The Impossible Thing

Disclaimer: All things HP belong to JKR, etc.

Author’s Note: Partly inspired by Goldy’s ever-so-brilliant, “From Me”.

The Impossible Thing

This, Harry decided, was misery.

He hated this.

He tried not to feel, tried not to think too much about anything beyond the things he was doing to prepare himself to face Voldemort- things like classes and Occlumency and the extra DADA lessons he’d been having with Moody and Lupin every week (depending on their schedule). It was easier when he could just shut himself off like that.

And he never, if he could help it, allowed himself to be alone with Hermione.

He’d been successful at it too, remarkably successful, considering everything.

He also didn’t, if he could help it, look at her. There were times he couldn’t help it- times when his eyes were so drawn to her he couldn’t for the life of him resist but they tended to be fleeting and he’d learned the hard way how to wrench his gaze from her.

To an outside casual observer, it probably looked as if not much had changed between the three of them but it had. He felt it and he knew Ron and Hermione felt it. They’d both tried repeatedly to talk about it but he had become adept at avoiding a conversation he didn’t want to have.

They still ate together (when he ate in the Great Hall at all); they studied together; they talked together. But it was only talking about other things, the unimportant things. They talked about classes and homework and Quidditch and the next Hogsmeade weekend- and that was when silence became too oppressive. They didn’t talk about what the Order was planning or about Death Eater attacks or about Voldemort or the Prophecy that he’d finally told them about in one of the last real conversations they’d had. Every time Ron or Hermione tried to bring up anything of substance, he cut them off coldly, pulling back and answering any other inquiries, even innocent ones, with monosyllables.

Everything was different. Slowly but surely he was cutting himself off. He was getting accustomed to being alone, to feeling alone.

It was killing him.

But that was better than the alternative. The alternative was unthinkable.

It had been building slowly inside him since those days at the end of last year that he never recalled without a shudder now. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when he’d made up his mind, when he’d realized what he needed to do…

He should have seen it from the moment he heard Dumbledore’s words after Sirius’ death but he hadn’t. He’d been too out of his mind with shock and grief and guilt to think about the ramifications of what Dumbledore had said.

And then he’d been too concerned with the Prophecy and all that entailed to think about anything else.

It had taken weeks before he’d finally remembered exactly what Dumbledore had said- longer before he’d realized what it meant… Like the fact that you were coming to regard Sirius as a mixture of father and brother… Kreacher’s information made him realize that the one person whom you would go to any lengths to rescue was Sirius Black…

Voldemort had used his own feelings for Sirius and now Sirius was dead. Sirius was dead because Voldemort knew that he had loved Sirius…

And he’d realized what it meant; caring about people, loving them, put them in danger. He knew now just how Voldemort would go after people he cared about, use them against him…

And he also knew that Kreacher’s information had left out one vital, very important fact.

Sirius wasn’t the only person whom he would do anything to rescue.

There was also Ron. And Hermione.

Ron, his first real friend, his best friend… And Hermione, his best friend, his- his- he didn’t know exactly what to call her now that he suspected- no, knew- he didn’t only think of her as a friend…

He still didn’t understand what exactly had happened- how it had happened. It made no sense, would have been laughable except that it had happened, was too real and had too serious of consequences to make it at all amusing.

How did it happen- that one moment, a couple seconds at most, had suddenly changed everything? As if he’d been blind and suddenly the scales had fallen from in front of his eyes and he saw- saw clearly for the first time. He saw her… And even though she wasn’t doing anything she hadn’t done before (speculating about what the Order was planning as both Dumbledore and Hagrid were nowhere to be seen at lunch that day), he saw her. And it was as dramatic of a change as if he’d been seeing in black-and-white for all these years and suddenly started seeing in color.

Or maybe it was simply that all these years until now, he’d seen her without truly understanding, without noticing what he was seeing.

Until that moment when he’d seen and understood.

She and Ron had been talking, wondering where Dumbledore and Hagrid were and he’d been listening until Ron talked about the possibility that maybe Dumbledore really was developing some sort of weapon to use against Voldemort and he’d interrupted. “We know Dumbledore is developing a weapon; I’m the weapon the Order has to use.” His tone had been unintentionally bitter and both Ron and Hermione had stopped, looking abashed, on Ron’s side, and concerned, on Hermione’s. She’d put a hand on his arm, looking at him worriedly, and said softly, “Oh Harry, you shouldn’t think like that. You know the Order doesn’t just think of you as a weapon; and no matter what that Prophecy said, you know you’re going to have people helping you. All the Order’s plans are aimed at helping you, protecting you.” He’d stared at her hand on his arm, amazed at the sheer warmth of it spreading from where it touched his arm throughout his entire body, and then met her eyes—her warm, concerned, caring eyes… She cared and he realized that though she spoke of the Order, she also meant herself. She would help him; all her plans, all she did, were to help him- somehow… The depth of the loyalty he could see in her eyes, hear in her voice, amazed him and humbled him and touched him—and he realized, too, just how much he cared about her.

“I know,” he’d said softly, finally, and she’d smiled. And for the first time, he’d seen her for what she was: beautiful. Beautiful in a way that transcended simple prettiness, beautiful because of the affection and kindness and loyalty shining in her eyes, beautiful because of the simple honesty of her smile… Her smile… For the first time, he’d really noticed her lips- full, pink—perfect… Perfectly kissable…

And in that one moment, he’d realized two incontrovertible truths: Hermione was the most precious person in his life, and caring about her as much as he did put her in grave danger.

He needed to stop caring. Or at least, make it seem as if he had stopped caring. That was all there was to do. He would not- he could not- allow anything to happen to Hermione- or to Ron or anyone else he cared about. He’d lost Sirius, Mr. Weasley had been seriously injured, Hermione had already been hurt by Dolohov, Ron attacked by brains… It was only luck that Hermione and Ron hadn’t been killed in the Department of Mysteries—and he couldn’t allow anything else to happen.

He couldn’t avoid them completely; living in one castle, even one as large as Hogwarts, in the same House and with most of their classes together, ensured that he had to spend time with them. But he could start to close himself off from them, and he did. He stopped talking about things that mattered, avoided being alone with them if at all possible.

And he rebuffed, coldly and angrily, any and all of their attempts to break through the barriers he’d built.

He was succeeding too; he knew it. Knew it in the way Ron occasionally glared at him, knew it in the way Ron, too, had stopped talking to him unless it was necessary, knew it in the way Hermione avoided his eyes and avoided sitting next to him… Knew it in the way Hermione stopped asking him if he had done his homework or studied for this or that test. And oddly enough, somehow, it was that which hurt the most- that Hermione had stopped asking about his schoolwork. It had usually annoyed him before but only now did he realize it showed how much she cared; schoolwork was one of the most important things in her life; her concern for his grades was part of her concern for him. And she’d stopped asking.

He was succeeding—and he had never hated himself more.

But he persisted. Surely he could learn to stop caring so much. Surely it would get easier to be alone. He had to stop caring…

It happened when he was alone in the 6^th year boys’ room, having escaped the Common Room (because Ron was in it, talking to Seamus and Dean and pointedly ignoring him). Ron suddenly burst into the room and grabbed his shoulder roughly, beginning to drag him out of the room.

He balked. “Ron! Have you gone insane? Let go!”

Ron’s grip only tightened and he turned to glare at Harry. “You aren’t going to avoid us anymore. Hermione’s been attacked! She’s in the Hospital Wing right now and you are coming with me,” he bit out angrily.

Harry stopped short, feeling all the blood leave his head and a cold hand reach inside his chest to grab his heart. There was a strange ringing in his ears as he stared at Ron. “Hermione’s been what?” he finally managed to choke out through numb lips.

“She’s been attacked. She’s unconscious now. Someone disarmed her and then cursed her—and it’s because of you!” Ron snapped, still dragging Harry with him. “She was alone, crying over how you wouldn’t even look at her anymore and someone snuck up on her. You’re going to look at her now, see what you’ve done.”

His heart seemed to stop beating; he could only follow Ron with feet that felt like lead. And all the while, he could hear in his head Ron’s angry accusation. It’s because of you! She was crying over how you wouldn’t even look at her anymore and someone snuck up on her…

Oh God! He knew Ron was right; Hermione must have been snuck up on or she would have been able to defend herself. But she’d been crying, crying because of him…

And now she was hurt, unconscious.

Oh no, no, no…

This was a nightmare. It had to be. But no, Ron’s hand was still gripping his shoulder in an almost painful grasp as Ron pulled him along. His feet seemed to have turned into bricks and he could only follow, numbly. This was no nightmare. This was actually happening.

Hermione had been attacked—and it was because of him.

He had failed.

He had no idea how many minutes or what route they took to get to the Hospital Wing; he couldn’t think, couldn’t really see- or his mind didn’t register what he did see, could hardly breathe under the stifling weight of shock and horror and guilt and regret—and through it all, a thread of panic. She has to be okay; she has to be okay; she can’t be seriously hurt; please let her be okay; please let her be okay…

McGonagall was standing by the bed as Madam Pomfrey bustled around, murmuring under her breath as she hovered over Hermione’s still form.

Ron let go of his shoulder and Harry half-stumbled, half-fell into the chair beside the cot, both hands taking hold of one of Hermione’s cold ones.

“Hermione.” Her name escaped his lips with a sound that was part whimper, part cry, part gasp, and filled with all the emotion, all the worry, he felt.

Hermione, it’s me, Harry. I’m here. You have to wake up. You have to be okay. I’m here and I’m so sorry. You have to get through this. I- I can’t go on if you aren’t here; you know that, right?

Ron finally asked Professor McGonagall the question he’d been wanting to ask since she had come to the Gryffindor Common Room and told him what had happened. “Who did this to her?” he asked, his voice grim. He glanced at Harry, thankful that Harry didn’t seem to hear him; he doubted Harry remembered there were other people in the room; he was too concerned about Hermione. Finally.

McGonagall hesitated, also glancing at Harry and then finally said, her voice low, barely audible even in the quiet, “We believe it was Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Zabini.”

Ron felt his hands curling into fists but then was distracted from his own anger at the sound of a chair being pushed back as Harry stood up violently.

He was pale but there was a look in his eyes that made Ron shudder, feeling a flicker of fear—and something almost like pity for Malfoy and Zabini. They had done the one thing no sane person did. They had hurt Hermione—and no one, but nobody, hurt Hermione without consequences; the threat was plain to be seen in Harry’s grim expression. “I’ll kill them,” Harry said flatly. And the icy composure of his rage, the deliberateness of the promise, was somehow a hundred times more intimidating and more disturbing than a scream would have been. This was the Harry that would defeat You-Know-Who.

McGonagall stepped firmly between Harry and the door, her hand on her wand, although she didn’t point it at Harry. “You will do no such thing, Mr. Potter. Or you either, Mr. Weasley,” she added almost as an afterthought though her gaze didn’t waver from Harry. “Headmaster Dumbledore, Professor Snape and I will handle them. And they will be dealt with.” Her lips thinned until they were only a narrow slash in her face, a forbidding expression that boded no good for either Malfoy or Zabini. Ron realized suddenly that McGonagall was as furious over this as he and Harry were; she was simply controlling her fury.

Harry faced off against McGonagall for a few tense seconds until finally, he gave in to the implacable authority in McGonagall’s gaze.

“You would do better to remain here and watch over Miss Granger until she wakes,” McGonagall said, her voice softening.

Harry nodded silently, sitting back down heavily, his hands once more reaching for one of Hermione’s as if he could somehow infuse some of his strength into her.

McGonagall nodded, once, and then left the Infirmary, as Ron moved to stand beside the cot next to Harry. “Hermione, you have to wake up. We’re both here, Harry and me, and we won’t leave you,” he said quietly.

Harry glanced up at him and their eyes met briefly. “I’m sorry. Sorry for everything,” Harry blurted out, his gaze returning to Hermione’s face. Her brows were drawn together in an expression of pain and Harry flinched at the sight.

Ron sighed. He still felt some remnants of his anger at Harry simmering inside him but he could see that Harry was tormenting himself quite enough—and that was enough to melt the last of his anger. But he addressed his words to Hermione, “Did you hear that, Hermione? Harry said he’s sorry for being such an ass. He’ll be better now so you have to wake up and we’ll be the Trio again.”

Harry lowered his head to rest lightly against Hermione’s hand. “Hermione,” he whispered pleadingly, “please wake up. You have to be okay. You have to be. Please. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. You can’t leave me; you can’t… I- I need you.”

Looking at Hermione’s still form, he knew exactly how true it was. He needed her. He needed them both, Ron and Hermione. Even if there was a risk, even if Voldemort knew they were his best friends, he needed them. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t close himself off from them. Couldn’t close himself off from her. And at that moment, looking at her, gripping her hand tightly in both of his, willing her to wake up, he accepted defeat.

His plan to push them away, to stop caring, had failed, was meant to fail. He couldn’t succeed.

He couldn’t, no matter how he tried, learn to care any less for her. He could no more stop caring about Hermione, no more stop- loving- her, than he could stop himself from breathing. He could sooner rip out his own heart than go on like this.

No matter the risk, no matter what happened, he couldn’t lose them. He couldn’t lose her.

And somehow accepting that fact lifted some of the burden he felt. He had given up. He didn’t need to try to be cold and hurtful to Ron and Hermione anymore. He had given up…

He didn’t know how long he sat there, his legs beginning to lose feeling from not moving but still he stayed, watching her, trying to will Hermione to wake up. Ron finally left to try to get some sleep; Madam Pomfrey left, promising to return at dawn to check on Hermione. And he stayed, watching, waiting, hoping…

Pain. So much pain, all over…

That was her first conscious thought and then she became aware that someone was holding her hand, so tightly she couldn’t move her fingers at all.

She forced her eyes open, slowly, wincing at the amount of effort the simple movement seemed to take and heard a sharp intake of breath.

“Hermione?”

It was Harry. He was the one gripping her hand. She saw his pale, worried face bending over her.

“Hermione, you’re awake! How- how are you?” His voice was warm and full of concern and relief.

It was Harry. Harry. He was back, really here, really looking at her for the first time in what seemed like months. His eyes, that had been so flat and expressionless for the past few weeks, were warm, openly caring, once again.

She felt a pang of renewed hurt, emotional pain now obscuring the physical.

Harry. He was here; he was himself again. He cared again. But it was too late.

Slowly, she turned her head away from him and closed her eyes. “Please, Harry, go away,” she managed to say, her voice soft, pained.

Those four softly-spoken words and, more than that, the movement, broke his heart. And for a moment, he knew what it was to die.

Please, Harry, go away… He felt every word as if someone had stabbed him and then proceeded to twist the knife.

Go away…

No. He couldn’t. He couldn’t…

“No,” he said hoarsely on a slight gasp.

“Please, Harry…” There was a world of hurt and of pleading in her voice and he flinched.

No, no, no, no, no… He couldn’t have succeeded in really losing her friendship. He couldn’t have. He had given up. He knew he’d hurt her but he couldn’t have succeeded. He couldn’t have really managed to push her away. He couldn’t have lost her…

“I can’t- I can’t do this anymore. I can’t, Harry. Please, just leave me alone. It’s too hard; it hurts too much. I can’t keep on loving you like this when you don’t. It hurts too much to be your friend.”

“But I do,” he burst out, desperation tingeing his voice, making the words spill out of him. “I do love you. I need you so much, too much. I- I just- I kept on seeing you falling through the Veil or Voldemort using the Unforgiveables on you and I couldn’t stand it. I tried to stop caring, stop needing you so much—but I can’t. Please, Hermione, forgive me. I’m sorry, so sorry. I was an idiot but I know now. I realized I can’t stop caring. I can’t let you go.” His voice cracked and he paused, swallowing hard. “I can’t let you go,” he whispered again.

He lowered his head to press trembling lips to her hand and then moved one hand to brush his thumb across her cheek, wiping away tears. “Please, Hermione, let me be your friend. Just your friend. That’s all I need; just be my friend, like you’ve always been. Please… I can’t lose you.”

He waited, forgetting to breathe or move or think…

Until, slowly, she turned her head to look at him. “Friends,” she finally said, softly.

Friends.

It was the most beautiful word he’d ever heard.

~*~

Hermione was released from the Infirmary just before dinner the next day with Madam Pomfrey stressing the importance of her getting enough rest.

Harry and Ron were waiting to walk her to the Great Hall for dinner and again, she took her usual place next to Harry while Ron slid in across from them.

Again, her eyes met Harry’s in shared amusement as Ron piled an amazing amount of food on his plate and then proceeded to eat it all.

Again, she asked Harry whether he had finished the 2 foot long essay due in Potions at the end of that week and as usual, he looked slightly sheepish as he admitted he hadn’t even started it. And as usual, she urged him to start the essay, promising to read it over when he was finished.

Again, Harry asked them to help him with the latest spells and curses he’d gone over in his extra DADA lesson with Moody.

Again, they headed to the Room of Requirement after dinner to practice defensive spells and some curses.

Things had gone back to the way they had always been, before Harry closed himself off from them.

They were best friends, again. Slowly, but surely, they were building up their friendship again…

She took a drink of pumpkin juice from her goblet and her eyes met Harry’s in the moment as she licked the last drop of juice lingering on her lips. His gaze dropped to her lips and lingered there. Her breath caught in her throat and all the noise in the rest of the Great Hall, everyone and everything around her, simply faded from her awareness.

She was the first one to blink and the moment was over.

Friends—and more than that. And she knew she’d lied; she could no more stop being his friend, stop loving him, than she could promise to never read another book in her life. He was a part of her—and she couldn’t let him go either.

He reached over and stole the last muffin from her plate.

“Hey,” she protested.

He grinned at her as he bit into the muffin.

His other hand dropped beneath the table to lace his fingers through hers.

Their eyes met and held, as his grin faded. Again it seemed as if they were alone together in the Great Hall; nothing else around them mattered…

And she smiled.

I love you and I can’t let you go.

I love you and I won’t let you go…

~The End~