Existing

Existing

"Time to close up, Hermione. Hurry up, all right?"

"Sorry, Reginald. Lost track of time again." Hermione scurried about behind the massive librarian’s desk, straightening piles of paper and putting books away.

"Yeah, yeah, I know…books are your life. Sad that. At your age, you should have better things to do. You’ve been here since the library opened this morning, haven’t you?"

"I fail to see what that has to do with anything." Hermione would not meet his eyes, but instead busied herself re-sorting a stack of files she had carefully alphabetised only an hour earlier.

"There can’t possibly be a more dedicated librarian in all of Britain. You’re thirty bloody years old, Hermione. You ought to be out on the town…being chatted up by the blokes and looking for one to make babies with. Not here at all hours every Friday and Saturday night. I reckon if the library were open on Sundays, you’d be here until someone forced you out then, as well. I mean to say, you’d be sleeping here if you could."

Hermione rolled her eyes as she buttoned up her coat and wrapped her scarf around her. She pulled on her gloves and hat and slung her oversized book bag over one shoulder. "Good night, Reginald."

She walked through the large doors and down the steps into another cold and blustery night.

* * *

The walk home was as colourful as ever. Hermione did not live in the best part of the city, and she was sure if Reginald, or anyone else at the library, knew that she walked the entire mile and a half to her flat in the Ivy Heath section of the city, he’d likely have her committed.

To Hermione, though, the walk home was cleansing. The risk to her life was penance. Her whole life, in fact, was merely atonement for her crime.

She walked at a measured pace, listening to the taunts of the drunken men who offered to show her a good time. She observed the drug deals; she smiled at the prostitutes. Her demeanor was calm, yet inside she was screaming for them to get angry with her – to hurt her. Forgiveness would be so much easier to attain, or to grant, if only she were suffering.

As always, she made it home without a scratch…her virtue and purse intact.

Her routine was so set that she could accomplish it all without thinking or looking at what she was doing. Her eyes were open, but once she entered her home it was hard for her to stay focused on anything but the memories. She had surrounded herself in memories in her one bedroom flat: pictures, mementos, Gryffindor colours, newspaper clippings…Harry’s trunk, Ron’s scarf, her parents’ homemade quilt. Every breath she took in this flat was akin to inhaling the past. The air that filled her lungs here was heavy and sharp and sweet and painful.

In her lucid moments, Hermione knew she was slowly driving herself mad. Or maybe she was already there.

Her coat had somehow found its way to the hook on the back of the door; her shoes were neatly tucked up on the shoe bench. Her tea was always prepared within the first half hour of returning home, and she ate in silence…with unseeing eyes.

She roused herself enough each night to make sure that the potion she concocted for her sleeping hours had been properly heated. If just one degree off, the effect would be nullified. And that was unacceptable.

She lived only in her sleep.

* * *

"Come to me, Hermione. I’ve been waiting for you all day. What’s kept you?"

"You know what’s kept me, Harry. Must we waste our time with this question every single night?"

Harry walked toward her, emerging from the fog as he always did. His eyes betrayed his intentions. She could take one look and know how they were going to spend their stolen time. And tonight what she saw made her shiver.

"No," he said, and his voice was a good octave deeper than usual. "There are more important things to cover tonight."

He extended his right hand and traced the outline of her face from the forehead down on both sides. He then lifted both hands and pushed her hair out of her face. She would have closed her eyes, but she knew better than to waste this view of him. So close. So real. So beautiful. She stared into his eyes and watched him study her.

* * *

The alarm had become unnecessary. Her body arose from its deep sleep at precisely 6:30 a.m. each and every dreary morning. And she cried at 6:30 a.m. each and every morning.

Preparing herself for the trek to the library was another routine that required none of her conscious thought. Her subconscious had taken over long ago. She managed to get washed, get dressed, feed herself, and bundle up for the walk to the library with time to spare. But she never knew how she managed it. Details like that were of no import to her. Once the most fastidious witch in all of Hogwarts, she no longer worried about insignificant things like making her hair look decent or pressing her blouses or putting on makeup or buying fashionable clothes. Those were things that concerned people when they were alive.

She spent so much of her time at the library merely because it helped her pass the time until she could take the potion again safely. She had no friends, no connection to the world she used to inhabit. She tolerated conversations with people at the library but made it clear that she did not wish to become close to anyone. They talked about her behind her back; she wasn’t fussed. Nothing and no one in this world could touch her.

Sundays, when the library was closed, she cleaned her clothes, did her shopping, and took care of any necessary errands to pass the time. Still, it wasn’t enough to keep her busy. She was always jittery on Sundays.

Every once in a while, she would walk to the local parish church and stand outside while Sunday services were conducted inside. She thought about asking someone – a minister, a churchgoer, anyone – what it was like to believe so strongly. She had even made a list of questions.

1. How do you know there is a heaven?

2. Who goes there? How does one get there?

3. Is it truly a better place? Where people can’t get hurt?

4. Are people waiting on the other side? Will loved ones be reunited?

5. Are you absolutely positive?

6. If so, then why does anyone choose to live here?

Hermione had not yet felt moved to present these questions to anyone. She would stand and stare at the church. She would look up to the sky. She would listen to the music. She would watch their faces as they filed past her on their way to their cars, hurrying home for Sunday lunch.

They didn’t seem special. They didn’t seem to have answers to questions about who would win the league, much less the afterlife. She’d let go of the list that she held firmly in her coat pocket and continue on with her chores.

As hard as it was to get through each Sunday, she knew it would be worth it. For some reason, Sunday night’s visit was always more intense.

* * *

"How I’ve missed you. Did you finish your chores for the week?"

She was warm in his embrace, her naked form wrapped up in soft fleece and soft skin. She traced circles on his bare chest and enjoyed the view of goosebumps forming where her fingers trailed.

"I did. It seemed forever before night would fall today."

"You always say that." He squeezed her tighter to him. "But here you are just the same."

A few peaceful moments passed. A light breeze from an open window blew over them, and he pulled the blanket over her exposed back and shoulders, kissing her forehead as he did so.

"I…I went to church today." She hesitated when she felt him stiffen.

"Go on," he said, and he took a deep breath.

"A different one from the usual. A parish on the northern side of the city. I heard someone at the library mention it the other day. I had to take a bus to get there."

"And did you find the answers you were looking for…at this different church?"

"No." She sighed.

"Why do you do this to yourself, Hermione? Always on the search for knowledge. Haven’t you learned yet that there are some unknowns in your world? Why torture yourself?"

She was ashamed of the tears that fell – ashamed of her selfish display of sadness. She swallowed past a lump in her throat and kept quiet.

He spoke in a solemn and quiet voice. "You can’t be certain, Hermione. One of these days, you’ll have to make the choice, without knowing what will happen. You’ll have to be brave. The way you were when we were young. You remember, don’t you?"

She nodded her head and buried it further into his chest. She covered the exposed portions of her face with her hands. She didn’t want any light to seep through – nothing that reminded her of consciousness or reality.

"You were a force to be reckoned with, you were. The most brilliant witch Hogwarts had seen in a very long time. And no one could tell you anything," he said amidst muffled laughter. "What happened to that girl, Hermione? Where is she hiding?"

Her tears were bitter. She lifted her head from its hiding spot, wiping her face, and looked directly at him. He turned his face to her.

"She isn’t hiding, Harry. She’s long gone. Dead…lucky thing. She died the day you did. I’m not brave. And I’m not going back, so don’t even think about bringing that subject up."

"I wasn’t going to…well, all right, maybe I was." He smiled that sweet smile of his, and her momentary anger evaporated.

"Please don’t," she whispered. She dropped onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

"But you want me to, love." He reached for her and she didn’t resist.

"No," she said, pleading with him…herself. "I don’t want to face it. Please don’t."

"You should be helping them fight, Hermione, and you know it. What we did…we only put him off, we didn’t end him. Voldemort is regaining strength once again. You’re one of the few in the Order who survived the last war. They need you. You know they need you."

"They don’t!" she yelled as she sat up. "I failed you! How could I possibly help them." Her voice drifted off into quiet resignation. "I failed at the only thing that ever mattered."

She felt his weight shift as he sat up behind her. He put his arms around her and whispered into her ear.

"It wasn’t your fault, Hermione. When will you forgive yourself for living?"

"Never." Her tears fell hard on the bed.

The silence was deafening. He rocked her gently in his arms, letting her cry, even though she was sick of crying.

He broke the silence…she did…with the question she asked herself every day as she made her way to and from the library.

"If you hurt so badly, why not end it? Escape the pain."

His voice resounded in her head. Not this Harry. Not the one she conjured in her head. The real Harry. The one whose last words were uttered in her arms, ten years earlier.

‘Promise me, Hermione…promise me you’ll live. Promise me…that it meant something. The killing…the blood…the pain. You have to live. Promise me!’

"I promised you," she whispered, desperate to get that voice out of her head. "You made me promise."

"So what? I’m long dead. Do you really think I meant for you to suffer like this? I wanted you to live, Hermione. You’re not living. You’re existing."

"But…but what if you won’t forgive me?" She turned and looked at him. He played with her hair while she described her greatest fears. "And what if…what if when I die, I don’t…go to the same place as you? If I…end…my own life…maybe I won’t go to the place that you went to, Harry. I can’t bear the thought of being apart from you…forever." She finished with a horrified whisper and covered her mouth as the tears began to flow again.

She felt his arms around her, his hand stroking her back.

"Your dream lover – your made-up world – it isn’t enough, Hermione. You’re going mad."

"I know," she sobbed. "But it’s all I have. YOU’RE all I have. I can’t take the risk, Harry. I live for our chance to be together again. And this…the potion…these nights…this is the drug that gets me through."

"You’re arguing with yourself, love. You’re driving yourself round the twist."

"I don’t care. I love you, Harry. That’s all that matters."

"I know." He pulled back and looked her in the eyes, wiping the wetness from her cheeks. His smile was warm and forgiving. "The darkness is fading. Let me love you once more before you have to go."

She smiled through her pain and kissed him.

* * *

One day followed another, each night not coming fast enough or lasting long enough. She argued with herself less and less, and the pain became her existence until there was so much of it that she didn’t notice anymore.

"Tourniquet" by Evanescence

i tried to kill the pain

but only brought more

i lay dying

and i'm pouring crimson regret and betrayal

i'm dying, praying, bleeding and screaming

am i too lost to be saved

am i too lost?

my God my tourniquet

return to me salvation

my God my tourniquet

return to me salvation

do you remember me

lost for so long

will you be on the other side

or will you forget me

…

i want to die!!!

…

my wounds cry for the grave

my soul cries for deliverance

will i be denied Christ

tourniquet

my suicide