Reading

LittleCreek

Rating: PG
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 15/07/2005
Last Updated: 15/07/2005
Status: completed

No one ever talks about her, but it always hangs in the air.

Chapters

1. Reading

1. Reading

Just a little one-shot of sorts. Post-Hogwarts.

Disclaimer: I don't own it, but oh, how I wish I did.

Reading

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All you're doing is reading.

Candles flicker. Rain drums peacefully against the windows and a smile plays your lips as you finish the passage and take a sip of your drink. Something is different today, somehow, but you don't linger and before returning to the page, you mindlessly push your glasses back up to their place on your nose.

Don't think about it tonight.

Life is not like you thought it would be… afterward. But you've found a routine. You still see him every day and know this will never change. It's an unspoken agreement neither of you will ever let go of - no matter what - and you like that. It's comforting knowing he'll always be your best friend. And you revel in comfort and familiarity.

But part of the whole is missing.

And so it goes. One of you apparates to the other's flat for dinner. Sometimes you both show up at the Burrow - which his mother loves - but only when carefully orchestrated so you don't see his sister. She's long over you and likewise, but her new boyfriend isn't fond of your closeness to her or her family. He's seemingly incapable of realizing you are family. But people who weren't there, can't understand. When you can catch her in private, you hug her and tell her she's too strong-willed for this new guy. She smiles and swats at you like she does the rest of her brothers and tells you thanks, but to sod off.

No one ever talks about her, but it always hangs in the air.

Sometimes you go out, but rarely. Between your black hair and glasses, his tall, red-headed frame and your two famous names, it's inevitable that a reporter will find you in a crowd and neither one of you is fond of being in the papers anymore. You never were. For a few weeks after the war ended, he reveled in being on the front page. You secretly declared victory when he admitted that being famous wasn't as wonderful as he'd always thought.

There used to be three of you.

You talk about work and life - and every now and then, school and her. He told you once, in a wine-induced haze - and you've never discussed it again - that she was in love with you when she left. That he wonders if it isn't why she left. You know how hard this is for him because he'd loved her, and even called her his for a while.

She left you both.

For you, this is the most painful memory because you know she was, and you were - are - in love with her too. You remember the feeling. The way it passed between you in that way only the two of you could read. But betraying him was not an option and so neither of you ever said… and now she's gone.

It can't stay that way forever.

You push the memories away and vaguely notice that strange tingle in the air. The one you've felt all day, like something old and new following you. It doesn't stick and you return to your book. All you're doing is reading - when someone rings the bell.

We all must face our fears.

You open the door expecting him and wondering why he apparated outside, but your laughing taunt dies on your tongue because she's standing there, drenched in the static London rain. Rain you no longer see nor hear for the rushing blood in your temples. The surge in your chest.

Do you think this changes anything?

She's clutching a suitcase in both hands, holding it in front of her, a barrier. Just in case.

Too late, you've left me behind.

All either of you can do is stare. She didn't expect you to open the door - no matter how many times she prayed you would. You never expected it to be her standing on the steps - no matter how many times you wished she had been.

Two years.

The distance closes fast and hard. Who reached first? The suitcase drops with a thud onto the steps and the sound of rain beating against it is suddenly louder than a cannon. You know you'll always remember that sound when you think of this moment.

It doesn't change it. Nothing ever has.

She's crying so hard it's inaudible. You're whispering softly, in ways only she knows. Your hands roam her hair and face and back. She's there. It's real.

Nothing stays hidden forever.

She backs away from you, eyes like crystal, and steps out the open door to grab her bag. You close it behind her, watching as she quickly dries the suitcase, the floor and herself. Like this is ordinary. You realize your back is against the door and you've been holding your breath.

Tonight everything will change.

You stammer and invite her out of the entry, pointing down the hall toward the living room. You remember as she walks in and gasps, that you meant this room for her. Shelves line the walls, all the books she left behind, plus the ones you've added. A tiny hand - has she always been this small? - covers her mouth and you see another tear splash onto her cheek.

Dancing. Being with her is like dancing.

Words apologies declarations explanations. They come in constant flow, as you've noticed words often do when women speak. She waits for your voice when she finishes pacing, but you find it missing and sink into the couch. She's flustered, you know, but so are you. You feel her curl into the seat beside you, the couch giving and folding her up like it's been saving that spot for her alone. There's nothing else left to do. You've reached the end of your line.

Can't go back now.

Before she can prod you to speak, like you know she wants to, you kiss her. She's surprised, but that quickly departs, and with a small sigh, she slides her arms tightly around your neck and dissolves into you like she's been there all along. Your thumb slides along her cheek and you feel the wetness of tears. Your mouth moves over them and down to her neck. As you kiss her again, the knowledge that you've never even held her hand sneaks up and suddenly you want to laugh. Really laugh, like you haven't in two years.

Don't want to live in the past anymore.

Days run in flashes. You call out your arrival and she looks at you questioningly. You squeeze her hand as his whole family crashes into the family room. Hugs and tears fall from every corner, but as much as she loves them all, you know she's searching for his face. He's been standing to the side, watching her like a phantom and when the fog of his family disappears, leaving the three of you alone, he walks silently to her and she buries her face in his shoulder. You think you should leave them alone, but as you turn to go, he calls out your name, smiling as he adds the words, “bloody git” to the end. Using his full name, she immediately reprimands him for his language and the three of you laugh. Really laugh.

It all changes, but stays the same.

Your routine hasn't changed that much, really. There's a band on your finger and evidences of her presence in the house and the room where she sleeps beside you. But, you still see him every day. You still crave comfort and familiarity. You still hide from the media when you venture out. Especially now, with his wedding coming up. Especially now, with her tummy growing. She calls from the kitchen to see what you're doing. When you don't answer, she pads into the living room and slides into your lap. It's habit now. She kisses you and you let her settle in before bringing the book back to where both of you can see it, your arms around her waist.

All you're doing is reading.

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