Awful

Goldy

Rating: G
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 04/06/2005
Last Updated: 04/06/2005
Status: completed

"For a moment, you think she’s joking. When she doesn’t laugh or smile you begin to suspect that Ron has been right all along—she’s completely mental." A new take on how Hermione might react to the prophecy.

Chapters

1. untitled

1. untitled

Title: Awful

Disclaimer: You know the drill. Still not mine. Still not making profit. Still Jo’s.

Synopsis: Harry tells Hermione about the prophecy—she reacts a little differently than he expects.

A/N: Written for SarSunshine ages ago on LJ. She requested a prophecy fic. I took that and decided to experiment with second person POV, which I’ll admit I quite enjoy.

You’re not sure what made you decide to tell Hermione the prophecy.

You know she’s your best friend—one of two—but you also know that you’re not ready to share it with Ron.

But when Dumbledore told you that the prophecy was yours to share with whom you liked, you immediately thought of Hermione.

And so you waited until Ron went to bed, until the common room was empty and the only noise was the scratching of Hermione’s quill on parchment.

You cleared your throat and fumbled for the words and she grew irritated and told you to “spit it out” and that “honestly, there’s still hours of homework to do” until finally you managed to just bloody say what was in it.

And your hands are shaking and clammy, your face is pale and you feel faint, but you’re glad you told her. You feel lighter, freer, somehow.

You’d imagined all kinds of horrible outcomes. It can’t be easy to learn that your best friend is destined to kill or be killed.

But she didn’t turn ashen faced or try to deny it or walk out of your life.

Secretly you think that you must have known she wouldn’t or else you probably never would have told her.

Still, you’re tremendously grateful and you tell her so.

She gives you this look—you can’t really explain it, but you’re certain you’ve just done something wrong.

“Honestly,” she huffs. “I’m somewhat relieved. I thought you were going to tell me something awful.”

For a moment, you think she’s joking. When she doesn’t laugh or smile you begin to suspect that Ron has been right all along—she’s completely mental.

“What,” you say, “can possibly be more awful than learning I either have to kill Voldemort or be killed by him?”

“Well,” she says calmly. “It’s not as if it’s a giant shock or anything. We all knew you’d have to face him in the end, anyway. Now we just know for certain.”

You stare.

“Erm…”

You’re back to stuttering and she’s frowning at you.

“Yes?”

“It’s just that… it’s an awful lot of responsibility, don’t you think? I don’t—I don’t know if I can, Hermione. I don’t know if I’m capable of murder.”

She stares at you for a very long time, her quill hovering over her parchment.

“Not normally, no, you’re not,” she says, still looking at you. “But you’ll do this. Not because you have to, not because you’re the only one that can, but because it’s the right thing to do.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Well, I’m making it that simple,” she snaps. “So stop thinking that you’re going to die, because that is unacceptable.”

You jump at the change in her voice.

“I’m not—”

“Of course you are,” she says briskly. “I know you, Harry. I know you never think you’re fast enough or good enough or—or strong enough.”

“Well, I’m not,” you say weakly.

“And you’re not alone,” she says, almost as though she’s speaking to herself. Her eyes get a far-off looking in them, almost as if she’s looking at you from a distance. “No,” she says. “You’re not alone. Do you hear me?”

“It’s my—”

“I don’t care if it’s your name on the prophecy,” she says. You’re left wondering when she started to know you so well. “There’s nothing in there that says you can’t have help, is there?”

No, there’s not, but you’re suddenly unwilling to admit that to her.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, and her eyes gain a determined, manic glint that you recognize from when she’s discussing S.P.E.W. “No—it doesn’t matter. You won’t be alone, Harry.”

And suddenly, you feel a little desperate because you’re not sure you want her help. You think about her fighting Voldemort and it makes you feel sick and you’re not even sure why.

“Hermione,” you rasp. “I don’t know if it works that way.”

But it’s too late. She doesn’t hear you. Her eyes have that glint and there’s no stopping her—not when she’s set her mind on something.

“So, you see, it’s hardly anything at all,” she says, going back to her homework. “It’s perfectly doable. We’ll carry on. You and me… and—and Ron, of course, Ron, and we’ll do this together.” Her voice turns stronger. “Which is how it was supposed to be, all along. We didn’t need—we don’t need a prophecy to tell us that.”

You want to tell her that you did need the prophecy to tell you that. You want to tell her that it horrifies you to think about what you have to become. You want to tell her that it sets you apart, this being your destiny. You want to tell her that it takes the control out of your hands—that it is a life-changing thing and how can she just treat it like it hardly means anything at all?

But you don’t.

You watch her scratch her quill on her parchment and you panic about the idea of her facing Voldemort and you’re unbelievably relieved that she’s assured you that you won’t be alone.

“For heaven’s sakes,” she says crossly. “Stop gaping at me and go to bed. I have work to do.”

“Hermione,” you whisper. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

She looks up from her homework, her eyes finding yours, and something happens then—an understanding. It’s important, because you can see it in your eyes and your aware of your heart thumping away in your chest. Her eyes on yours and you can’t look away—you never want to look away.

“And I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

And suddenly… suddenly it is that simple.

She goes back to her work, breaking eye contact. You continue to stare at her a while longer. You watch her face screwed up in concentration, the tight grip of her fingers on her quill, and her parchment as it slowly fills with her neat, tiny scrawl.

It’s comforting.

Finally, you wish her goodnight and walk up to the dormitories in a daze.

You can’t even begin to understand the feelings jumbled up in your head, but you don’t regret telling Hermione about the prophecy.

Because you know now that whatever else—whatever happens, whatever you have to face, whatever you have to do to win, she’ll never turn her back on you.

The End