Deluge

A/N: Hello all, I'm new. Just got accepted as a matter of fact and am just so happy.

This is my first fanfic, so please review, and be brutally honest. I want to know what you all think.

All you really need to know otherwise is that, the italicised “him”, “he” and “his” is Ron, “her” and “she” is Hermione, and one “he” refers to Harry.

Disclaimer: JKR owns the characters, I own most of the plot, and together we make the perfect team.

Deluge

A ceaseless downpour has started through the mist in the late evening, again. For days now a monotonous pattern as the rain poured from the heavens and trapped them within. Somewhere, rivers were surely bursting their banks; elsewhere the sun had probably gone out in a blaze of glory, accentuated by rich hues of hot pink, orange and violet.

Perfect. He wished he could see it.

It is dark in here. The heavy drapes of the windows had been drawn in a feeble attempt to capture the heat, but it shut out the light. Every now and then snatches of bluish-white light would filter in to the floor.

It never reaches him.

He does not want it to either; traces of the world without are painful.

Funny, just over a year ago he would not set foot in this place, now it is sanctuary most sacred. Then again, everything is different now.

He stretches out on the musty sofa and wrinkles his nose to suppress the urge to sneeze. The Order has not been cleaning up, and Mrs Weasley was too busy with her son's wedding.

This house has been forgotten more than once.

She stirs on the arm chair nearby, his movement bothers her rest, and he dares not breathe.

He is snoring loudly; he wonders how she can sleep.

Reluctantly, he thinks that she must be used to it by now, and crushes that thought quickly. No, she's just a deeper sleeper, she hears nothing.

She is prettiest at rest. Her long, bushy brown hair in that single braid now over her shoulder, her small serene face, pinked by the slight chill that pervades the house, her head resting neatly on her hand while the rest of her is drawn up in the seat. How could she rest like this he could not tell, it must not be comfortable. But he will not disturb her rest, she needs to sleep, and besides, that is his domain now.

He stops his thoughts before they head down that path again, they are his friends, he should be happy for them.

He is not.

He tears his gaze from her and looks down at his feet. Bare and cold, his feet are pale. He burrows them into the cushions and forces out thoughts of doxies. The house had been cleaned thoroughly, he would not sit here if not, he would not bring her, them, here if not.

He conveniently forgets the earlier dust that tickled his nose.

This is all temporary anyway, after Godric's Hollow they'll find somewhere else to be. But they can't go yet, there is a storm coming, the rain is falling.

He begins to mutter something in his sleep. It is barely audible, but he catches some of it.

“We can't… I'm not staying here… I promised…” and his voice trails off.

He understands. He knew they could not have come here without a fight of some kind. She does not say a word; he wonders how she managed with her own family. Reasoning to leave them behind once he had come upon the idea that their parents would not like it. That they would resist. He knew Mrs Weasley well. Her parents, as far as he knew, had said nothing, or she had just chosen not to tell them. What he would give to find out.

He looks to the window. The rain has not stopped falling, the light that sneaked in has stopped coming. It is too dark out. Turning away he draws his wand and mutters, “Incendio!” and watches small flames slowly rise amongst the already half burnt-out logs in the grate. Immediately they are all cast in a flickering orange-yellow glow, she stirs again, he continues to snore.

He refuses to look at them now. The flames are his new focus, enchanting to the point of him wishing that a familiar shaggy-mane and smiling face would appear. Only then does he stop looking, he does not want to think about that. Everything nowadays seems wrought with guilt, guilt that is an understanding that this is his entire fault.

No it is not.

Her voice in his head startles him. He has not heard it in a while and strangely, he realises that he missed it. Maybe then he would have been a little more careful with that book. Honestly, he was grateful for the help but not for the fact that the owner was a heartless, evil, loathsome murderer. He should have been more careful, should have been, too late for that now.

You did not know, you could not know.

Her voice again, he is mildly tempted to continue in those thoughts just to keep it there.

No, it is wrong, his voice scolds, haven't you done enough?

He forces his attention from the flames to his friends, focusing on him. His red hair is almost made golden to his complexion by the fire. He is sprawled over the lounge chair with his mouth slightly open and his long limbs hanging all over. Yes, he had done enough to them, may they be happy together for a long time to come.

You don't mean that, you should not think things you do not mean.

He is surprised that it is her voice scolding this time, but she is right.

He does not mean that.

When he saw them together at the wedding, despite himself he could not help but feel moody for the entire day. It was wrong, and strange, and it served as a distraction from looking and thinking about his sibling, but he could not shake it. Despite so much going on in his world he could not simply shake away the feeling of irritation at the sight of them together. He guessed that was probably why he also behaved rather glumly all day, it kept her with him worrying over his well being. There was even an argument later on and he revelled in the thought that it was because of him.

So yes, he had done enough to them, and yes, he did not mean that he was happy for them.

He was not, would not be.

A low rumble of thunder in the distance cuts his thoughts. He had promised himself that he would not go down that path. There were so many more important matters to worry over, Dumbledore's death, Snape and Draco's escape, those Horcruxes they still had to find, the people Voldemort continued to kill. There was no time for him to be worried over losing his best friends, losing her, to some silly, hormonal, bound-to-fail, relationship.

He had done it again.

He shakes his head; he has to get out of here lest his thoughts betray him.

They already had.

He needed her more than he did. He was the one in danger, the one marked for death by a bloodthirsty, bigoted madman, the one struggling for whatever control of his existence he could get by hunting down and destroying that madman, piece by piece. And he could not do it without her.

It was something that he knew all along and learned especially last year.

She should have helped him, but she was too busy chasing after and agreeing with him. He was just the go-along, he would just agree to whatever they had planned and go with it, and he would have to understand that their relationship just could not work until that madman was dead. They had no time now for nonsense.

No, no, no, this is all wrong.

Throwing caution to the wind he slips his feet free of the cushion, swings them off the chair and stands up. It is noisy, the chair creaks beneath his weight, but he has to leave this room.

If he remains with them another minute he would probably end up with a complete plan to systematically destroy their relationship.

There was no monster, no, she deserved better than that, but there was something else, something far stronger than the monster and no doubt more ruthless than it could have ever dreamed to be. It would destroy their friendship in its bid to be appeased even; he had to stop it before it got too dangerous. But then, it also had the potential to let them be even at the risk of breaking his heart, which he could not allow either.

He would not go far for now, but he has to leave.

He turns to his left to head away but is stopped by the sight of her, now turned unto her back and leaning into the high back of the arm chair as if snuggled in arms. He forces himself to change direction and head around the lounge chair, narrowly stopping himself from popping an insect he has just noticed scurrying to the corner into his open mouth. He does not look back all the way out the room and through the door.

Her voice stops him at the door.

“H-Harry…?” she asks.

He pauses, exhales heavily and slowly turns around to find her staring up at him from the arm chair, her brown eyes traced with gold in the firelight.

He cannot be here, but he replies, “Hermione.”

She rises from the arm chair and makes to come after him, he does not move.

When she is standing before him she asks softly, eyes full of concern, also missed last year, “Where are you going?”

“Out,” he replies bluntly.

He wants her to leave him, but then he also does not want her here awake, alone, with him.

“Oh,” she says, her mouth forming the reply and she moves to come closer, to come with him.

He knows that he will not resist, he cannot, even if she wants to talk about Sirius, Dumbledore, this place, their plans, he will. He turns again and heads out through the hall and up the stairs to the upper floors, she follows slightly behind.

Fate is mocking him tonight.

The first room he chooses to enter is Sirius' but he does not leave. The moment he stands within, knowing that he avoided it for a full year, he is suddenly overwhelmed.

The first sight of him in his Third Year, a big, black dog in Little Whinging that both he and Professor Trelawney thought to be a Grim; that same dog dragging him into the Whomping Willow, then fighting with Lupin; the man in the flames; the one who laughed and mocked Bellatrix before she killed him. He was his godfather, his last link to his parents, save Lupin, his only correspondence out of Hogwarts, and he was gone. Here now, Harry was in his house, no, this was Harry's house, but he is an intruder in this room.

He should not have come here.

His throat clenches and he knows he's fighting tears he has not shed since the end of his Fifth Year. He had been mad at Dumbledore then, furious that he had kept Sirius so locked up that Voldemort inadvertently was able to kill him, take him away from him. He lost that anger to Dumbledore, only to have it resurge when he learned that he had also kept from him that Snape was his parents' traitor. Whatever had happened though, it did not last long before Dumbledore too was gone.

Everyone he cared about was taken from him, and they trusted him wholeheartedly, as Dumbledore said, “I am not worried, Harry… I am with you.”

He cannot stay here now; it is going to hurt him more if he does.

She saves him.

He feels her hand, warm and soft slip into his and she begins to lead him back out of the room. He feels as if he is being pulled from flood waters to the safety of the dry land. The door closes before his face before he turns to her but he says nothing. Instead, something makes him intertwine their fingers and grip her hand tight. She gives no acknowledgement but he knows she understands.

They walk together from the door.

Full Moon

He cannot tell how long they have been sitting in this room. The rain has stopped falling, surprisingly, to the point that they spy the inky night sky now dotted with infinite twinkling stars. There is a full moon too. Round, creamy white, shadowed and bright, its light spreads over the land and mist in a softly ethereal glow.

It seems a night for danger, he hopes Lupin is safe.

She has not said a word since they entered. She is sitting on the bed watching him as he takes up a place on the floor and stares out at the night.

Silent comfort she chooses to remain, he missed that too.

Very soon, by her choice, they will bring danger to themselves by going after the madman that has been trying to kill him since infancy.

They have already searched through the house for the locket they had so casually discarded in the clean-up. They, no she, think it could be a Horcrux, RAB, being Regulus A. Black, Sirius' brother. She thinks Sirius may have been wrong, that Regulus must have taken the locket and then got killed for it, according to the note. He hates to think that Sirius is wrong, he wants to argue against it, but he does not. He'll let her have her way, they have argued too much in the past two years. Their relationship is beginning to look like theirs.

He has begun to let her have her way a lot now. Anything she wants she will get. If she wants to come with him, fine, if she wants to look for the Horcrux at number twelve, despite his troubles, fine, if she wants to sit with him alone, fine. He does not want their relationship, there would be no peace and he needs her. He suspects that this may be a delusion on his part though; he does not need her that much.

Or does he?

Her hand has found its way to his head and just rests neatly on his hair. He moves slightly as if to beg her to stroke through it, she obliges. Her cat would be jealous.

He would be too.

The thought of him returns his guilt. She is his girlfriend; he cannot do this with his girlfriend.

But what are they doing?

She is just sitting here with him while he works through a mood and muses. There is nothing more, they are just friends. Just friends, best friends, close friends, friends that so many have thought so much more between…

No, there he goes being delusional again; there is nothing more between them. Every action and reaction on their part to each other is platonic, there is nothing above that. There is still that feeling though, that overwhelming feeling when once or twice her fingers graze his scalp.

His scalp burns, pimples run his spine and he tries not to think of her closer to him. He will not. But his hands betray him and he reaches up and pulls her to the floor beside him. She lands softly, and then wraps her arms round his waist while resting her chin on his shoulder. She should not touch him so just now, but he does not move away, he leans his head back against hers.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

It is the first word they have spoken since they left the drawing room.

He nods.

“I'm sorry I asked you to come here, we shouldn't have… we could have sent Kreacher?” she tells him.

He is surprised; she would volunteer the service of a house elf?

“No, he probably would have done something else, bring us the wrong thing… what happened to S.P.E.W.?” he replies.

She dips her head into his shoulder almost as if to give a small kiss, “I put it on hold for a while, other things to deal with… as for Kreacher, I just… well, if you didn't want to come back here… I don't think one of us could have come in…”

He moves his head against hers as if in a caress, she falls into silence. They understand.

So much to do and this is how they are. He cannot tell what she feels but he knows what he does. The feelings running through him are beginning to cut away a bit at his heart. On the one hand, for the fact that he cannot have her, and on the other, that having her would mean hurting him. He cannot do that; they must remain a trio, a trinity, complete.

Besides, he does not know how she feels. Her actions here are comfort and nothing else. Like that hug in First Year, though it embarrassed him; that kiss at the end of Fourth Year; in the Fifth, she kissed him to distract him; (he would believe nothing else) and just two months before, her hug was that too. She comforts through actions that anyone could misinterpret, but sometimes, just sometimes, there is that lingering hope. There were other things, many things, which were not just for comfort. He knows it, they know it, but they will suppress it, they will not hurt him.

And suddenly, she releases him and rises from the floor to go to the window. He feels a pang as her warm body leaves his cold; he is reluctant to release the grip on her hand.

But he does.

She goes to the window and looks up at the night sky and then draws the curtains to shut out the light. When she returns it is not to sit on the floor with him, she sits on the bed and rests her back on a pillow against the bed-board. She does not look at him but he knows. He rises from the floor and climbs unto it beside her, resting his head in her lap, and allowing her hands to rest on his hair and arm. She comforts him like a mother would a child, like she has always done. Whatever happens, he swears by the full moon, he will not let this source of comfort go. It would tear him in half.

Where did that come from? Is she half of him?

Maybe, for right now he feels content, complete. As they are complete when friends three, he is complete when she is here, just a silent pair.

He absently begins to play with the hem of her jeans while watching the light of the full moon, now illuminating the curtains, cast a strange, faint silvery glow through the room.

Subterfuge

It is late. The silence downstairs means that he is still asleep, he is allowed that, he is tired. She has fallen asleep too. She is still sitting up but leaning slightly to one side, refusing to seek comfort for him. He realises it only when he hears her breathing even.

He sits up, gently takes hold of her arms and lets her slip lower on the bed until she was lies supine beside him. Only then does he lie back, but this time with his head near hers on the pillow, content to watch her sleep. Only then does he notice the rain has started again.

What are they doing? No, that is not right, what is he doing?

He is endangering her like this. Like he would have done to his sibling, if The Enemy enters his head or his dreams he would have ample information to hurt him. She is already in danger being muggle-born, she is the cleverest, smartest, prettiest witch of their generation, she is his friend and this would just put her higher on the target list. If anything happens to her he would die.

No, literally, he would die.

Since First Year, he is quite sure, he must have been somewhere on a schedule of hers under the heading “Keeping Harry Alive” with a list of the things that entailed. At the end of each year she would probably check it and move on to the next year's schedule with that heading being the first thing down. It was silly yes, but being his friend was not easy, he was probably more dangerous than Lupin.

He has been getting them hurt since First Year, Madam Pomfrey no doubt setting up beds before each year just for them. For him in the chess game in First Year; through the Whomping Willow in their Third; in the Department of Mysteries in their Fifth; her with the Polyjuice Potion and that basilisk in Second Year; rescuing Sirius in the Third and in the Department of Mysteries too, all small sacrifices for him, and only for him. He was not sure that he had ever expressed gratitude for it but if they wanted to know, he was forever indebted to them, to her, for it. And here they were yet again endangering themselves for him. His thoughts, that feeling or whatever it was that had suddenly sprung up to her, for her, was only complicating this. He was trouble, he deserved none of this and yet they gave it to him.

He was just that lucky.

She moved a bit, gave a slight moan but did not awaken.

He would not let them get hurt, that is not his way. The Enemy will come and he will stop him, for the world, for them, for her. If just to know that they will go on after, (not that they have to go on together) to lives filled with family and peace, he will do this for them.

Strange, he dares imagine himself there with them.

His odds of survival are slim, few, but he will not give up, no Enemy is too powerful to prevent him from paying them back for all of this. Peace is their reward.

But what is his?

He ponders this now as she turns over to face him and exhales at the effort.

What does he deserve after all of this, if anything at all? No, he does deserve something. The right to live in peace; the right to obscurity instead of the Ministry's poster boy or being hounded for others to express gratitude no matter how much they want to; the right to a home, a family, to love. It is “The Power He Knows Not”; the power Harry has so much of to give; the power so many have given their lives to for to him; the power, if possible, somewhere in life's busy schedule, he could feel returned.

He is being silly again, he knows it, he felt it, but not that way. He's just tired of that old refrain now. He does not know exactly which way he wants it returned, but in some way returned.

He moves the braid from her shoulder and lets it fall behind her. It is coming loose.

He runs his fingers through the plait until her hair lies all loose and bushy down her back. A few strands fall unto her face; he moves them behind her ear and allows his fingers to trace around the lobe to the tiny earring studs. As his finger tips slip to the warm skin of her cheek she stirs again and he draws his hand away.

He should not have done that.

It is too late, she opens her eyes.

“What?” she asks.

It is as if nothing had happened.

“Nothing, are you alright?” he asks in reply.

She stares at him with that Hermione-ish look, but another one of those, one that tells him that she is suspicious.

He admits defeat.

“I'm just thinking, why are you all here with me, I think it might be better if I'm alone tomorrow,” he tells her.

Tomorrow they go to Godric's Hollow, probably even to his parents' graves, if they're there.

Her eyes have a look of defiance.

“No, it would not be better, we promised we would come with you, and we will, you're not getting rid of us so easily,” she replies.

He wants to protest but he does not.

“We should go back down, Ron might be up now,” he says instead.

She must know what he is trying to do but he is not sure. He sits up in the bed and makes to move off, and she does so with him, but she takes hold of his arm and makes him face her.

“Are you sure that you're alright?” she asks, concern mingled with… frustration?

“Yes, let's go before he gets worried,” he replies and tries to escape her grip.

She releases him at once and he feels slightly stung.

Where is that fight she used to put up? What happened to the nagging? Why is she giving up so easily now? What happened to them? It's almost as if they don't know each other anymore. But that is nonsense; they are still the same… aren't they?

No they're not.

The feeling alone proves that. The feeling that at this moment has him wishing to reach over and kiss her. But no, he cannot act on that, it is too dark, she is just his friend and her boyfriend is downstairs. But oh gods, does he want too, does he so much want to.

They rise off the bed and head to the door. Again she is behind him, but then suddenly she cuts ahead of him and blocks his exit.

“Tell me something, anything, what's wrong with you?” she asks, her voice trembles as she pleads.

“What's wrong with me?”

He is angrier than he should be when he replies.

“There is nothing wrong with me, I'm fine, you worry too much, we have things to do and I just want them done.”

“No, there is something wrong, you're so quiet, so distant all of a sudden, is our being here offending you somehow?” she demands.
Her use of “our” does.

He strangely wants to laugh, but he does not, “I don't even want to be here, I don't want to be doing this, but I have to, call it faith, destiny, or whatever you want. A few weeks ago this all seemed so set in stone but sometimes it's just a burden, my burden, you all should have stayed behind.”

In the dim light he could just make out her furious expression.

“And let you die, what kind of friends would we be if we let that happen to you?”

He does not hold back, “The best.”

For a moment, he is sure her face crumples but she hastily recovers and looks as if ready to slap him.

“Don't you dare, that isn't funny, and you're not in this alone. We have things to do too, number one of which is redeeming ourselves for Malfoy, don't think I could live in peace knowing that we let him get away because we didn't believe you. It's our fault and we need to make up for it!” she fiercely whispers at him.

There she goes with “our” again.

He is surprised at how quiet his voice is when he replies, “It's not your fault.”

She says nothing; he knows she does not believe him.

Time passes as they remain there, silent, listening to the odd noises of the house and for any signs that he is awake.

Eventually, they both seemed unnerved by their proximity and she turns to leave him. He does not really want to go, he wanted to avoid a conversation and this is where it got him. He should have known better than to do that but he had not and now he must go.

Or must he really?

He takes hold of her arm as she is halfway out in the hall and she stops and asks, “What?”

“I think we should talk about some things,” he tells her.

She turns to him and looks slightly confused but quickly clears her expression and comes back in, closing the door slightly behind her.

He knows that this will be a long discussion, it always is with her, but they must have it. If it will suppress or build the feeling he knows he should not have, if it will bring their friendship back to the way it should be, used to be, then he will do it. He will not lose her, he needs her too much. His life is ruled by Fate, and however this action now will affect that, he is not sure but he is willing to try.

He takes her hand; once more intertwining their fingers and feeling her squeeze his, and leads her back to the bed.

Just before they sit she takes hold of him in an awkward embrace and says, “I'm always here you know that, you don't have to talk if you don't want to,”

Unable to resist he presses his lips to her hair, surprising himself and her. She tenses, but does not pull away and then gradually relaxes.

“I know that, and I want to,” he tells her.

Against his chest, where she had managed to come up under his arm, he is sure he feels her smile.

Whatever brought on his action, he does not care, for her reaction was probably all that he needed all along. Right now they would sit in comfort and talk, what this meant for them, for him, they would deal with later.

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