Four Points

LittleCreek and Musca

Rating: PG
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 19/08/2005
Last Updated: 19/08/2005
Status: completed

"But how can I have that Harry when I can hardly see him?"

Chapters

1. Four Points

1. Four Points

Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, we're only playing.

A/N: Inspired by and dedicated to our Weirdest of Sisters, J. (Of course we don't know if you'll ever get to read this as you seem to have become a professional vacationer.) You allowed us to taunt you mercilessly about our “secret project” and we love you for it and for your overwhelming response upon the first, unbeta'd read. Without choo, Stan would not mean all that he means to us now - and I think we know he's changed all our lives. Enjoy! A and B.

And a million thanks to the lovely and cruel beta, miconic, for patiently steering delinquent commas and misbehaving phrases. We love you and hope to spam your inbox more in the future, so make sure you keep it clean.

Four Points.

Without

How can they sit so close together yet not even notice?

Don't they ever wonder?

Whether--

What if--

The two of them--

Maybe they don't. Maybe it's like, when you lie down in bed at night, ready for sleep; you close your eyes and look beneath your own eyelids, and wonder where the world's gone. There's nothing there because it's too close to see anything. The closest place to you, yet the blindest.

I'm tired. We've negotiated a whole summer with careful smiles and bland conversation. We've taken care not to be alone in each other's company. We've taken care to maintain direct eyecontact, everything we'd rather not see in each other's eyes tucked away beyond the edges. We've taken care to be normal.

But I'm tired.

I want to go back to being the best friend's sister he barely noticed.

I want to go back to seeing him from afar, wanting him from a distance, because now that I've been as close to him as I wanted, I know the idea was a delusion. I could touch him and kiss him and have him smile at me as if I was his world. But I could never peel that cloudy layer off his eyes and peer beneath, at him, at Harry who's neither a hero nor a leader, nor the most fanciable Quidditch captain we've ever had. Harry, just Harry.

But she does.

She sees him every time they look at each other. And he lets her. Without knowing, without thinking, without fear, he lets her.

I can tell now that I'm back where I should've stayed, watching from afar.

My sigh is lost in the rustle of tissue and ribbon that surround me on the floor. With just a week before the wedding, my mum and Phlegm have turned into twin tyrants. We are all saddled with various fiddly tasks that are rewarded with aching backs and numb fingers, especially when you have to do them without magic. It's unfair, now that I'm the only one in the household who's too young to use magic, but for once, I don't mind. It keeps me busy. And it covers what I'm really doing, day in, day out, ever since the three of them have been back.

Watching.

The dress robes I'm wearing to the wedding have an unreasonable number of ribbony loops and organdie swirls. It's pretty, if you want to look like a flotilla of peach-coloured flounces. After days spent pretending not to hear me, Mum finally let me pull some of the wretched ribbons out. The discarded pieces of satin swim in a pool of sunlight around me. I have no idea if the robes look better now. I haven't been watching my fingers.

I have been watching them.

They've been unusually secretive this summer, but I'm not surprised. I know none of them are returning to school. Ron and Hermione are going with him. Did he ask them to? I don't think so. I'm sure they offered.

Why didn't I offer to go with him?

Because he would never let me.

Because Ron would never let me.

Because Mum and Dad would never let me.

At least that's what I tell myself.

That's what I tell myself when the voice says, the voice that always tells the truth, no, Ginny, it's because if he said no, as he would have, you wouldn't have been able to take it.

I pull another ribbon out and lean against the wall.

Harry looks tired. Beyond that, I can't separate the shades darkening his face. He's spent an awful lot of time shut away in his and Ron's room. He slunk downstairs about half an hour ago and ever since then the three of them have been huddling on that couch. Or at least, Harry and Hermione have been.

Poor Ron.

Skirting the edges, trying to pick up the thread of a life that doesn't belong to him.

People call them the trio but if you look closer, you know there hasn't been a trio for a long time. There's Harry and Hermione, and then Ron.

Does Ron realise how tight the knit is? And how strong it is? It stretches and pulls in different directions, sometimes to the point of breaking, but it never unwinds. They disagree and argue, she nags him to distraction and he ignores her to oblivion, but they always end up in that knot that I've seen a million times from one end of the common room.

Harry and Hermione.

I wonder if Ron minds. Hell, he probably has no idea. He's too smitten with Hermione to realise that she's left him behind a long time ago. Or smitten with the idea of Hermione. Just as I was with Harry.

Just as I still am.

It should be easy to let go, now that I know. But some strange thing persists, something that stabs every time I look at him, every time I look at them.

He's leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands in his hair. She's leaning towards him, her knees touching his, the hand on his shoulder poised to keep him from sinking further into himself. I can't see his expression, but I can see hers, and that's enough. To know how he's feeling, you only have to look at her. They're like words etched on those muggle carbon papers I've seen Hermione use; whatever mood he's in, it leaves an impression on her.

Maybe that's what I want.

Not just Harry, but Hermione's Harry.

The Harry to whom she's a perpetual Four-point Spell.

The Harry she can soothe with a word, rebuke with a glance, guide with a fleeting touch.

The Harry she loves.

The Harry she loves.

But how can I have that Harry when I can hardly see him?

*

Periphery

Am I invisible?

Honestly, someone must have chucked Harry's cloak over me when I wasn't looking, because every time I think she's taking a peek at me, I realise she's actually checking the stairs. Or watching Ginny.

She's had that bloody book in her hand all day but I don't think she's turned a page in the last thirty minutes.

Or heard a word I've said since yesterday morning.

I've walked past four times, bumped into her once (on purpose) and stepped on her foot.

That, at least, elicited an, “Ouch, Ron, that was my foot.”

I. Know.

I decide to have one more go and trudge toward her spot on the rug.

“Nutters, isn't it?”

“Hmm…”

Suddenly I hear Mum squealing and Fleur clapping. Women.

“The wedding, it's--Hermione, are you listening to me?”

She notices my trainers before she sees my face and slowly closes the book and looks up, an annoyed expression on her face.

“Of course I am, Ron.” She rolls her eyes. Ah, how well I know her exasperation.

I just nod my head. “Right, then. So--”

“Poor Ginny, it's going to take her ages to get those ribbons off,” she says, nibbling her lip. “I offered to take them off, you know. A simple Unravelling Charm would do it. But she said she'll do it herself.” She shrugs, puzzled.

Well, it appears I'm not only invisible but also ignored and passed over to discuss Ginny's robes. Classic. I grit my teeth to stop the retort flailing on my tongue; I rather value my ability to walk.

“Well,” I offer, “Mum should never have gotten those robes for her in the first place. I mean, when did Ginny ever wear frills and ribbons?”

"Well, perception isn't your family's greatest asset, is it?" She rolls her eyes at me. Again.

"What are you on about?" I do incredulous well.

I know it's a stupid question. I know why she's cutting eyes at me with the most Hermione-ish glare I've seen in days. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not that thick.

Except when it comes to her.

Fancying Hermione is like playing a game of Wizard Chess, constantly trying to gauge my move against hers and avoid getting pelted in the process. I'm good at chess, I can do this. Save for the fact that I'd rather get smashed into bits by another knight than have her send that look my way again. Just outsmart the other player, Ron.

Every step forward brings me closer to her, but there's still something I can't touch.

I try and think whose turn it is to reach out, to make a move, and wonder if it should be this hard.

Truly at a loss for what to do--oh, how easy it was at Dumbledore's funeral--I decide to take a chance. Sod it, I snogged Lavendar in front of everyone in Gryffindor. It can't be that hard to touch Hermione while no one is looking.

Pathetic.

I grab the hand flung over a stack of books on the floor, and squeeze it. I like the shock that registers in her eyes. It's not often you surprise Hermione Granger. Checkmate, Weasley.

She's about to speak, cheeks a little flushed, when her eyes move to the doorway and her hand drops from mine. I follow her glance to see Harry moving like a shadow to the corner sofa.

"Oh," she mumbles. Her eyes never stray from target and she's gone before I can formulate a response.

"Oh?" Oh, what?

I watch her move through the maze of flowers, ribbon and reams of white fabric without issue. Sometimes I think she could find Harry in the dark.

He's been quiet since we left the Dursley's, so she's worried something's wrong. How could it be? Hasn't he waited his whole life to be rid of them? Doesn't he--we--have larger problems at hand? You-Know-Who with His seven-part soul seems a bit more upsetting than that porker cousin of his.

However, what I think really doesn't matter at the moment because Hermione's beside him on the couch.

Secret fear? The moments when I wonder if I'm just the goof with a behind-the-scenes look at the twosome everyone would kill to be a part of.

Shake it off.

I sigh. Even though they haven't noticed my absence yet, I know I'm expected to follow. Unspoken rule of trio conduct: Hermione always treads the rough water that is Harry before I do.

He's just finished saying something as I reach them. His head rests against the back of the couch and she's leaning toward him, head cocked to the side, lips pursed as she looks him over. I know this look. It's saved for Harry alone.

The only place for me to sit is a chair off to the side. I grab it hastily, inserting myself into the circle.

Before I'm settled, her eyes are back on Harry.

“You mean you're not going to tell anyone, then?” she asks quietly.

I've obviously missed the beginning of the conversation. Not unusual.

“No,” Harry sighs. His eyes are defiant.

I nod. It seems appropriate.

Hermione looks down at her hands and links them together.

“Then I will.”

Harry's head snaps up. Obviously, he wasn't expecting that.

“Hermione--”

“Harry, listen to me. There are three of us involved here. Someone needs to know what's happening to us, no matter how secret our mission is.”

How does she do that? How does she always manage to tell him exactly what he doesn't want to hear? I'd rather have a go at a Blast-Ended Skrewt than face an angry Harry, but not Hermione. Skrewts be damned.

“And what are you going to do when they try to stop us?” Harry shoots back.

“Yeah, exactly,” I say and immediately regret it for the look she fires in my direction.

“Be quiet, Ron. They'll try to stop us, Harry, but they can't. We're of age, we can do whatever we want.”

Harry suddenly becomes quiet. “Are you sure about that, Hermione?” He gives a short laugh. “Because I know someone who can't do just what he wants. Never will.”

Hermione's eyes grow wide. “Oh, Harry, I didn't mean it like that.”

Like what? I look from one to the other.

“I meant--”

“Yeah, I know what you meant. Sorry--I'm just...”

“It's alright.”

Er, okay. When did the subject change? It did change. Right?

“What's wrong, Harry?”

I've heard her say that a hundred times and lately I've wondered what she means exactly. Because those three words, in the tone she says them and the look she gives him while she does, it's as if there's a whole other sentence I can't hear.

“Nothing. I'm fine,” mutters Harry.

She's thoroughly unconvinced.

“Is it Ginny?” she says, voice strained somehow, eyes downcast.

Our heads snap up.

She doesn't want to know if it is. I bury the thought as quickly as it enters.

“No.” Harry lets his eyes drift toward the window where Ginny's holding court. “It's not Ginny.”

“Then what--” She stops abruptly, mouth forming a little O. “It's them. It's the--”

He looks at her, almost smirking. I wonder if he expected her to figure it out earlier.

“Yes,” he says simply.

“Oh, Harry, I'm sorry. I should have known. Why didn't you say anything?”

“It's okay, I'm fine, really. It's just--”

“Strange?”

“Yeah. Strange.” He's staring hard at his hands. When he speaks again it's almost as if he's talking to himself. And Hermione.

“Why would I feel like that about a place I've always been dying to leave?”

Watching them is like being underwater. They move in their own fluid pace and know everything about the world they're in, but us regular blokes from the shore miss half of it for trying not to drown.

And right now, I'm drowning.

*

Threshold

He's lost and he doesn't know how to say it.

I'm lost too, I don't know how to make sense of it, how to make it better.

He's waited his whole life to leave that place behind, and now that he has, he--he feels lost.

“It's not that I want to go back, never that,” he says, his voice serrated with frustration and exhaustion. I lean closer to hear him properly.

“It's like, it's like I--I mean I expected to feel relieved. I've fucking dreamed of this every day of my life but…”

And then it hits me. My breath leaves as sudden as it comes.

He looks up, questioning. I tighten my hand on his shoulder, as if that alone could steady his blundering steps along a path neither of us can see.

“Is it that--is it that you feel like you haven't really left it behind?”

His eyes widen.

He looks so relieved but wounded and irrationally, I feel guilty. Why am I always the one to tell him what hurts him most? Why am I always the one to tell him the truth?

“I--yeah. That's it.” He swallows, still staring at me. “Like I never really will.”

When will it ever end for him? I'm so angry and hurt for him, that for a moment I can't speak.

I want to take his face in my palms and tell him that there's light in the cupboard under the stairs now, light strong enough to spread far beyond his four corners, light that engulfs everyone close to him.

But I don't. Instead, I settle for the standard response.

“Oh Harry…”

*

Within

“Oh Harry,” she says. Nothing else.

And I feel like I've finally sat down. I've been walking for days and days and finally I've sat down. And it's going to be alright because when I have to get up and keep going, she's going to be around.

“Yeah,” I reply inconsequentially.

She opens her mouth again, making vague gestures with her hands.

“Harry--I--it's…”

She wants to give me words and I want to tell her she doesn't need to. Not her. Instead, I run a hand through my hair and let it scrape against the back of my neck before I look at her.

“I'll be okay. Er, thanks.”

She looks at me for a moment longer, and I let her. Then she nods, relief flooding her eyes. She releases my shoulder.

I lean back against the sofa, my shoulder settling against hers. But she sits up.

“So.” She pulls a cushion from under my elbow into her lap and folds her arms over it. “Who should we tell about what we're doing?”

And we're back to this.

I sigh and drop my head. She lets me rest but never for long.

There are two ways to do this Harry, I say to myself. Either you just get up and walk right this minute down the road she's pointing, or you sit here until she wheedles, reasons, begs and finally kicks you to get moving.

Either way, you know she's right.

And you know she will kick you. Hard.

“Well, Lupin makes the most sense, doesn't he?” I say, very quietly.

She smiles. “I think so.” She tries not to look smug and relieved and triumphant all at the same time and fails miserably. I can't help smirking.

“Yeah… yeah,” Ron says tentatively. “I agree, Harry.”

I look at him. I'd forgotten he was there. He's talking to me but looking at Hermione.

He's got that look on his face I've seen countless times over the chessboard. Calculating and alert, poised to attack if faced with a particularly ferocious knight.

I drop my head again.

I want to tell him he's going about it the wrong way, that it's not a game. It's not a game because she's too precious to lose.

Maybe that's why I've never played.

Not with Hermione.

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