A/N: We'll just skip past the part where I recognize that it's been nearly seven months since I last posted and move on to Part III, shall we?
Marvelous.
*
She finds the parchment a few days after, crumpled at the bottom of her bag. The "H" in his name has been smudged, an ink splatter nearly covering the Dear she'd written, crossed out, then gone over again. Knowing what to say has never this hard before, not when greetings were greetings, and simple, and she didn't have this fear that the way she's begun however many hundreds of notes and letters over the years will suddenly be misconstrued now that she's thinking of it this way, and maybe he is, too, and if he is then what does that mean, and when did life become so complicated?
She can remember first year, second year, third, so sure of herself, so convinced of her ability to take control, to "be the bigger man," as her father used to say, that there was no hesitation in doing something like setting Snape's robes on fire. No questions, no second thoughts whatsoever in choosing to use the Time Turner.
She's having second thoughts now.
Strong, self-assured Hermione Granger has been avoiding Harry Potter for the past four days. Strong, self-assured Hermione Granger has feigned a full schedule, busy busy busy working on a Transfiguration paper she finished two weeks ago.
Truth be told, strong, self-assured Hermione Granger is neither strong, nor self-assured in the slightest. She is, rather, scared shitless. It's a dynamic she's not familiar or comfortable with, this silence. Maybe with Ron, maybe with Ginny. Never with Harry. They never truly get into arguments, she and Harry, and when they do, when one does something stupid like turn the other's brand-new Firebolt in to McGonagall because one worries about the other's safety practically every minute of every hour of every bloody day, it never lasts for long. After a few hours pass one of them will finally crack, unable to stand it any longer, and say something like, "the eggs are good this morning," over the breakfast table and, simple as that, it'll be over. Sometimes an apology if the situation merits, more often not, an unspoken understanding sufficing.
But this time… It's gone on long enough, and she knows it's her responsibility to end it, she started it, after all, but she can't - she can't - and it makes her feel weak and incompetent and not at all herself.
There's a crash, followed by a chorus of giggling as some second year loses his hand of Exploding Snap at the next table over. The common room's noisy and crowded now that dinner's finished and she can't concentrate, so she flattens the parchment, presses it into her Charms text, and heads to the one place where she always feels like she belongs: the library.
*
Flying helps him to forget.
As terribly melodramatic as it sounds, it's true. There's something about being on a broomstick with white noise and wind whipping all around, making his eyes water and his skin feel tight, that takes his mind off of things. Something that makes the important, sometimes unpleasant things seem not so important or unpleasant any longer. Like if he can do this one thing, catch this tiny little golden ball just once more, maybe the rest will end up all right, too.
The rational part of him knows that it won't - he can fly all he likes, but the horcruxes will still be out there, Voldemort will still be plotting, that Potions essay will still sit unfinished at his desk, waiting for him to return - but there's also that small sliver of hope, the twinge deep down that makes him sure he could be an optimist if only he'd try harder.
It's the twinge that tells him that maybe, if he stays out here long enough, Hermione will be speaking to him again when he comes back.
She's not angry - at least, he doesn't think - and he knows he's never quite been an expert on girls, but he also knows that she started it and that has to count for something, doesn't it?
Which narrows the list of Reasons for Avoidance to one.
She regrets it.
And that's what it all comes down to. It doesn't matter that she kissed him first. He can replay it over and over again, recall that muffled "oh," of surprise when he pressed her against the wall or how her fingertips tickled the back of his neck in a way that sent shivers down his spine as many times as he likes, but it always ends the same, with her running away, and no amount of magic can change that.
When the snitch darts in front of him he lunges out of habit, catching it in a fist. It's still struggling when he calls practice, still squirming when he lands his broom, but even though he can feel its fragile wings beating against his palm as he walks off the field and vaguely recognizes the accomplishment, it hasn't fixed everything like he'd hoped, either.
Funny, that.
*
The sun's just setting as she steps into the west corridor, the wall next to her shining gold in those last moments of too-bright light that come before the gray. She shifts the weight of her books to her other arm, looking everywhere but the alcove she's passing, turns the corner -
And runs into something that feels very much like a chest.
*
The thing that bothers him most about this whole situation is that she hasn't even said anything. If there's one thing that Harry's absolutely certain of, it's that Hermione Granger never says nothing. She's brushed off rolled eyes and exasperated sighs for as long as he's known her, caring more about proving her point than what others think. And he's admired that, he has, really. It's just that - he doesn't know, exactly. All these years - in all this time - she's never had any trouble saying what she thinks and now, when it matters, when his stomach's actually started twisting in a manner that is not at all masculine and something in his chest hurts when he sees her, now she has nothing to say.
It'd be easier, he thinks, if she'd just get it over with, even if it's to tell him that it was a mistake, that she didn't know what she was doing, that she - that she thought he was someone else, or…something. Anything. Because at least then he could stop wondering. At least then they'd be talking. At least then things could begin to go back to normal.
He gasps a little and takes a step back when someone walks round the bend and into him. Books clatter to the floor, and he's stooping to pick them up, and he's apologizing and straightening to hand them back, and oh, there's Hermione.
*
He's obviously on his way back from practice. There's a smudge on his right cheek and a grass stain just below the last undone button of his white oxford. He adjusts his glasses, muttering as he stands with her books in his arms, and she realizes suddenly that he hasn't noticed it's her yet.
"Sorry," he says again, looking up and then freezing. "Oh."
"Harry," she replies, by way of explanation. Her Charms book's at the top of the stack, and the parchment's poking out from behind the cover. She pulls the load hastily back into her own arms.
"I didn't see you," he says pointlessly, staring at his now-empty hands as though he's not quite sure what to do with them.
She nods, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She should say something.
She doesn't know what.
And, apparently, neither does he.
*
If there were a list made of the most memorable awkward silences in history, he's positive this one would rank highly. He's standing here, she's standing there, and this isn't at all how it should be. It reminds him of that time with Cho under the mistletoe, actually, except that then there was crying, and then there was kissing, and now there is neither, only silence, but her face is coming closer and closer to his, and he thinks he's responsible for it, and that isn't good at all.
He reminds himself that they've just spent the last week avoiding each other. He knows how much he's hated it. He tells himself to take a deep breath, nice and easy, count from five and back away.
He breathes in. Out. One more time. Now.
Five.
She's watching him.
Four.
Her eyes flicker down for just a second, before they're on his again.
Three.
She blinks.
Twoonezero.
*
This is the fourth time he's run his fingers through his hair in the last two minutes, and she's tempted to pull his hand away so he'll stop already because it's making her more nervous than she needs to be, but the contact would probably be awkward, and awkwardness is possibly the one thing they need least right now, so she doesn't.
The tip of her nose itches, which is really very typical, isn't it, because it only ever does that in situations like these, when any sort of movement is far too loud and the only other way to make it better is to wiggle it around and look completely foolish.
Harry coughs uneasily and she swipes at the itch inconspicuously with the side of her hand.
There's a beat. She chances a glance at him and he looks away, then back again. Their eyes lock, and for one incredibly clichéd moment, time stops.
…Until suddenly it's speeding up again, and her back is reacquainted with the wall once more.
*
Well, he thinks vaguely, that wasn't supposed to happen.
And then her hand's in his hair and her eyes are fluttering shut, and it's becoming very difficult for him to focus.
So he doesn't bother trying.
*
They keep finding themselves here, she reflects, pulling him closer. This isn't how it's supposed to be at all, she and Harry, because they're friends, "best friends, and nothing more," and this should be boring and bookish because she's boring and bookish, but it feels righter than anything has before, and it's certainly not boring, which is so utterly absurd that she almost wants to laugh.
He brushes the pad of his thumb against her cheek tentatively, as though she's some small creature in the forest that he's worried he'll frighten away with sudden movements, which she supposes is understandable, considering what happened the last time. When he pulls away, she notices the slight tilt of his mouth, like something's tugging upward on the right side, like he's fighting it on the left because he's afraid that surrendering will only make any disappointment that much stronger after living without it, however briefly.
"I have to go to the library," comes out accidentally, and she marvels at the way that tilt can disappear so quickly, selfishly pleased to know that she can cause such a reaction without a wand or spell.
"All right," is all he says aloud, but studying his face it's painfully clear just why he never succeeded in Occlumency - he wears his heart on his sleeve and his emotions in his eyes, and she can see that inside, he's convinced himself that she's running away again.
"Would you like to come?" She fixes his collar to occupy her hands.
The tilt's coming back, curving a little more than before. "Will this involve studying?"
"Probably."
"Thought so," he picks her books up from where they've fallen for a second time, scooping a creased parchment lying alongside them into the pile. "Let's go, then."
*
When they pass Madame Pince on the way to a table, she slides something into his trouser pocket, bumps his pinky-finger softly with hers and makes no mention of what's just happened.
He finds that he doesn't mind much at all.
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