004.
Fragile Things
He's forgotten what hope feels like. He's too willing to accept death and she doesn't understand because there is still too much life to give up. She watches him train, always training these days - hard, relentlessly, viciously; he sweats, he swears, he bleeds. She watches the two of them - Harry and Shacklebolt - firing curses and hexes back and forth. He's so determined; he trains as if once it's done he won't live to see another fight. [She won't accept that. She can't.] Ron refuses to watch anymore, and she understands why; he can't watch Harry like this, his best friend; he can't think anymore than she can that this could be his last fight, that he could take his last breath - that Voldemort could take him away. [No, that hurts too much.] When training ends his muscles are tight with exhaustion and tension; Shacklebolt puts a hand on Harry's back and tells him how well he's doing. He doesn't look at Shacklebolt when he nods and she can't look either. When he comes to eat dinner he pretends he's a stone pillar, pretends that he's ok, that he's strong enough, but she knows. He looks at her across the table and she just knows. He's barely holding it together beneath his carefully constructed guise. [She hates when he pretends everything is fine. It's all so far from fine. And it hurts. She wishes he would just hurt because it's better than his stoic front.]
She watches him like she does every night as he undresses, unsteady, trembling. She's worried for him [it's something she has always done other than love him] because it shouldn't be like this. She's afraid of what it's doing to him - what it could do to them. She thinks maybe she should just let it be, but she knows she can't. "Maybe you should take a break from training, Harry."
"I don't have that luxury," he says, pulling a grey tee-shirt over his head. He stands there while she looks at him in his grey shirt and navy blue sleep pants. He looks worn. He looks too thin.
"Kingsley would understand, Harry. He suggested it to me."
"Did he?"
She is confused by his biting tone. "He thought maybe you might listen to me," she says.
"I said I can't. I can't afford to take a break; I have to be ready. I have an obligation, Hermione. I need to be prepared."
"You know," she says quietly "maybe you can fool everyone else, but I'm not stupid, Harry. You're not ok." She looks at him hoping he might open up, even just a little. He let her in not so long ago, and she's begging without words for him to let her in again.
"Would you be? How would you even know, Hermione? I'm the one who has to defeat Voldemort. I'm the one who has to save the fucking world!" His eyes are bright green, flashing with anger and frustration. It isn't something she is entirely used to and for a moment it takes by surprise. That surprise fades quickly, replaced by her own anger.
"Stop it. Just stop it, Harry! For one goddamn minute stop being The-Boy-Who-Lived!"
[And it's one more thing pushing them apart. She wonders if this will fall apart, and she knows it can't. They won't let it.]
"What do you want from me, Hermione?" The hurt on her face is real and immediate, and the tears burn her eyes. [He used to know everything she needed. All it ever was, was him.]
"Just be Harry," she says softly. His expression softens and he looks away. She looks at the floor, at her bare feet, not bothering to wipe the tears from her cheeks.
"I don't know what's going to happen," he says finally, quietly. She looks at him and instantly he's a little boy again, scared, unsure, and unstable. "I'm just trying to protect you. I'm scared, Hermione."
"I know that, Harry," she says. "Do you think I'm not? Everyone is scared, as well they should be, but mostly… we're scared for you. You aren't protecting me by pushing me away; it hurts, Harry. Just… stop closing yourself off from me." She pauses. "That hurts the most, Harry, when you shut me out."
He moves to stand in front of her, and pulls her close. There's comfort in his smell - something clean and something else uniquely Harry. The familiar feeling of his arms is something she doesn't ever want to lose. "I'm sorry," he says softly. He holds her tighter. She can feel him breaking and she wonders how much longer things can last this way. One person can only handle so much, and there was already an excess. He was crumbling as she stood there clinging to him, as he was clinging so desperately to her, and all of his pieces were pooled at her feet.
[Fragile things break.]
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