledge that he was gone. That she’d never see him again, never hear his voice or his laugh, never see his smile, never see that look in his eyes reserved only for her.

He’d never known she loved him!

And oh God, how she regretted it now! How she wished she had told him when she had the chance! She should have told him from the moment she realized it, should have told him every time since then so that she was sure he knew.

Oh she should have told him so he’d known! She shouldn’t have let him leave her without making sure he knew just what he meant to her!

But it was too late now. Too late…

And the thought tore her apart.

She was curled up on her side, dry-eyed and agonized, when he approached her, quietly.

Ron’s face was ravaged with his own grief and in his eyes was the knowledge that he had lost his best friend—she had lost her love and her soul. “He-” His voice cracked and he finished in a hoarse whisper. “He gave this to me to give you- in case- in case anything happened.”

She stared at the folded parchment he dropped in front of her, beginning to tremble all over.

It was a letter.

A letter he’d written before he left. A letter to her…

She caught it up in trembling hands, pressing it to her lips before opening it. He had touched this; he’d written it for her eyes alone. And no matter what it said, it was precious just for having been meant for her, by him.

The note was short, in the familiar, slightly lopsided, scrawled handwriting she knew so well that brought a sound, half-choked laugh and half-cry from her lips, at knowing she’d never see it again.

Hermione,

I’m writing this before I leave even though I know I’ll be seeing you soon- to say goodbye. But I wanted to write this too, to tell you what I don’t think I’ll be able to say.

You know I’ve never been good with words, especially not about emotions but it’s easier at this moment.

I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know if I’m ready, or if I’m strong enough to do what I have to do. All I know is that I have to do this, not because a Prophecy said so, but because it’s just something I have to do. I have to face him- and Merlin willing, defeat him- for you, for Ron, for everyone who’s helped me and for everyone he’s already taken away from me. But especially for you. I have to face him- for you, so you can never be hurt or in danger because of him again.

I have to go.

But Hermione, know that I love you. I think I’ve always loved you, though I was too stupid to know it at first. I love you; you’re my strength, my hope, my reason. I don’t know what I would have done without you, so thank you.

I don’t want to think like this but it has to be said. I’d want to tell you this looking into your eyes, when we’re alone somewhere and maybe I will, someday. But just in case—in case I don’t come back—I need you to know. I love you. If I don’t come back- just know that I’ll always love you, no matter what happens to me. And I want to thank you- for being there for me, for believing in me, but more than that, thank you for loving me—because, right now, at this moment, I can’t doubt that you do. I know you do…

And that’s all I really needed to say: I love you, and I know…

Harry

The numbness vanished, leaving only pain.

He was gone—and her life was over.

But in all her grief, she was aware, too, of an odd kind of relief. The poison that had accompanied the news that he was gone had been cleansed with his letter.

And she finally cried- cried for him, cried for herself, cried for the love they would never get to share.

And the words she’d never said escaped her throat in an agonized whisper, “Harry, I love you…”

And somehow, from somewhere, she could have sworn she heard his voice—and there was a smile in it… I know…

~*~*~*~*~

A Mother’s Heart

She’s gotten used to saying goodbye.

She’s gotten used to smiling when she feels like crying, gotten used to swallowing back all the torrent of words of worry and fear and only saying the most basic ones of “Be careful, take care of yourself and don’t forget to write.” She’s gotten used to knowing she’ll see her girl only for a few weeks at a time, if that, in an entire year.

She’s gotten used to it.

But every time she says goodbye, she hurts just a little more, feels the chasm between her and her little girl growing just that little bit wider—cries just a little bit harder after it’s over and her little girl is gone. Again.

She’s gotten used to not saying everything she thinks, to hiding her worries and her dread.

But this time she can’t.

She can’t.

She knows she’s making it harder but she can’t. It would kill something in her to just stay silent again. She can’t keep in her fears any longer.

And the wall she’s been so careful to keep around her fears breaks at the sight of her daughter, her little girl, her Hermione, packing her trunk in her customary neat fashion.

“You’re going again?”

Hermione looks up. “Yes, Mum, I’m going. I got the owl from the Order today; they’ll be coming by to pick me up tonight.”

And she breaks every careful resolution she’s made over the years and says what she’d promised she never would say. “Hermione, can’t you—not go? Can’t you stay here, with your father and me?” She sees Hermione’s mouth open, her head begin to move, and she rushes on, the words spilling out of her now that the wall’s finally been breached. “We hardly ever see you anymore and you came back from school so pale and so tired. Do you have any idea how much we worry about you, going back to that school where we can’t see you and don’t know what’s happening to you? Please, Hermione, can’t you say, ‘no’ to this Order and tell them you’ll stay at home for this summer?”

She stops, feeling a pang of guilt for the way she’s deliberately trying to manipulate Hermione’s love for her and her father but it’s for Hermione’s own good, her safety…

Hermione’s shaking her head. Her expression is sad but determined. “No, Mum, I can’t. I’m sorry but this is something I have to do. He- he needs me, Mum. He needs me and I- I can’t leave him alone.”

She doesn’t need to ask who the ‘he’ is. She knows. That Harry Potter boy. Hermione’s letters have been filled with him since she first went to Hogwarts and it’s only gotten more so. At first they were light-hearted mentions of him, along with their other friend, Ron, but they’ve gotten more intense, more serious—and more exclusively centered around Harry. And she’d known that this boy, this Harry, was the reason Hermione is never home anymore. She tries, oh she’s tried so hard, not to resent Harry for it (she remembers seeing him, a skinny little boy with messy black hair and glasses and the brightest green eyes she can ever remember seeing in a human face). Her mother’s heart ached to hear Hermione tell of how he’d lost his parents and how he’s treated by his aunt and uncle—but now she finds it hard to remember that. Now he’s just become the thing tearing her away from her daughter—and she can’t help but resent it. She can’t help but resent the knowledge that he, a boy her daughter only just met five years ago, has become the most important person in her own daughter’s life. She can’t help but resent that again, he comes first—before her own parents, Hermione thinks of him.

Hermione throws her arms around her, giving her a fierce hug the way she hasn’t done in so many years. And suddenly she’s her little girl again.

Hermione draws back, her eyes serious, her face pleading, asking for understanding, for forgiveness. For permission to leave. “Please, Mum, try to understand. I can’t leave him alone when he needs me.” Hermione glances at a picture out on her bed, waiting to be packed into the trunk, and her gaze softens. “He needs me, Mum, and I can help him. I understand him and he- he understands me too. He cares about me—and sometimes when I’m talking to him or just sitting with him, I feel as if this is what I was made for.” Her daughter looks up at her again. “I think—I really think, sometimes, irrational as it might sound, he’s my destiny. And I can’t- I won’t let him be alone. Not when I know he needs me.”

And she knows she’s lost. She’s lost.

She can only say goodbye again. She will not cry, will not make Hermione’s choice harder. She’s lost.

It was inevitable; she knew she would lose and yet she couldn’t help but ask. But she knew.

She remembers the look in Hermione’s eyes when she came home just a couple weeks ago, a new look of determination, of compassion, of concern… Of love…

And she realizes as she watches her daughter finish packing that this is it. Her daughter, her little girl, is no longer a little girl. Her daughter has become a woman.

She sees it in Hermione’s eyes.

Her daughter has become a woman- a woman ready to live, to suffer, and to sacrifice. A woman—ready to give her all for the sake of the man she loves.

She has to let her daughter go… And all she can do is wait and pray and hope and fear…

~*~*~*~*~

Note: And now, the fluff, as promised.

This one is borrowing two lines from ‘West Wing’ because Aaron Sorkin is a genius. Enjoy!

Amazing

“Hi.”

Harry looked up at Arthur Weasley at the quiet greeting and smiled slightly. “Hi,” he answered, returning his gaze to the small, sleeping form of his ten-hour-old daughter.

His daughter! He had a daughter!

Even after ten hours, the thought still had the power to amaze him.

“She’s beautiful,” Arthur said after a bit.

“Yes, she is,” he sighed a little, his heart filling with an emotion he couldn’t identify and feeling the pricking of tears at the back of his eyes, as he had at random times during the past ten hours when he thought of his daughter.

“Well, you’ve been a father now for almost half a day. What do you know now that you didn’t know a half-day ago?” Arthur asked, grinning sideways at Harry.

Harry smiled. “That babies are so tiny when they’re born—and they come with little hats,” he said, gesturing with a hand to the small pink cap covering little Emily Potter’s head.

Arthur nodded. “She’ll be all grown up before you know it. I’m going to head home now, Harry. Have a good night.”

Harry glanced over at Arthur. “Thanks, you too.”

Arthur clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder briefly and then left, leaving Harry alone once more to gaze at his daughter.

His daughter, his daughter, his daughter… He had a daughter!

“Emily,” he breathed her name softly, reaching out a careful hand but stopping just short of touching her soft cheek, not wanting to wake her up or disturb her in any way.

“I’m your daddy, you know that, Emily? And I love you—so much. I will do anything for you, anything to protect you, anything to keep you safe and happy and healthy… Anything…” he promised in a whisper and blinked back the tears that were suddenly in his eyes.

He thought of what Arthur had asked him and his own light response.

What did he know now that he hadn’t known before today, before Emily had been born, before he’d seen her for the first time, before he’d held her for the first time?

Love.

It was the first word, the first thing, that came to his mind. Real, perfect, absolutely unwavering, unflinching, blind love. Love that both made him feel stronger (he could and would do anything for her) and weaker (he didn’t even want to think about how he’d feel if she even got so much as a paper-cut)… Father-love—an absolutely amazing, soul-deep feeling and he understood his own parents and what they’d done for him so much more now. He understood how his parents could have sacrificed their lives for him without a second’s hesitation, how his mum had died to save him…

He’d loved before. Goodness knows, he loved Hermione with a depth and a passion that amazed him sometimes and he’d always known that he would protect her with his life.

But this- his love for Emily- was different, not stronger, not better, just—different.

And looking at Emily, he knew, deep inside himself, that all his fears about becoming a father, had been unfounded. As Hermione had assured him repeatedly, he thought, his lips quirking into a slight smile at the memory of some of his wife’s words on the subject.

So what if the only real example of fatherhood which he’d grown up with was the less-than-exemplary one of Vernon Dursley? Fatherhood wasn’t something you learned through watching, necessarily; a lot of it was simply instinct. Instinct and love.

He was going to be the best father he could be—because Emily deserved nothing less, because he loved her too much to be anything less… He was sure he’d make mistakes sometimes, but not major Dursley-like ones (he hoped) and he had Hermione—to say nothing of the Weasleys and Hermione’s parents and Remus…

“I love you, Emily,” he whispered softly, again.

“She loves you too,” he heard his wife’s voice say quietly, a smile in her tone.

Harry smiled, going over to Hermione’s bed and dropping a kiss on her forehead. “How long have you been awake?”

“Not long.” She paused and then stifled a yawn. “And I think I’ll be going back to sleep in a minute.”

He laced his fingers with hers as he smiled into her eyes. “Have I told you yet today that I love you?”

She nodded, returning his smile. “I love you too.”

“And thank you for my daughter.”

Her smile softened as her gaze shifted to focus on the crib and their sleeping daughter. “Our daughter… we have a daughter…”

He voiced what she was thinking. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said and then yawned again.

He laughed softly and kissed her again. “Go to sleep, Hermione, before you traumatize my ego by making me think I’m boring company.”

“Mmm.” She reached up, bringing his head down to hers for another, longer kiss, her lips lingering on his, before she smiled. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, love.”

Hermione’s eyes closed and soon her even breathing told Harry that she’d fallen asleep. He settled himself back more comfortably in the chair beside her bed, feeling a simple, quiet happiness well up inside him, as he watched his sleeping wife and daughter.

Now, he had everything…

Disclaimer: See Ficlet 1.

Author’s Note: These first two ficlets are angsty, especially the second one that is a dark!ficlet. Followed by fluff (so you don’t all hunt me down and kill me for what I’ve done to Hermione in the second ficlet.)

This first one was written (obviously) before HBP came out, part of my thinking about why, in my opinion, H/G was never a viable option. A point of clarification: most of the times, the ‘she’ and ‘her’ which are in italics are referring to Hermione. Non-italicized pronouns are for Ginny, usually.

The Difference

She knows when he thinks of her.

She can always tell when he’s thinking of her. She can always tell because of the way his expression changes, softens; she can’t explain or describe the change but she sees it and she knows.

And that’s when she gives up hope completely.

It’s the difference between friendship and something more…

It’s the difference between just liking someone and needing them.

It’s the difference between her and Hermione.

Oh, he’s always nice to her; he smiles when he says hi to her, he talks to her and she knows he would protect her if she were in danger. (And he’s already saved her life.)

But it’s the difference between what he would do out of basic goodness and what he would do out of feeling.

When he saved her in her 1^st year, he would have saved anyone in the same situation. It’s just who he is: a hero.

It’s not personal.

If she were in danger, it would be personal. If anything were to happen to Hermione, he would stop at nothing, do anything, risk anything- without a second’s thought- to save her. Because he cares… Because he needs her…

It would be personal.

And it’s just not the same as what he’d do for her, or for anyone.

She realizes now it can never be the same.

It’s too late for that.

He likes her but she’s just one of his friends, just the younger sister of his best friend.

Hermione is—more than that.

It’s the difference between not minding being around someone and actively seeking someone’s company.

He doesn’t think of her when she’s not around, doesn’t miss her. He would be fine to go for months without seeing her and it would never occur to him to wonder where she is or what she’s doing. She’s not that interesting or that important to him.

He does think of Hermione, misses Hermione. He would wonder where she is and what she’s doing—whether she’s thinking of him—if he doesn’t see her for a long time.

He likes her. He loves Hermione (even if he doesn’t know it yet).

That’s the difference.

And the difference is what hurts.

He never actively does anything to hurt her; he’s friendly and- and just nice. He’s not mean to her, doesn’t ridicule her, doesn’t argue with her (but then, she thinks with another sigh, he would have to care more about her to get upset enough to really argue). He’s nice.

But there’s a difference, always a difference.

She had hoped if she started talking to him more, became his friend in a way she hadn’t been in her first three years at Hogwarts, it might help. She had hoped if she became his friend, could spend more time with him, he might come to see that she was more than the blushing, silent nonentity she’d turned into around him. So she’d tried, swallowed her fear and tried.

And she’d become his friend, a real friend.

But it’s not the same as what he has with Hermione.

All it’s done is make the difference seem that much larger.

And she realizes it was too late for her. It would be too late for any girl.

Hermione is too important to him, is too much a part of him. Is too central a part of his life for anyone to intrude or replace her.

She can be his friend; she is his friend.

But Hermione will be- is- his best friend, his confidante, his support, his partner, his—everything.

And that’s the difference—the difference between liking and needing, between friendship and love.

The difference between her and Hermione.

That’s just the way things are, the way they will always be.

~*~*~*~*~

The Last Casualty

She was the last, most tragic casualty of the war.

Little had the Death Eaters known when they kidnapped her that they had signed their own death warrants.

His wrath was terrible, his retribution swift, merciless and absolutely inexorable. The defeat of Voldemort turned out to be- after all the worry- almost simple against the force of his fury.

And then he turned his attention to her…

She had been tortured into insensibility—and when she awoke, her mind had been unhinged, or as the Healer at St. Mungo’s put it, her mind had retreated to escape the pain, retreated so deeply into her spirit that it could never be completely restored. After all that medical magic could do had been done for her physical condition, she was moved to a small cottage he bought for the purpose.

No one dared suggest after the first time they tried, that she remain at St. Mungo’s, locked up for all intents and purposes, despite the repeated (and sincere) assurances that she would want for nothing, be treated with the sort of maternal care she could receive at no other hospital. The look on his face closed any further discussion for any who were not suicidal. And that was that. She was moved into his cottage, with him as her only care-taker.

And there she stayed, along with him.

It was the only thing, the last thing, recognizable in her from her earlier days. Her formidable intellect, which had made her so indispensable to the search and destruction of the remaining horcruxes, was gone now and only one thing remained, the one thing so deeply embedded in her heart and soul that it had withstood the torture: her trust in him, her love for him… Her trust and her love were intact, as deep and as strong as ever, only now childlike in its absolute dependence on him.

When she was agitated or made nervous by anything unfamiliar that struck her as being grating or at all dangerous, he was the comfort and reassurance she sought. His voice the only one which could calm her and to whom she would listen. His touch the only one she would tolerate.

He would only ever say that she’d been changed but she would always be his Hermione. He left everything, stopped everything, gave it up for her, to care for her. No one other than him was allowed to care for her, no help other than his was asked for. Even in her occasional fractious days when the stubborn determination that had been her strength in earlier, better days, reappeared, he remained and still, the only voice she heard was his gentle one, the only touch she felt was his tender one.

Some people said it was a pity that he, the hero of whom such high hopes had been had, had been reduced to being only the caretaker of someone who was, for all that she had once been so much more, little more than a helpless child. No one who had once known them, seen anything of the bond they had shared, said such a thing. It was only ignorance.

He knew what was said of him by those nay-sayers—that he might have become mentally unstable as well to give up everything and everyone to care for her. He didn’t care. They didn’t understand.

She was still herself; she was still the only person he needed beside him, and without her, his life would be no life at all.

He saw only one person from his former days, once every year.

One friend, his oldest friend, was permitted to visit—when she was asleep as, aside from him, all her other attachments seemed to have been lost and only made her uneasy.

Once every year, he saw his friend, the one link he retained to the rest of the wizarding world.

“They’re having a special ceremony to commemorate 10 years since Dumbledore’s death,” Ron said quietly on this one day. “They’d really like it if you would attend, even if only for a while.”

“Only if she can go too,” was the quiet, firm, and expected answer, the only answer he ever got to such inquiries—and that was the end as they both knew, though neither said, that she would never be able to go to any such event; it would be too unfamiliar and therefore threatening to her.

Ron had expected nothing less but he felt a pang of disappointment nonetheless. “Don’t you miss—anything?” he finally ventured, hesitantly, to ask something he’d never dared ask before.

“I have her. I’m fine.”

And looking at Harry, Ron knew it was nothing less than the truth.

He had never needed the fame or the status or the fans; he had needed her, still needed her—and with her, he was happy. Still.

Nothing else mattered.

It was just the two of them—as, perhaps, it had always been, deep down, despite the strength of Harry and Ron’s friendship.

What Harry and Hermione had was beyond friendship, transcended it—and Ron could do nothing but be thankful that at least, Hermione still had her one friend, her one tie to life, one aspect of her old self which hadn’t been shut down.

And that was all.

But maybe, that one part of her old self—her complete and utter trust in Harry and her love for him—was the most central part of her and as long as she still had that, she was still, no matter how changed, Hermione. And she didn’t need anything else…

~*~*~*~*~

A Hero and a Father

“Mummy, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, love. What is it?” Hermione smiled at her 5 year old son.

“My friends today said Daddy was a hero. Is that true?”

Hermione reached over and pulled her son onto her lap. “Yes, your dad is a hero. He’s a hero because he’s brave and kind. And when years ago, a group of bad men were trying to hurt a lot of people, he fought them. He started to fight the bad men when he was just a boy a little older than you. He was scared because these men were very powerful but he fought anyway. And that’s why he’s a hero. He fought and risked his life because it was the right thing to do.”

“And then he married his beautiful best friend and lived happily ever after. End of story.”

Hermione and Andy looked up with a smile and Andy quickly wiggled his way off of Hermione’s lap to run across the room and hug Harry’s leg.

Harry bent and picked up his son, making a face of exaggerated effort that made Andy giggle.

Hermione watched with a soft smile. She really loved watching Harry with their children. He was such a wonderful father.

Harry glanced over at Hermione with a grin. “Telling tales from our childhood?”

Andy hooked an arm around Harry’s shoulders, grinning. “I asked her if you’re a hero, Daddy, and she said you are.”

“Ah.”

Andy cocked his head to one side and looked curiously at his father. “Daddy, why didn’t you tell me you’re a hero?”

Harry sat down with his son on his lap. “Because it’s not that important to me.”

“But- but you’re a hero! All my friends want to meet you.”

Harry smiled and dropped a kiss on his son’s hair. “Then they can meet me sometime. But you know what, Andy?”

“What?”

“I don’t really want you to remember that people call me a hero.”

“Why not?”

“Because all I really want you to think of me as is your daddy. Understand?”

Andy shook his head, looking confused. “But I can think of you as being my daddy and as being a hero.”

Harry laughed and gave in. “Ok then. Now, I think it’s time for you to be in bed.”

Harry stood and let Andy get into bed and then tucked him in. “Good night.”

Hermione stood as well, kissing Andy’s cheek. “Sleep well, love.”

“G’night Mummy; g’night Daddy.”

Softly, Harry closed the door of Andy’s room, and then stopped, his hand still on the knob, as Hermione stepped close and slid her arms around his waist.

Harry linked his fingers loosely behind her back looking down at her in pleased surprise for this random embrace. “Well, what’s this for?”

“Nothing except I love you.”

Harry grinned. “I know you do.”

Hermione pretended to swat him. “Stop that. You know what I mean. I love you for being such a good father.”

Harry’s smile softened. “I love you too,” he said softly just before he closed the distance between their lips and kissed her. Loving the familiarity of the kiss and the feeling of her in his arms, loving that even after more than 10 years of marriage and having 2 children, he never tired of kissing Hermione. And he realized yet again that he didn’t care about what he’d done to make people call him a hero. All that really mattered to him, the things in his life he was proudest of, were his wife and his children.