How Could I Ask For More

HOW COULD I ASK FOR MORE

So many things in my life had always fit into definite categories. Black and white. Cut and dry. Life and death. Friends and enemies. Love and hate. War and peace. It was always so simple to see the clearly defined areas—nothing ever drifted across the boundaries, nothing ever moved out of line…until she knelt down in front of the Weasley’s hearth and cried, really sobbed, and I watched.

At first I could do nothing more than slump in a shabby chair in the Burrow’s living room, force myself to draw breath into my lungs and then exhale it again, stare at her as though seeing nothing more than a blurry representation of space and time.

Her muffled sobs echoed in my head like the music of a faraway city, dying and crumbling, mourning its losses. I couldn’t connect myself to the noise; I couldn’t connect myself to anything. I felt like a shell, a shadow, a nothing.

“Oh Harry,” she cried quietly into her hands.

Two simple words, lost in her palms, but I heard them, and those two words were like a hand, reaching out to snatch me back from where I’d hidden myself, from where I’d lost myself.

I blinked, and in less than a second, I was on the floor, kneeling beside her, wrapping my arms around her trembling body. I didn’t have time to feel awkward, didn’t have time to care about who might see us.

“Don’t cry, Hermione.” It seemed a foolish thing to say because had I really opened up and absorbed what had unfolded around us in the passing months, I might have cried too—and never ever stopped.

She pressed her head into my chest, and I held her tighter, rocked her gently. Soon, her breathing slowed. The peaceful in and out of her quiet breaths had me closing my eyes and resting my head against hers. The crackling fire and Hermione’s breaths calmed me, and for a moment, I forgot the entire world had almost gone to Hell indefinitely.

She pulled away, looked up me. The burnt orange of the dancing firelight reflected in her dark eyes. “Nothing will ever be the same,” she whispered.

I heard her words, but I didn’t hear them. I couldn’t quiet the voice in my head that kept asking why I’d never seen how beautiful she was, how fragile she looked as her bottom lip trembled, how strong and determined she appeared in the same moment, how I could have known her for so many years and never really held her.

Thinking I had not heard her, she repeated, “We can never go back…we’ll never be the same. Nothing will ever be the same again.”

She was right. I could never go back. I could never correct my mistakes, save the lives of the doomed, rethink my rash decisions, kiss her years before.

There was only one way left to go. Forward. I touched my fingertips to her tear-stained cheek, and to her credit, she didn’t even flinch.

“We can’t go back,” I said. Truthfully, I didn’t want to go back. I’d been there, I’d seen the darkness, and I knew if I had to go back, I might lose myself eternally.

“I don’t even know what to do with myself now. I don’t know how to feel. I don’t know how to ease your pain…”

I leaned away from her intense gaze. “What? Ease…my pain?”

She looked away and nodded. A few silvery tears traveled down her cheeks as she squeezed her eyelids together. “I don’t know how you do it. I don’t know how you look so controlled. Look at me, I’m a mess.”

“I’m a mess inside,” I admitted, feeling a sudden tightness in my throat.

She opened her eyes, reached out and placed her hand on mine. “I know you are, and I want to help you. I want to…I want to help you, Harry, but I know I could never be enough to…to make things okay again.” She released a shuddering breath.

I looked at her in amazement. She was kneeling by the fire, crying for me. Not because she was torn up inside or because she selfishly wanted her life to be right again, but because of me. An intense feeling of love bloomed in my chest, warmed my stomach. And though there were still more obstacles to overcome, forgiveness to ask of others who may not be as understanding, I lifted her chin with my hand.

“You are and have always been enough for me…” Scared as hell and with a heart striking hard against my ribs, I leaned down and kissed her cheek softly. She exhaled a breathy sigh, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up; I felt a warm tingling sensation surge straight down to my toes. “If I have you, how could I ask for more?”

When Hermione hesitantly placed her hands on my cheeks and pressed her lips against mine, I realized I’d been wrong all along. What I felt for her could never be squeezed into a clearly defined category—it was far too large; it encompassed too much. In fact, it was greater than me, out of my hands, and far superior to anything I could have imagined. And more than that, it was right. So unbelievably right.