Unspoken by vanillapudding5

Rating: PG
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 13/11/2005
Last Updated: 08/06/2006
Status: Completed

She finds the parchment a few days after, crumpled at the bottom of her bag...




1. Unspoken
-----------



**A/N:** Uh, yeeeeah. So. This is a…*thing*. A small thing. That I wrote and edited on
two separate occasions in the wee hours of the morning. It's largely plotless, and more an
attempt to get out of a writers' slump than anything.

But. Read it anyway.

And review.

And I'll love you forever.

~*~*~

Dear Harry,

For once in my life, I'm not quite sure where to start.

This is…an odd situation. Unbelievably awkward as well, but I suppose that goes without
saying.

After six years of friendship, you know as well as I how much I depend on an ability to control
myself; to hold my emotions, keep them in check, handle anything and everything that comes my way.
And I've always had moderate success.

That is, until today.

*Today*, when it all came crashing at my feet.

To be perfectly honest, I can't rightly remember why you pulled me aside in the first place.
Something about breakfast…or a troll…or maybe it was what trolls like to *eat* for
breakfast…?

Anyway. There we were, in that little alcove off the west corridor, talking about…whatever it
was. And you were so serious, and your hand was still on my wrist where you'd tugged to signal
that you fancied a chat, fingers brushing my skin, and you were so *close*, and…

I was trying so hard, Harry. *So* hard. You *must* have known that. Must have sensed
or perhaps even *seen* it in the way I was biting my lip and avoiding eye contact.

But I was doing all right. *Well*, even, once I found that small little crack on the wall
just to your right, and the spider that was weaving its way in and out. Harold, I decided he was
called, as you went on about toast and Quidditch, or whomever, and occupied myself with thoughts of
his spider-wife Martha, and the thousands of tiny spider children they undoubtedly had; Mitchell
and Edmund, Anne and Elizabeth…

And then you laughed, and I lost focus; found myself trapped in those bloody *mesmerizing*
eyes of yours…

And it all went to hell.

I jumped on you.

Sorry for that, by the way. I must've knocked you into that wall fairly hard; the bump on
your head was rather large.

You should have seen your face. Pure shock if there ever was, followed by…well. I can't be
precisely sure, as I'd closed my eyes.

I don't know what I was thinking. Or, no, I suppose I *do* know what I was thinking:
that you were gorgeous, and I wanted a snog. What I *don't* know is what came over me. Why
I couldn't hold it in, why I had no restraint, why there was no fear in my mind, no hesitancy,
whatsoever, that you would pull away, or *run*, or possibly look at me in disgust and ask
*w**hy* I'd done something as stupid as that?'

You didn't, you'll remember. Break away. Or faint. Or have any of a *number* of
less-than-desirable reactions, for that matter.

And I was surprised. Still am, in fact.

I…I didn't expect it. I didn't see it coming. And I certainly didn't think that
you'd spin around, press me against that wall, and kiss *back*, of all things.

Ever. Not in a million years.

It was brilliant. You were excellent. I felt like I could soar -

But I apologize.

For afterward. For the way I backed away and stared at you, before making some God-awful excuse
about research in the library. For leaving you there, with your hair tousled, and your eyes wide,
and your breath ragged. For being too afraid to explain myself.

I'm not sorry for the kiss, itself, Harry. I won't *allow* myself to be. Being with
you, like *that*, it's…it's the best I've felt in a long while. Since Sirius'
death when you began to pull away; before all that silliness with Ron last year. I haven't felt
so free, so *alive* since…ever, really.

Things have *never* been so right as you and I, together, thoughts racing, hearts pounding,
tongues colliding -

I sound like a cheap, trashy romance novel.

It's just - I want you to know that I -

I need you.

I want you.

*I love you*.

Sweet Merlin, there's no way I'm sending this.

-->



2. Letter to Hermione
---------------------



**A/N:** This is all your fault, you know. You, and you, and…*you*. Your fault(s).
Entirely. And collectively. Or whatever. I'd *wanted* this to be a one-shot, and then
*you* all came along, insisting that it couldn't stand alone, and planted these absurd
ideas in my head that wouldn't go away until I'd written Harry's POV.

And now that I'm here… It's not enough. So. I fully intend on adding a third and
*final* (underline, underline, underline) narrative bit on…I don't know. Events happening
afterward and whatnot. To satisfy those of you who actually *care*, as well as myself. I
suppose.

Oh. Right. *And*. Just because I forgot to add it, before…

**Disclaimer****:** If JKR was writing this…well. She wouldn't be. Because it's
DELUSIONAL. (And I don't care.)

Feedback's always appreciated… *grin*

~*~*~

Hermione.

What the bloody hell is going on?

I don't understand how you can just *kiss* someone and then -

The library? *The library?!* After something like *that*? I know you love reading, but
-

I'm confused.

You've always told me to mind my own business, you know. “If Dumbledore wanted you to know
what Fluffy was guarding in the third floor corridor, he'd have *told* you, Harry,” you
said in first year. “Don't go looking for Sirius Black, Harry,” in third.

You'll be happy to know that I was damn *well* minding my own business last night.

I *was*. In fact, I'd spent the entire day *preceding* doing just that.

I woke up at half past seven to the ever-lovely strains of indistinguishable mumbling and
moaning coming from behind Seamus' bed-curtains.

Didn't get involved in *that* one (though I'd've *liked* to have used the
opportunity to empty the water basin next to my four-poster).

During lunch, when Ron was inhaling food so fast that, for a moment, I feared for his safety, I
*didn't* snatch the fork from his grasp as this `Hero's Complex' you speak of so
often seemingly entitled. *Nor* did I move the tripe out of his reach so as to prevent him
from choking to death (though that might *possibly* have been because fish innards and I
don't get on well, and I wanted him to finish it off *himself* before you forced the
platter in its entirety down my throat, blathering about the merits of proteins and vitamins in a
nutritious diet).

Clearly, I refrained from interfering in other's affairs there, and Ron was perfectly happy
(the pig).

It wasn't until *later* that things took a turn for the worst.

They started out innocently enough. All I wanted was to ask you a question about the currency
mint in Bristol. When the galleon was first introduced, how it affected commerce in the Wizarding
community over the following century, what the direct impacts on trade were, and so on. Nothing
even remotely related to ghosts…or Binns…or that History of Magic assignment that's due
tomorrow that I'm completely capable of *doing on my own*. At all. In the slightest.

But that's beside the point.

The *point* was that I pulled you aside nicely - *politely*, even - and was resolutely
minding my own business (said business having *nothing* to do with getting better marks,
mind), when you went and -

When you *went*, and -

Merlin, I can't even put it down on paper.

I should've known that something was wrong. Er, well. Not *wrong*, necessarily,
but…odd. *Different*. Usually, when I talk to you, you look me straight in the eye. When I ask
questions that pertain *don't* pertain to schoolwork, you get this funny little furrow in
your brow, as if you're trying to visualize the spell or potion ingredients, and your eyes get
all squinty, and you bite your lip in concentration.

You were chewing on that lip rather ferociously last night, I must say, but I felt like… I felt
like you weren't truly paying attention. Like your mind was elsewhere, and I swear - I
*swear* - you kept looking at someone over my shoulder.

Though, now that I think on it, I was standing in front of a wall. Hmm…

Anyway, that's irrelevant.

I started speaking nonsense after a few moments, actually, just to see if you were
*listening*. (You weren't.)

It was halfway through such a monologue on unicorns, paperclips, and the various advantages of
fat muggles who eat donuts for a living when I laughed at the sheer stupidity of it all (and
probably a bit at what I may have misconstrued to be wit). I must have startled you because you
jumped, looked at me, your mouth forming that little `O,' and proceeded to do one of the most
unexpected, surprising, *wonderful* things, of my entire life.

…I was minding my own business.

Until you threw your arms around my neck and kissed me.

Or, well. *Technically*, I suppose `shoved me into a *wall*, threw your arms around my
neck and kissed me,' would be the proper phrasing. I've got a lump on my head the size of a
*Remembrall* to prove it.

But that's neither here nor there. What *is* is that we -

I don't think -

You *can't* just -

For Merlin's sake. If you thought I'd `mind my own business' after *that*,
Hermione, you really aren't as smart as I've given you credit for.

In first year, when you hugged me after the Logic Puzzle? Told me I was a `great Wizard'? I
minded my own business, then. Patted you awkwardly on the back, and mumbled something about not
being as good as all that.

At the end of fourth year, on the platform, when you kissed my cheek? If blushing can be
considered keeping to oneself, then I did an excellent job.

But this time…*this* time… I don't know. When we were younger, I was embarrassed, and
didn't *think* of possible reactions, or what to do, or if I wanted to do anything at
*all*… We were friends. Best friends. You were the girl I could call if I needed help, who I
could *always* talk to, no matter what else was happening, who saw me as Harry; not the `Boy
Who Lived,' not the `Chosen One,' just…*Harry*.

And you still are. You do all of those things, even now. I *still* feel completely
comfortable in your presence, I *still* come to you before anyone else; you're
*still* the sodding *voice in my head*…

But…something's changed since we were eleven. Even in the three years since we were
fourteen.

When you kissed me last night…well. I *certainly* wasn't thinking of your study skills.
I wasn't thinking of your marks, and I wasn't thinking that as “platonic friends,” we
shouldn't have been snogging in the first place.

I wasn't thinking much of *anything*, really, which was odd, but at the same
time…predictable, somehow. There were no doubts, no worries, no questions necessary; only the feel
of your lips on mine, my hands tangled in your hair, the scent of…*whatever* it is that makes
you smell so nice.

It was right.

*We* were right.

*Are*.

Together.

But then you left, and I - I didn't know what to think. I *still* don't.

I haven't gotten much sleep, since. Any at all, really. At a quarter past three, I gave up
hope of rest and came here, to the common room.

It's nearly six o'clock, now. And I honestly don't know where the time's gone,
or why it's taken me so long to get this down; it's hardly four feet of parchment.

I just - I wonder. Why you felt it necessary to pull away. Why you made excuses for it. Why you
avoided eye contact and didn't say anything on your way up to the girls' dorm later on.

Do you regret it?

I don't.

But I worry. I don't *want* us to stop speaking to each other; I don't want things
to be awkward, and I sure as hell don't want to look at you every day, see your face, and
remember the expression it had before…*or* after… What it was like… I don't want to spend
the rest of my *life* pondering where it all went wrong, because truthfully, neither of us
knows when this will all be over. Voldemort's still out there, and I… I want to take advantage
of the time I have. Surely you must understa -

Merlin, there you are. *You're coming this way*. Maybe I can -

Oh, hell. I'm throwing this into the fire.

-->



3. Resolution
-------------



**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
*sa**id* 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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