There Goes the World

Goldy

Rating: PG13
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 22/02/2005
Last Updated: 22/02/2005
Status: completed

He's come back for her.

Chapters

1. untitled

1. untitled

Title: There Goes the World
Category: Angst/Romance
Keywords: Hermione, dark!Harry, post-Hogwarts
Pairing: Harry/Hermione
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: All five books.
Summary: He’s come back for her.
Disclaimer: blah, blah, blah *insert not mine lecture here*

A/N: This was written for a livejournal community called fanfict00bs, which posts a new fic every Monday. Portkey authors Amethyst and Airiviel also write for it. I’d highly recommend joining.

So kiss me hard, ‘cause this will be the last time that I let you

-The Best Deceptions, Dashboard Confessional

It’s too quiet.

Hermione notices it the moment she Apparates into her flat.

It’s far too quiet.

She can hear her breathing, the slight ticking of the bedroom clock, the hum of the refrigerator and…

Something else.

Her hands tremble as she reaches for her wand. Every tiny noise seems magnified.

Steady, she thinks. Steady…

She has one of the most elaborate systems of protection charms in Britain. Nothing—absolutely nothing—can enter her flat without her knowing about it.

Only something has.

Something has—she can feel it—and she has nothing to defend herself with but her wand and her own wits.

Not that they’d ever let her down before.

Still trembling, she takes a deep breath. “Who’s there?”

A light snaps on, illuminating the figure sitting calmly in her easy chair by the sofa (her favourite place to read).

Harry.

Tendrils of fear and dread twist themselves into knots in her stomach. She takes a step back, her wand hand visibly shaking.

No… not now… not now…

“Hey,” he says quietly, as if she’s just found him in the Gryffindor common room. He leans back in the chair, propping his feet up on the ottoman and folding his hands on his lap. “Don’t tell me you’re surprised to see me.”

She can’t do anything but stare, her heartbeat loud and panicked in her ears.

“Don’t tell me you’re not happy to see me, either,” he says, grinning. “Because we both know you’d be lying.”

No. No. No. No.

Her breathing is shallow. “Get out.”

He frowns, a flicker of irritation passing over his face. “Now, Hermione, is that any way to treat an old friend?”

“I mean it,” she says. “Get out.”

“Really,” he says, looking affronted. “You’re being far too dramatic about this. Alright, I s’pose I could’ve knocked, but I did rather fancy the idea of a challenge. And let me say, you’re still the brightest witch who ever passed through Hogwarts. Had quite a spot of difficulty finding my way in here.”

“Get out, Harry,” she says again, trying to be firm. “You must leave. I… I’ll call them.”

Harry sets his jaw and meets her eyes. “No, you won’t.”

“I will,” she says and she hates that there’s a tremor in her voice.

“We have no doubt that he will attempt to contact one of you in the future. You must be prepared.”

Ron looked petrified. “Sir, we’ll never measure up to… he’s got power we can’t even try and—”

“If you’ll shut your gob for one moment, Weasley, I shall attempt an explanation. Your flats will both be monitored by members of the Order. All you will have to do is hold your wand and say a single charm. Is that possible for you to handle, do you think?”

“Harry’s not stupid—he could figure out a way around—”

“Harry, Mr. Weasley,” Dumbledore cut in. “Will be counting on the fact that neither of you will summon us on him.”

Ron’s eyes flashed. “That won’t be a problem, Professor.” He glanced over at her. “Right, Hermione?”

“Leave, please leave,” she begs, backing up. “I’ll call them, Harry.”

He stands, eyes studying her. Finally, he shakes his head. “No, you won’t.”

“I will.”

Harry smiles, looking smug and she knows she’s just failed the first test. “So,” he says conversationally, looking around her flat. “How have you been?”

She stares—shocked by his attempts to seem normal.

And he does.

He looks like the shy boy she met all those years ago on the Hogwarts’ Express with hopeful eyes and a hesitant smile. He looks so much like Harry. So much like what she remembers.

Harry shrugs when he doesn’t get an answer and instead chooses to wander around her flat. He stops in front of her fireplace and looks at the photos on the mantle.

“You still have pictures of me,” he says, staring at them.

“Of course I do,” she says, without thinking. She wants to hit herself for her mistake—for her weakness—because she can see the triumph in his eyes.

He picks up a photo of the three of them—sixth year at Hogwarts. She feels her chest tighten at the way he looks at it.

“I miss those days,” he says softly. He sounds genuinely remorseful and she feels drawn to him—like she always was.

“Those days are over,” she says. “We’ll never have them again.”

Harry places the picture back on the mantle before turning to face her. “You’re afraid of me,” he whispers, watching her intensely.

Her fists are clenched so tightly she can feel her nails digging into her skin. “Of course I’m afraid of you.”

His eyes flicker. “You shouldn’t be.”

She feels a hysterical laugh bubble in her throat. “Why not?” she demands. “Give me one reason that I have to not be frightened of you!”

“Because,” he snaps, as if it’s painfully obvious. “Because I would never hurt you.”

“He’s unpredictable, Hermione,” Lupin said gravely. “We have no idea who he’ll—what he’ll target next.”

“What are you saying?” Ron asked.

“We’re saying, Mr. Weasley,” McGonagall said, “that he is a threat. His fixation is on the two of you specifically. We have no idea what he’s capable of.”

“Harry would never hurt me,” she whispered. “I know it.”

“Granger, you nitwit,” Snape said. “Potter will hurt anyone that stands in his way.”

“Yes, you would,” she says. “If I made you angry enough, you would.”

“Yeah?” he said. “Well—I’m pretty damned ticked off with you now.”

She looks away because she wants so badly to believe him and disregard the warnings. She’s sickened by it—shame causing her face to flush.

I’m sorry, Ron.

“Listen, Hermione,” he says, coming closer to her. And she wants to back away, but she finds herself incapable of moving. “Listen to me. You have nothing to fear from me. Nothing. I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—there’s nothing you could do that would make me so angry that I’d hurt you.”

She shuts her eyes. “Harry… please…”

“No, I mean it,” he says firmly. “Just… look at me, okay?”

She does and she’s startled to see how close he’s gotten (can’t remember when that happened). Her heart pounds and she knows she’s falling and believing him.

“What do you see?” he asks.

“I…” she shakes her head. “You’re not… the Harry I know is dead.”

“We’ve lost him,” Dumbledore said, eyes worn. “The boy we knew—he’s gone. I always feared that defeating Voldemort might…” he let out a heaving sigh. “But I believed the good in Harry to be far greater than his thirst for power.”

“There must be something we can do to help him,” she pleaded. “I can’t… I can’t give up on him…”

“Granger, you don’t have a choice,” Snape said coldly. “Potter has been completely—”

“Well, you came back, didn’t you?” she said. “How can you stand here and tell me there’s no hope for him?”

“Hermione, he’s gone,” Ron said. “Harry may as well be dead.” He set his jaw. “Whoever he is now is someone we cannot reach.”

“So, what?” she said. “We’re just supposed to throw him in Azkaban? Kill him? Kill Harry?”

“He’s not Harry anymore!” Ron shouted. “And, yeah, you know what? He deserves to die for what he did!”

He’s amused. “You don’t really think that, do you?”

“Of course I do!” she says. “You’re nothing like… I refuse to believe that you’re the same boy I used to know.”

He raises his eyebrows, smiling slightly. “Then… why are you still here? Why haven’t you called them? Why haven’t you called for Ron? Why aren’t you running away?”

She can’t answer and she feels like she’s open and vulnerable in front of her. She understands how well he knows her. He can play on all her fears, all her weaknesses—no one in the world knows her better.

She can still hear the clock ticking in the bedroom.

Tick, tick, tick.

Time, then, has not come to a stop.

“Please leave,” she says, but there’s no force behind her words anymore.

“If you really meant it,” he says. “I’d go. But I don’t think you do.”

“Why are you here?”

He looks mildly surprised that she’s changed things—that she’s asking a question.

He forgets that she knows him as well as he knows her.

“I miss you.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t.”

“Of course I do,” he says irritably. “Every day.”

“You think you do, but you don’t.” She takes a breath. “You think you care for me, but you don’t. You can’t.”

“And would it make things easier for you if you believed that?”

“It’s the truth.”

He gives a hollow laugh. “The truth?” he leans towards her. “Is it what they’ve told you or what you, Hermione Granger, believes?”

She swallows because she realizes that she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know what to believe or who to believe, but being this close to Harry now—she wants to think that he can still feel, that she can still reach him.

“I love you,” he says. “And nothing can ever change that.”

“He’s incapable of love,” Dumbledore said. “The darkness he had to reach for when he defeated Voldemort took away Harry’s ability to love.”

“Obsessed,” Snape added. “He may be obsessed—but love? It’s impossible for him.”

“He may try and convince you otherwise,” Dumbledore said. “He may even believe himself capable of love, but it is not love.”

“Do not let him fool you,” Snape continued. “Do not forget that he understands you better than anyone. He will manipulate you.”

She’s horrified when she feels tears sting her eyes.

“I know it’s not true,” she says. “I know that—you can’t love me. You’re… you’re not capable of love.”

“Yeah?” he says. “Everyone is bloody capable of it. Love chooses you. Even fucking Tom Riddle was capable of love—if he’d pulled his head out of his arse for two seconds and looked around him. My sodding Aunt Petunia—who used to me locked in a cupboard—was fucking blinded with love for that fat cousin of mine.”

She starts to cry. Pathetic, weak…

But she can’t help it, hearing him talk that way.

She can’t help it because she’s so scared she can’t fight him.

Her tears seem to soften him and his voice turns gentler.

“I’ve changed—I know I have, Hermione. I’m the fucking Prince of Darkness now or whatever the sodding hell we’re calling it. But some things don’t change. Feelings don’t change.”

He touches her cheek and brushes away her tears. Move away, she thinks, even as she steps closer to him.

“I’ll tell you this much—being alone, I can’t do it. The only people I really loved when I went off to fight Voldemort were you and Ron and you were still the only two people I loved when the fight was finished and Voldemort saw fit to pass on all his magic to me. Of course, there’s no doubt in my mind that if I showed up in Ron’s flat, he’d call the Order on me before I could even say the words ‘Chudley Canons.’ After all, what are best mates for?” he leans forward until he’s looking directly into her eyes. “Of course, he’s probably just hoping that with me out of the way, you’ll finally drop your knickers for him.”

She flinches and back away. “You’re disgusting.”

“Honest, love. Honest. We both know that Ron’s been waiting for his chance to—”

“Shut up.”

“Mmm, alright,” he says mildly, looking completely unaffected. “Whatever you say.”

“Ronald Weasley,” she says. “Is ten times the wizard you’ll ever be.”

“Ouch,” he says, not looking particularly hurt. “Well—probably. Though, I did defeat the most evil wizard of our time.”

“And it turned you into someone I don’t recognize.”

He sighs. “Clearly, you haven’t been listening to a word I’ve been saying. Now—let’s try this again. I miss you.”

With a loud crack, he Disappparates and she jumps in surprise when she hears him re-Apparate into her bedroom.

Call them, she thinks. Call Ron. Call the Order…

Instead, she stands immobilized, not able to do anything but listen to the beating of her own heart and the ticking of the clock.

She hates herself a little for it.

She knows better than this. She prides herself on her rationality, her ability to think through a situation. And here’s Harry—Harry, who she no longer understands—and suddenly none of it (none of the rationality, none of her resourcefulness) seems to matter.

She walks to her bedroom, down the cramped hall of her flat, past the bathroom with a broken tap. He’s opened a suitcase on her bed and is busily shoving her clothes into it. For a moment, she can do nothing but stare. There’s such a level of unreality in the scene. Harry. In her bedroom. Packing her clothes.

Not possible.

“What are you doing?”

“Um…” he says, folding a shirt and putting it in the suitcase. “Packing?”

“Yes, but why?”

“Because,” he says irritably. “You’re leaving with me.”

“What?” she says. “No, I’m not!”

He rolls his eyes. “Honestly, Hermione, you really must stop fighting this.” He picks up a pair of her knickers and grins. “Nice.”

“You… you…” she sputters. “Put those down!”

“Okay,” he says, putting them in the suitcase. “Now, how much of your old clothes do you want to take with you? It’s probably for the best if we get out of here quickly. We can always buy you more once we get a good distance away—the ‘Potter’ name still carries weight in the wizarding world, you know.”

“I am not leaving with you!”

He clucks his tongue. “We can take Crookshanks, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Of course that’s not what I’m worried about! I have a job and friends and… and don’t you think Ron would notice if I just took off? And—and anyway—that’s not the point!”

“Okay,” he says. “Then what is the point?”

“The point is that I can’t leave with you! You and me can’t—we’re over, Harry!” Her voice breaks. “You cannot love me!”

“Yes, I bloody well can!” he says, voice rising for the first time. “Yes, I can!” Agitated, he stalks around her bedroom. “Look, I tried, okay? But I think we’re all aware of what a miserable fuck-up I am without you. Harry Potter can’t even tie his goddamned shoelaces without Hermione Granger.” He whirls around to face her. “I don’t know how to do this without you! I love you!”

“And that doesn’t matter!” she yells. “It doesn’t matter, Harry! You killed people!”

“He’s killed. He’s tasted blood. He’ll have a thirst for it now—the power it gives. Few can come back from such darkness.” Dumbledore turned haggard eyes on Ron. “I’m truly sorry for your loss. Too many… far too many have died fighting this war.”

“Yeah, but not because Harry killed them. He has to pay for—if he comes near me, I’ll kill him.”

“Ron—”

“Don’t you dare even try and stick up for him, Hermione! He’d kill you, too, if he got the chance!”

He doesn’t say anything in response to her outburst, but she can tell that she’s unnerved him.

“You killed Ginny and there’s no coming back from that—not now, not ever. I can’t… I cannot allow myself to be with someone like you.”

She hates the way he’s staring at her. He’s trying to sense the veracity of her words, she knows. Finally, he sits down on the edge of the bed, the first hints of defeat on his face.

Something inside of her aches at seeing him in her bedroom, on her bed, as if he belongs there. He’s still wearing glasses and he still has the same scar on his forehead. He looks so very much like Harry and she misses Harry so very much.

“Is there some part of you that feels sorry? At all?” her voice quivers. “Are you capable of regret? Or are you too far gone for that?”

“Hermione—”

“No—don’t answer,” she whispers. “I don’t want you to lie to me. I don’t want—why won’t you just leave?”

He takes a breath. “I will—if you really want me to, I’ll go.” He hesitates. “I don’t want to hurt you. I hate… I hate seeing you in pain.”

She folds her arms across her chest—protective, protective gesture—and swallows past the lump in her throat.

Can’t do this now, too painful, call the Order, can’t look at him, can’t think of everything we lost, can’t keep thinking of him as Harry…

“Then leave. I need you to leave.”

He stands, his face a mixture of longing and struggle. She quickly glances away, knowing her control is fragile.

She wonders if she’ll ever see him again.

“Alright… if that’s how you feel, then I’ll go. I just…”

He stops and she feels a hand under her chin, tilting her head up and then his mouth is crushing hers.

She feels something in her give in—give up—when he kisses her and she knows that he’s won.

A kiss and she surrenders. A kiss and she’ll do anything he asks of her. Leave with him, stay with him.

A kiss and her defenses break down.

Nothing matters but him.

Him and this kiss that she doesn’t want to end.

Her hands tangle in his hair and he’s kissing every inch of her, the sides of her mouth, her chin, her throat.

She knows where this is going.

And she can’t stop it.

Not when he’s Harry.

Harry kissing her and whispering to her and she can’t let him go. Not again.

Never again.

So he pushes her on the bed, carelessly tossing the suitcase aside and she reaches for him. He tastes like he always has—he feels like she remembers. His touches are oh-so-familiar and right.

He’s Harry.

And there’s nothing she can do but let herself fall.

**

When she wakes, she feels warm and sated, the slight pressure between her legs the only evidence of what happened.

Instinctively, she turns to her side, looking for Harry. The bed is empty next to her and she feels a small pang of loss. Struggling up, she glances around her, finding him sitting in the window seat, staring outside.

She draws the sheet around her and goes over to join him. He’s half-dressed, his jeans thrown on and left unbuttoned, he hasn’t bothered with a shirt, and his hair is mussed and sticking up in all directions.

He doesn’t acknowledge her—just stares out the window, a faraway look in his eyes.

“Harry?” she says cautiously.

He gestures to the window. “Looks nice out,” he says vaguely.

She glances outside, the sun just beginning to rise. It’s early autumn and the leaves are just beginning to change colours.

“I remember what it was like being at Hogwarts this time of year,” he says. “Right around Halloween, you know? I… I miss that.”

He turns exhausted eyes on her and something in them startles her. They’re deep and full of emotion and… pain. Nothing like his flat, emotionless eyes of earlier. Something in her mind clicks, and she can hear her heartbeat speed up.

“Harry…” she whispers. “You’re—” you, she wants to say.

“Some days are better than others,” he says, going back to the window. “Sometimes, like now—I feel almost normal. It’s like… whatever this is that I have inside me, the power that Voldemort gave me when he died, it stops mattering and I’m me again.” His voice drops so low that she has to lean closer to him. “It’s not gone, exactly… but it’s like I have control of it. Even if it never lasts long.”

She draws in a sharp breath, the sounds of her loud breathing acutely noticeable to her own ears.

“I thought maybe I could fight it at first… that I was strong enough or, or filled with enough love or something…”

She wants to cry and sob and scream because this is her Harry—her real Harry—the Harry she never thought she’d see again.

And she understands he’s saying goodbye.

“Maybe… maybe there’s something we can do for him,” Ron said shakily. “I mean, he defeated You-Know-Who, didn’t he? It wasn’t supposed to end like this!”

“´For neither can live while the other survives,’” Dumbledore said. He heaved a sigh. “All that power, all that dark magic Voldemort used to keep himself alive… it can’t simply disappear. To truly defeat Voldemort, Harry must have drawn that magic into himself. Darkness such as that…” Dumbledore paused. “Voldemort has won, after all.”

“But he can fight it! Harry is not evil! We can help him, we can—”

“We can kill him, Miss Granger,” Snape interrupted coldly. “Before he kills us. I have every reason to believe that would be Potter’s desire, if he were in his right mind.”

“Harry wouldn’t… I believe in him.” She turned to Dumbledore. “Please, Sir… I know he—”

The door to Dumbledore’s office banged open.

McGonagall came rushing in, face pale.

“He’s gone.”

The entire room sat, stunned.

“He…the witches and wizards guarding him… he killed them.” She turned her gaze on Ron. “Mr. Weasley, I’m very sorry to have to be the one to tell you this…”

“But I’m not strong enough,” he whispers. “I can’t do this… whatever it is inside me—it’s stronger than me. You’ve seen it, Hermione. And being me… this, now… it hurts too much.”

She bites her lip so hard that the coppery tang of blood fills her mouth. “Maybe… maybe we can get you help, Harry. There must be, there must be a way.”

“I have to leave,” he says flatly. “Now… soon, while I’m in control.”

She shakes her head. “I’ll—I’ll come with you.”

“No,” he says firmly. “There’s no way to… one day, Hermione, there’s going to be nothing left of me. One day and I won’t love you—I won’t be capable of it. I have to make sure you’re safe—safe from me—before that happens.”

“I’m…” she feels desperation clawing inside her. “I’m safe, I’m—I’m—please, Harry. I don’t know if I can go through this again.”

His eyes soften and he looks so unbearably sad. “Yes, you can. You were always the strong one, Hermione. You were…” he brushes her cheek and smiles. “Saying this to you… going without you… it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I have to let you go—it’s the one last good thing I’ll probably ever do.”

A few tears splash over her cheeks and land on the sill between them. “I’m so sorry that I couldn’t find a way to stop this. I’m so sorry that… that I wasn’t able to bring you back. I’m so sorry that I can’t do anything to help you fight this.”

His green eyes bore in hers, dark and intense. Her breath catches and the moment stretches out until it’s just the two of them—just the two of them and the rest of the world fades away.

“Hermione…” his voice is no more than a hush. “I should go.”

She shuts her eyes, but she can still see him. His face—his eyes—so alive and full of pain.

“I’ll… I’m going to put a charm on your flat so I can’t get back in.” He pauses. “I’ll stop by Ron’s and do the same there.”

She opens her eyes feeling dizzy and empty. She’s so empty.

“Where will you go?”

He shrugs and stands so he can put on the rest of his clothes.

“Dunno. Away… far away. Next time you—if you see me again, don’t listen to me. Call the Order on me. Understand, Hermione? Whatever this is—Voldemort’s power—it’s taking me over. You must be able to call the Order… get away, do whatever you need to.”

Her throat burns and she hates that he’s suddenly so far away from her.

This is the last time I’ll ever see him.

Remember it.

“I—I’ll try.”

He throws on his shirt and shakes his head. “Promise me, Hermione. I don’t know how else to make you understand. I am dangerous.”

Not to me.

Instead of saying her words aloud, she nods, feeling more tears slide down her face.

“Harry?” she whispers. She isn’t sure what she wants to say, but one look at her and he seems to understand.

“I love you,” he says. “Don’t ever doubt that.”

More tears.

She can’t do anything but nod again and hug her arms to her chest. He looks hesitant, like he wants to say more (like he wants to beg her to come with him). Instead, he takes a step back and swallows.

“I… I should go.”

Forever.

Never coming back again.

She brushes at her tears. “I wish that—”

“Don’t,” he says, looking like he’s restraining himself only with great effort. “It wasn’t… it wasn’t meant to be for us.”

“No, it was,” she says. “It was and that’s—that’s what makes this so… so… impossible!”

“Hermione, please don’t… I’m doing what’s right here, I know I am. For once… let me go.”

She looks at him—Harry standing in front of her, anguished and desperate—eyes shining with his love for her.

This is… this is how I must remember him…

She fixes that image in her mind—to hold there and keep and be hers.

She closes her eyes, keeping that image in front of her.

“Go,” she says.

She feels a light touch on her and his lips brush hers. She resists the urge to throw her arms around him and keep him that way—hers, her Harry—forever. But he ends the kiss—all too soon, he’d barely been there at all—and whispers in her ear.

“I love you.”

And there’s a crack as he Disapparates and she’s alone.

Alone. So alone.

She sinks to the floor, sobs coming now—never coming back—he’s never coming back—and the silence of her flat suddenly seems oppressive.

The End