Zombie by Facade

Rating: R
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 14/06/2005
Last Updated: 14/06/2005
Status: Completed

He can't seem to stop watching her break down. Voyeur! Ron




1. Zombie
---------

ZOMBIE

She’s broken.

Tattered. Casually thrown aside. The debris of her once esteemed figure.

She’s her own shadow.

There is her head, hunched over her chest that every so often shudders. Her prominent nose peeks
out as her scraggy hands inch upon her face and dust off her matted curls.

His hand twitches on the doorknob.

*He musn’t be seen, he musn’t be noticed.*

Repetitive mantra, followed advice.

Or at least its been the only thing that’s gone through his head. The only permanent thought that
manages to break through the mundane evening of him just staring at her from the door, just
watching.

Watching her take out the shoddy book up on the shelf. Watching her fingers delicately scratch the
surface and watching her as her face falls and the book skids away. Eyes scrunch and a deep frown
places itself between her brows as she shudders.

He wonders if she can cry.

Sure, he had seen her heave her chest and clutch her hands tightly around her tender mouth as her
moans catch themselves in her throat. Sure, he’d seen her close those brown eyes and he’d seen her
teeth bite her lip.

But never, never did he catch the site of a lone tear marking her cheek. Marring her perfection
with its single response of life.

He figures if she ever cries again (she used to once... before it happened) it would be her
complete breakdown.

The day she would admit it.

Harry’s gone.

He had already made amends with it. Tore down the boy’s poster bed hangings from the dorm and
locked away his trunk. He had already patted the backs of his fellow Gryffindors as they came
rushing to him, for a last standing memory of *him*. As if *he* had claimed *his*
own identity.

His freckled hand burns with blood.

The door creaks open.

Her hand stills at the zipper of her pants. The other halts at the curve of her breast.

Damndamndamn*damn*.

What was it?

*He musn’t be seen, he musn’t be noticed.
* He tries to back away, but now he’s seen. Now, he’s being watched.

Those big brown eyes he had seen all too much roll in the back of her head watch him with a trace
of recognition. The hand that entranced him (entices him now) beckons with a simple bend of her
index finger.

His clumsy feet manage to make their way to the foot of Harry’s her bed.

Shegives him a shy smile.

The dilapidated windows of Grimmauld Place grind shut. There’s no light, only a sliver given by the
moon and that one creaking by the open doorway that came from the hall, silent hall.

They don’t say anything (what else is there to say?) and she curls her arm around his neck.

He feels awkward, gigantic, compared to her petite form. Dry lips part and he wants to say
something (anything) to make some sense of how she was acting.

But there is no comprehension of the situation. Her eyes are closed and her body grows rigid. Her
arm is still around his neck and he’s standing there just watching her.

Only when he focuses on her mouth (sweet mouth) does he understand.

HarryHarryHarryHarry.

Her lips mutter incomprehensibly as she tugs on his shirt and as he drags himself on top of
her.

Only does he understand her beautiful scene when he pulls Harry’s bed cover’s over them to shadow
his hair and make the freckles on his skin blend.

Only then does he understand the role he plays as the last solid memory of *him*.
**