Disclaimer: Not mine…as if you really thought so.
Keeping Watch
Chapter One: Hermione
The room was filthy.
Dust covered every conceivable flat surface, and lay thick in the air itself, seeming to coat my tongue and throat, with each breath I took. The air was stale and dank. The carpet had rotted, as part of the room was exposed to the air, and had been that way for seventeen years.
The boys had taken care of that, kicking the ratty shreds of fabric over the edge into the ruins of the front half of the house below.
The rear of the house was mostly intact. The front, which included the downstairs where James had fought and died, and the nursery above, where Lily had died, was a tangled mass of splintered lumber, shattered glass, broken furniture, and creeping undergrowth. The roof slanted down, bent almost in the middle, from the way it had fallen over the collapsed front.
Harry had decided that this was as good a place as any to set up camp, at least for now. It was obvious nobody had bothered about this place for years, and yet, there was a lingering sadness wafting about the place, a hint of terrible tragedy. Muggles might whisper that it was haunted.
The house had creaked ominously as we climbed up the back wall, with the help of a convenient growth of ivy gone awry, levitating our things in through the window once we were up. Harry, Ron, and I used some charms and spells to shore it up, ward it, and keep the elements out.
Harry's face was positively grey, and I knew it was from the strain of simply being here. His spine had gone suddenly rigid, as he and Ron scuffed the carpet out over the abyss that had been his early life, and over his shoulder, I could see the glint of shiny wooden slats running parallel to each other…the rails of a crib. I felt my throat convulse. Oh, Harry…
He stood that way for a moment, stock-still, as if he'd been Petrified, and I felt my heart break for him. The loss of Dumbledore was still fresh, the loss of Sirius still hurt, and the burdensome task of finding the horcruxes and finishing off Voldemort was a heavy weight that he struggled under on a daily basis. I knew this as acutely as if I'd felt it myself. I did feel it myself.
He shook his head suddenly, and turned from the wreckage to the part of the house that faintly resembled normalcy. And I saw his eyes freeze again, that stunned, staring gaze that one gets, when the hammer just keeps falling, each blow shattering the life a little bit more.
Just a little bit more…
I turned my head almost unwillingly, wondering what he had seen. And there, through a window, intact, but lacy with a web of shattered glass, two stones shone marble-white in the moonlight, resting under the silver-black silhouette of a large willow tree.
Lily…and James….
"Harry," I whispered, and my voice cracked in my thick throat, as the pain radiated off of him in waves, buffeting me. And then he was in my arms, his shoulders shaking, as he sobbed without sound.
I leaned my head on his shoulder, and patted his back, making soft soothing sounds, wishing with everything I had that I could somehow take away his pain, or just borrow it for awhile, and let him rest, burdenless and without care…if only for just a moment. I also felt a momentary flash of gladness that Ron was outside securing the perimeter.
That thought shocked me, and I stiffened involuntarily in Harry's arms. Where did that come from?
Harry felt my movement, and stepped away from me, tears leaving shiny trails down his face, which he dashed at, self-consciously.
"Er…sorry, Hermione," he said, and looked toward the window again. His face seemed drawn and pale in the harsh white light of the nearly-full moon. Not Harry, not Harry! A woman screamed. There was green light, and harsh, inhuman laughter. I shuddered. Yes, there were ghosts here.
"Harry," I said again, feeling stupid. Lines of grief and worry had to be permanently etched into my face by now. I just wanted to … I just wanted to hold him, to run my fingers through his hair, and whisper that everything would be all right.
Beautiful lies. Harry had had 15 months of "all right", and then things had never been the same again. The crumbled house, the shining gravestones, the scar on his forehead, all were mute testimony to a life interrupted, altered, distorted, forsaken…
"I - I -- " I took an involuntarily half-step forward. I couldn't understand what all these feelings were rushing through me, and why they had decided to swell up and swirl down and overwhelm me at this precise moment. My arm was raised, and I wondered idly how it had gotten like that…almost as if it did not belong to me. My fingers grazed the edge of his cheekbone lightly, and he looked at me in bewilderment, like I was someone he did not recognize.
"Ron?" he asked, his eyes searching mine. And for an instant, I thought guiltily that Ron had returned, to interrupt our intimate moment, to see me caressing the face of his best friend. But then I realized that he was not talking to Ron, but about Ron.
"R-Ron?" I echoed back, feeling all my cool poise and intelligence slip through my fingers like sifted sand. My face flamed, and I felt grateful for the dim, uncertain half-light that the moon provided.
What about Ron? I loved Ron. I loved the way his ears reddened with embarrassment or anger, the goofy, shy, self-deprecating half-smile that was his trademark, his light humor, his skill with a one-liner that could interrupt the most serious moment. I loved the idea of Ron, the notion that a funny, charming, athletic, non-academic could fall for someone like me. I enjoyed the funny flip in my stomach when I looked up and happened to catch his contemplative gaze on me.
It made me feel alluring. It made me feel powerful.
But Harry…here was another animal altogether. Moody and thoughtful and prone to wild swings in emotion, he was a boy-man caught in an extraordinary life against his will. I wasn't sure what it was that had drawn me to him ever since first year, but there was no denying that it was there. His jet hair caught some of the moonlight, and stood in stark relief to his weary, white face. His hand lifted to cover mine, and he leaned his cheek into the cup of my hand. I felt myself tremble, even as I tried to will these feelings away. Now was not the time. What of Ron? I didn't want to shatter the perfect balance of this triangle, not now, when we needed each other so much. What of Harry? He didn't need the sappy emotions of a clinging, weepy girl to make his journey more difficult.
He needed me…Hermione Granger, whose memory was photographic and whose brain was an encyclopedic receptacle of knowledge. If he'd needed a girl, he'd have brought Ginny along with us.
Ginny… I remembered smiling happily as Harry kissed her in the common room, while the whole of Gryffindor house looked on. Ron was next to me, Gryffindor had won, and Harry…the look of bliss on his face, the look of triumph. He looked so…so normal, like a normal teenaged boy. Like Seamus, like Dean, like Ron. He looked young and free, and it was so beautiful that it did my heart good to see it.
I did not recognize the deep pain that throbbed once within me at the sight of another girl in his arms. I did not acknowledge the whisper of defeat that threaded through me…again. Not then.
After all, I was Hermione Granger, his best friend, his staunch ally, his right arm. And that was all I really ever wanted….wasn't it?
I shook my head at him, and tried to tack a few words on, to add meaning to my gesture. "Me and Ron.." I began, ungrammatically, "there's nothing …yet…he hasn't…" I blundered stupidly to a stop, and cursed my lost eloquence. What was wrong with me?
Harry regarded me silently for another eternal moment, and then, flash-quick, before I even realized what was happening, he had leaned toward me, and brushed a light kiss against my lips. Even as I began to lean into the kiss, he was gone.
Warmth flooded me, rushing rapidly down my arms and legs, into my fingers and toes. I felt like an aura of light was radiating outwardly from me. I felt vibrant; I felt foolish. Here in this dreary monument to magic gone terribly wrong, I was wrung out, knocked down, bowled over, undone…by a simple, chaste kiss.
When I looked up again, Harry was across the room, gazing moodily out the webby window, and I heard a clatter of boards and crunch of broken glass. There was a sliding noise, and a thump, and a muffled curse.
I smothered a smile.
Soon Ron's red head heaved into view through the other window in the room, which was glassless.
"Ron, for the love of Merlin, can't you be quiet?" I asked, with the asperity in my voice belied by my smile. Ron looked at me, injured, and stuck out his lip, as he clambered in the window.
"I got a bloody splinter," he said, as if that rectified everything, sucking on the offended digit. I felt the sudden warm, incongruous elation once again. Ron would always be Ron…whether being terrified of losing a Quidditch match, or facing down Death Eaters. There was comfort in that. He was comfortable, and I was comfortable with him.
But was comfort what I really yearned for? When the touch of Harry's lips was pure exhilaration? Harry's eyes met mine briefly, and skittered away. I felt my face shining like a beacon, and wondered if I had the stamp of guilty pleasure tattooed there.
It was just a kiss, I inwardly screamed. A stupid, simple kiss. But it was with Harry, and I knew that the solid ground I thought I stood on with Ron was just an illusion.
"How's everything?" Harry asked Ron, his tone business-like and serious.
"Silent as the g-" Ron gagged on the last word, and did not speak it. Dear, tactless Ron. I felt a surge of affection for him. Harry and I exchanged glances.
"I've got first watch," I said quickly, my eyes assessing how incredibly soul-weary Harry looked. Harry made a token protest, but it was feebly done.
In a moment, they had stripped the bed of its foul linens, and scourgified the mattress, deciding to sleep on it bare. I took up a post in the undamaged corner of the bedroom, my back against the wall, wand out, where I could see both windows and the creepy black chasm where the rest of the ruined house lay.
Ron had stripped off his jacket and shoes, but Harry kept them both on, wrapping one hand tightly around his wand.
"Wake me up in a couple of hours, Hermione," he said, his eyes boring into mine, seemingly filled with unspoken possibilities. I felt my stomach somersault and settle into a gooey warmth. I nodded unevenly, not trusting myself to speak.
I watched them sleep. Ron was flat on his back, sprawled out, softly snoring. Harry was on his side, half-curled up, but lying rigidly, as if he would not let himself relax completely, even in sleep. His brow was furrowed, and I wondered what horrors he saw in his dreams. I longed to smooth the creases away, to bring a smile to his face and a carefree light to his eyes.
When had I started feeling this way? Had I always felt this way, and just not seen it until now? I cursed my terrible timing. I realized that my relationship with Ron was folly…it was Harry; it had always been about Harry. Ron and I were just satellites, our lives wrapped up with Harry's, entangled in Harry's. If Harry was gone, Ron and I would be adrift, with no center of gravity, no common purpose.
I almost laughed aloud. Harry was the reason we were together…if you could call it that. And Harry was the reason we would never work. It was a poetic paradox.
The night wore on. The silvery shadows shifted and changed, gilding the dirty floor and ruined furnishings. Every now and then, a gust of wind would moan through the house, rattling the splintered wood and causing the house to creak ominously.
I sat hunched in my corner, fingers sweatily clutching my wand, and kept watch.
Presently, I saw Harry shift, almost uncomfortably on the bed. One hand thrust outward convulsively. His brow was creased, his lips moved, as he muttered something under his breath, shaking his head. "No…" I heard him say, barely audibly.
A nightmare. I uncurled myself, and trod noiselessly to the bedside, kneeling down beside him.
"Harry," I said softly, placing one hand on his shoulder. "Harry, wake u-"
He came up with a cry that he quickly silenced as he became fully awake. His chest was heaving and his eyes darted around wildly, as he tried to figure out where he was.
"You're at your parents' house," I blurted quickly, and I saw some of the fogginess leave his eyes. His gaze suddenly fastened on my face, and he grabbed my hand, clutching it tightly.
"You're here," he said, wonderingly, and I fleetingly wondered what he had dreamt.
"I'm here," I echoed, and my voice was full of meaning. We stared at each other for a long moment, and I slowly became cognizant of his thumb, stroking the back of my hand, leaving a trail of sparks in its wake.
"If I make it - " he began hesitantly.
"Yes," I said, before he could finish. He looked at me with something like amazement, and his lips parted as if he would speak, but he didn't. I smiled, a little self-consciously, and averted my gaze. I didn't need him to finish the sentence; I knew what he was going to say.
And right then, in that abandoned, decrepit bedroom, with Ron sleeping softly nearby, I gave myself to him, in heart and soul, if not body. And I knew that I would do anything he asked of me.
He stared at me a moment longer, until I felt my face grow warm, and then he stood up slowly. He took both of my hands in his, and looked the perfect picture of someone who was about to confess some deep-seated emotional attachment. Instead, what he said was,
"Get some sleep. I'll take this watch."
I nodded, and sat on the edge of the bed, slipping off my shoes. Harry settled into the corner that I had recently vacated. I watched him for a moment, my feelings for him settling into an almost physical ache, somewhere in the region of my throat.
He turned toward me then, as if he felt my gaze on him. His eyes were hooded in shadows, but I could tell they rested on me.
"You know?" he asked simply, his voice low, but vibrant, in the forlorn room.
"I know," I said, hoarsely, my throat wanting to close up. He allowed himself a smile then, one of those real ones that came so rarely these days.
"I'm glad," he replied, and then, a moment later, "G'night, Hermione."
"Night, Harry." Meanings seemed to oscillate within meanings. There was so much that was unsaid, yet so little that actually needed to be said. A promise had been exchanged; an offer had been accepted.
I curled up on the hard, yellowing mattress, and let my eyelashes flutter closed.
TBC
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