The poet's eye, in fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth
to heaven,
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and name.
-Theseus
A Midsummer Night's Dream
It's after two a.m. The sounds from the room adjacent hers have stopped. This, she isn't sure, is a good thing as the noise provided her with some comfort of knowing there was still life in there, in him. The silence was something she often feared; at one time or another silence was something she could rather enjoy, and now it was one of the few things she feared significantly. She lost count of exactly how many nights she would sit awake and write, scratching out words on what seemed liked endless pages, marking progress and regression, words and the like they exchanged. She thought, maybe, these are what memoirs could be. This, however, was something she didn't want to have to remember but could never forget, she knew, because everyone was aware that these memories would be their last with him.
She listens again for sounds. There is nothing. Only sounds of her breathing, which is no comfort to her. She knows where she should be and where she is are two very different things. They'd been dancing around it for years, avoiding it because it was what they did, what they knew how to do. Things had changed. They were different now. The infinite amount of time they'd thought they'd have was lessened, and it seemed that time would be spent too soon. Her papers don't seem so important, and she leaves them at her desk as she makes her way to her door. She doesn't realize the breath she releases when she hears his quiet footfalls moving down the hallway, not realizing she had even been holding her breath. She'd told him once he could always count on her; he'd told her once he'd always be there for her. They never used to break promises.
Her door opens silently. She moves down the hallway, toward the stairs. One. Two. Three. It's too dark to see properly down the stairs and she feels her way by the railing. Four. Five. Six creaks and Seven groans loudly. The rest don't count. She finds her way in the dark to the kitchen where there is a soft, faint light. He's standing by the counter, a glass of water in front of him; the counter provides more support than she wishes it had to. Looking at him, knowing what was happening to him, to them, to everything they worked so hard for, tomorrow seemed so far away. She remembered a million yesterdays. He was there for her when her parents were murdered; he told her he would hold her until the screaming was gone. He did. She remembered every moment, every painfully bittersweet second. Why was this so hard for her?
"Hey," he says quietly, his voice slightly hoarse. His eyes are duller, and his skin is ghostly pale; a thin sheen of sweat stands out on his forehead and his hair is damp with it, sticking out in all directions. There are bags under his eyes, dark circles. She knows he hasn't slept well.
They never used to break promises.
"I'm sorry," she says quietly, coming into the kitchen. He sips his water, the glass in his slightly trembling hand, and sets it back down. "I said I would be here for you, through all of this, and… I haven't done what I should have."
"Don't," he says quietly. "Don't do this. Don't go there. I don't have enough time for regrets, Hermione," he says softly. His face looks too thin; he looks too thin. She looks down at her hands, twisting her fingers about one another.
"I'll see you through this," she says and looks up at him. "I promise you."
He knows, too, they never used to break promises.
"To the end?" he asks softly. His eyes are breaking her heart. "I don't know if you'll really want to see that."
"I'm a big girl, Harry. I can handle it," she says. "Besides, I want to." They lock gazes for a moment and all the thanks she doesn't need is in his eyes. "Remember? We promised to always be there for each other."
He looks down at the glass of water. "I'm sorry about that," he says softly, sadly. "I shouldn't have made a promise that I couldn't keep."
"Don't," she says softly. "We don't have time to waste on regrets." She reaches across the counter and takes his hand, squeezing gently, and thankful for the squeeze she received in return. It was too hard to face consequences, too hard to think of the time they didn't have or what they'd never be for each other. It was too hard to accept it would be over too soon, and so much easier to pretend they had forever.
They remember promises.
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