Within This Infinite Sadness

Rating: PG for angst and adult themes.

Title: Within This Infinite Sadness

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred.

Spoiler Alert: Although a one-shot, this does contain some spoilers to Books 1-5.

Summary: Harry heard her take in a sudden gasp and then she was standing, slightly hunched, the newspapers spilling from her lap. Pages from The Quibbler, The Daily Prophet, and the London Times rained from her form, spreading onto the floor. He could hear it. It was like so much water. Water laden with lies and innuendo and obfuscation and meaningless diatribes, all in or against his name, spilling across the wooden floorboards.

Pairings: Harry/Hermione

Author's Notes: As requested by Goldy, some H/Hr UST from Harry's POV. I cheated and made it a song fic. I also cheated and made it more angst than UST. That's just how it came to be. Sorry, Goldy....

Song Credit: Straylight Run, "Existentialism on Prom Night"

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WITHIN THIS INFINITE SADNESS

[] YOU WOULD KILL FOR THIS

_____________________________________

when the sun came up,

we were sleeping in.

sunk inside our blankets...

sprawled across the bed...

and we...we're dreaming...

They had insisted on staying with him at Grimmauld Place.

Ron, Hermione.

They had insisted.

He was tired of fighting.

And so they stayed.

Harry Potter was tired. So tired. He’d grown tired, years and months and days of tired from being Harry Potter of the Boy Who Lived fame, grown fatigued at being Harry Potter of the Cupboard Under The Stairs, grown weary of being Harry Potter of the Room At The Top of The Stairs. Though Mrs. Weasley had done her best to make the Black house into a home, the ghostly stain of what Harry perceived as his failure...his godfather's death...Sirius...it clung to the walls, darkening them, turning everything grey.

It became so oppressive that he could scarcely breathe, let alone sleep.

Tonight was no different.

Harry wasn’t sure how long he had lain in bed for. On his back. Staring at the canopy. On his right. Staring at the window. On his left. Staring at the sliver of pale light from beneath the door. He had kicked off the covers and pulled them back on again so many times that the vacant portrait of Headmaster Black finally shushed him loudly.

I’ll be damned if some bloody painting is going to tell me to be quiet. I want it to be anything other than quiet. Sirius wasn't quiet. He was loud, he was boisterous, he was a prankster, he was full of life and now...

He's dead.

I hate this.

I hate me.

Damn it.

He kicked the coverlet off one last time and slipped on his trainers. He had to leave. Go somewhere. Anywhere. It didn’t matter to him where, it could have been hell or Birmingham; Harry simply had to get out of his room. He ultimately decided to go downstairs, desperate to escape the confines of his damned room. Harry crept past the door to Ron's bedroom. He had to be mindful of the creaking floorboard just outside of it.

He actually had little need to worry; Ron Weasley always was a heavy sleeper. Harry could hear him snoring away on the other side of the door.

It's not the first time and likely not the last time I'll be jealous of you, mate.

He was very careful by the portrait of Mrs. Black. Harry was fairly certain that she was sleeping; he could hear measured breathing beneath the heavy velvet curtain. There was another loose floorboard around her portrait that was begging him to step on it. He was not about to have that foul woman awake. He was liable to raze the wall this evening just to be rid of the wench.

He managed his way past the sleeping beast and finally arrived at the ground floor. He walked to the great room, where he could see an orange glow emanating from the fireplace.

Someone was awake.

He didn’t know who it was.

No. It could only be one person.

Waiting.

She's made a fire and she's waiting.

For me.

Me.

The breath caught in his throat. There was no turning back.

there are moments when,

when I know it and

the world revolves around us.

and we're keeping it,

keeping it all going.

this delicate balance...

vulnerable, all knowing.

Harry almost didn't want to walk into the great room. He knew that she must have been sitting in one of the wing chairs flanking the hearth. He couldn’t see her, see her honey brown hair braided into pigtails, see the ridiculously childish and therefore endearing bunny slippers. He couldn’t see her.

He didn’t want her to see him.

Not like this.

He wanted to be alone.

He didn’t want to be alone.

He didn’t know what he wanted.

He wanted to be with her.

He was afraid.

He stood at the threshold, a hand clenching the doorframe, squinting despite his glasses. He stared at the dying fire, unable to move forward, unwilling to move backwards.

He couldn’t go back.

He couldn’t go on.

He was just. There.

Harry heard her take in a sudden gasp and then she was standing, slightly hunched, the newspapers spilling from her lap. Pages from The Quibbler, The Daily Prophet, and the London Times rained from her form, spreading onto the floor. He could hear it. It was like so much water. Water laden with lies and innuendo and obfuscation and meaningless diatribes, all in or against his name, spilling across the wooden floorboards.

He stared at her. She stared at him.

He couldn’t move. He had forgotten how.

How did she know I was here? Did I move? I didn’t move. Did I breathe too heavily? I don’t think I took in a breath. How...?

“Harry.”

She said his name. Hermione Granger, she had said his name. Whenever she said it, however she said it, it always embraced him, quelled his thoughts, pacified his moods. The way in which she said it...it was dangerous.

“Hermione.”

One word. With so much invested in it. He tried to keep the feeling from his voice, from his lips. He didn’t know if he succeeded. He was weak this night. He was dangerous.

“You couldn’t sleep?” Hermione straightened her posture and regarded him with a look that he could not place. There was...sadness, and empathy, and regret, and caring, and friendship, and sympathy, and...and...

No. Not that. It could never be that.

But he wanted it.

sing like you think no one's listening...

you would kill for this,

just a little bit,

just a little bit,

you would, kill for this...

“No, I couldn’t.” It wasn’t a lie.

“Would you...like to sit down?” And then she did the unexpected: she laughed. Hermione laughed, and she smiled, her cheeks growing round and pink and her teeth gleaming in the waning firelight and her face averting to the floor as it always did when she was embarrassed. “Listen to me, this is your house, and I am asking you to sit down as if it were mine.” She shook her head at her foible and smiled at him.

Harry felt his head swim. Her smile, his isolation, this moment, it was too captivating, this was too tender, this was too...dangerous.

“It’s all right. I know what you meant.” He smiled, his body resisting his mind, and he walked over to her, again his body overriding all. Harry seated himself on the edge of the settee, his hands upon his knees.

Hermione lowered herself into the wing chair and watched him.

Again, with the expression that he could not entirely decipher.

“You were reading the paper.” He made the statement simply, albeit dully. Harry could have kicked himself for being so transparent with such a pitiable line.

She looked shyly away. “Yes. I was.”

Don’t do this. Not now. Not here. Not this. Don’t.

He stared down at the clutter on the floor, the newsprint blurring in his view, becoming a swirl of letters and numbers and photos. “I’ll get them,” he heard himself say. It was his voice but the words were not his own. They were not the words he had intended to say. But he meant them wholeheartedly. There was a mess. It had to be tidied. That is what he did. Harry Potter fixed things. Harry Potter saved people. Harry Potter made it all better again. Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, they righted things. Together.

Don’t...

He knelt down before the settee and began gathering the scattered pages of newsprint. He saw Hermione do the same, gingerly slipping from the seat of the wing chair and onto her knees.

She gathered the newspapers with slender fingers.

Her hands were so small. So much smaller than his. But her hand fit in his perfectly.

sing like you think no one's listening…

you would kill for this,

just a little bit,

just a little bit,

you would, you would...

He remembered the feel of her hand in his as they ran through the Forbidden Forest, trying to escape Professor Lupin, who had been brutally claimed by his mistress the moon.

Do not.

They both reached for the same page in the same moment.

Their fingers brushed.

Stop.

Harry looked up. Her face was so close to his. He thought he could feel her warmth, but it was most likely from the fire. He knew that he could smell her. How was it possible for someone to smell right? Good, not just in the pleasant way, but good in the...the right way?

Don’t look up.

Hermione looked up. The fire, failing to embers, sparkled in her eyes, making the brown of her iris shimmer with crimson and ginger flares. Those eyes regarded him, took in his features. His hair, forever unruly. The damned scar on his forehead. His mother’s green eyes. His mother’s nose. His father’s eyeglasses. His father’s chin. The pale white line beneath his lower lip, the scratch he received following his godfather down to the edge of the lake.

Harry perceived that the distance between them was diminishing.

No. I can’t.

They were both moving toward one another. Slowly. Hesitantly. Stop. Then start. A matter of centimetres. Her scent, her breath. She had been drinking tea. Earl grey. Bergamot. Honey. Lemon. Cotton. Soap. In the background, mingling. Newsprint. Burned wood. Leather. What did he smell like to her? Regret and dust, failure and corrosion?

Stop it.

Her lips were parted slightly. It was barely perceptible, but he was close enough to her now to see that they were. He self-consciously licked his lips, his mouth and throat gone dry minutes earlier. Any closer and he would accidentally catch her mouth with...

Shut up. Just shut up now. Stop it. Stop it. Stop.

“Hermione.”

sing me something soft,

sad and delicate,

or loud and out of key,

sing me anything.

we're glad for what we've got,

done with what we've lost.

our whole lives laid out right in front of us...

Something happened, something somewhere, movement, the remains of the fire sparked, someone spoke, Ron was having a dream, the house settled and groaned, something somewhere happened and Harry and Hermione were instantly blinking at one another.

Harry had always heard of the phrase, “You could see in their/his/her eyes.” He’d read it in many places, had heard it in many a Muggle pop song, had heard it uttered in Muggle films and on Muggle television, but…

Now he knew.

He could see it in her eyes.

Hermione had wanted the same thing.

What he wanted. What he had been unsuccessful in stopping. What, if not for some sound that he didn’t remember hearing, would have happened despite him.

She had wanted to kiss him, as much as he wanted to kiss her.

They blinked at one another, slowly, as if they were both coming out of some stupor. The room was warm and the air heavy from the fire; it was late in the evening, early in the morning. Neither had been sleeping well. It was...a momentary lapse of reason.

They blinked at one another and Harry swore that he saw disappointment and hurt glimmer in her eyes. The same disappointment and hurt he felt in his heart.

He nearly stumbled. He nearly fell. And his selfishness, his need to feel connected, close to Hermione, almost took her with him.

But he wanted it. Still. So badly. Her. To be with her. Not just someone. Not just anyone. Her. Hermione.

Harry didn’t want to be alone anymore.

sing like you think no one's listening…

you would kill for this,

just a little bit,

just a little bit,

you would...

They remained frozen, Hermione kneeling on the floor, a page of print dangling limply in one hand. Harry, crouched on one knee, a mass of papers in his hands. Their faces, so close. So bloody close.

I…I almost…gave in.

She was waiting. He was waiting.

What was next.

What came next.

He just…he wanted to surrender. Harry knew that she wanted the same. He could see it in her eyes; dear Merlin, he knew what that meant now. It wasn’t so much literary nonsense, it was a real and true and damn he saw it right in front of him, mere inches away, in her brown eyes, he saw it quite clearly. She had…feelings for him.

Don’t say it.

Hermione swallowed, he could hear her and see her lips purse, her throat move.

“Harry,” she said to him.

He wanted to close his eyes. Just close his eyes and recapture the feeling, the sensation, relive how they almost fell, and imagine what it would have felt like at the end of it all.

“Yes, Hermione?” he whispered instead, his eyes wide and unfocussed.

“What…were…we…we were…” He saw her brow crease as a thought travelled across her mind. He saw the struggle within reflected on her features. “We can’t,” she finally managed, her voice barely a whisper.

Harry did close his eyes, turning his face away from her. “I know,” he murmured. He could still feel what heat remained in the remains of the fire against his cheek. His cheeks were burning. It was from the hearth. That is what he told himself.

“It’s too dangerous,” they said in unison.

Harry nodded mutely, his eyes still closed.

“I should…go to bed now,” she said in an undertone. There was little feeling in her voice.

He felt little feeling in his heart, in his body. Hermione was leaving him. The moment, that never had a chance, that was not to be realised, was now not even a memory. It had left him completely.

Now it’s gone.

He could allow her to leave as well.

Not yet.

Not now.

He needed Hermione.

And that was dangerous.

Don’t.

He reached out a hand for her, finding her wrist. She was standing now. He felt her skin swell into goose pimples at his contact.

I can’t.

“Please. Stay here.”

It was not uttered as a request.

“You want me to.”

It was not uttered as a question.

He looked up at her.

Hermione, in her pastel coloured pyjamas, her hair braided into pigtails, her feet clad in those ridiculous yet charming bunny slippers, her eyes clouded by revelation and reservation and denial, regarded him in confusion.

He was holding her left hand in his right.

He was before her, on bended knee.

He was looking up at her, with what he knew was every feeling that he had ever had for Hermione on his face.

This was not the same moment, but this was one that he would allow himself to remember.

sing like you think no one's listening...

you would kill for this,

just a little bit,

just a little bit,

you would, you would....

“Yes.”

She sunk down to the floor, easing from her knees into a sitting position before him. He was still holding her wrist.

Confusion melted into sadness tinged with relief.

“I’ll stay,” she said to him.

Two words. A promise. Hermione always meant what she said. Especially to him. Always to him.

Harry finally moved and sat on the floor, mimicking Hermione’s position. “Please. S-say something.” His mind, heavy with loneliness and things never to be made real, made his voice break.

Sadness gave way to tenderness. She moved, her wrist twisting, her hand in his now. So small. Delicate. Perfect. Every crease, every fold, matched. “What do you want me to say?”

He looked down at their hands, their fingers intertwined, and managed a smile for her. “Anything, Hermione. Tell me anything.”

sing me something soft,

sad and delicate,

or loud and out of key,

sing me anything.

∞