She was always a realist. She didn't fancy herself a make-believer because no amount of pretending could ever undo what was real. But this, this was different. This was too real and she didn't want it to be, and found herself often pretending before she went to bed at night, as she woke in the morning, that everything would be alright. It was strange the way things had changed. She notices not only in Harry, but in herself, even Ron. They weren't the only people in his life, but they were who knew him best, who he knew best. She can't think of what it used to be like anymore, because that memory hurts too much and it was too hard to withstand that kind of pain. The past was done, it was over; she couldn't go back, couldn't do anything over. This is what he has. This is all he has, all they have. Memories. Wishes. Too little time. She can't think back anymore to the life they used to know, can't think on what life he could have had.
He was never good at hiding anything from her. She doesn't pretend not to notice.
She didn't pray - but she prayed for him.
There were times when they thought this might get easier. There were good days, and remarkable ones that gave them hope, and then there were the worst days that took it back. They were stuck somewhere in the middle, now. She tries not to listen to their conversation as she stands combing her wet hair in the bathroom mirror. Phrases. Words. Things she doesn't know if she can ignore, or let go of. Letting go didn't seem to be one of her strong points. She sets her comb down. Harry and Ron have stopped talking. Before she opens the door, she hears their words in her head.
"You have to promise me that you'll take care of her. You'll be all she has left."
"Don't be stupid. You'll be here."
"I won't, Ron."
"You'll be fine."
"She's going to need you."
The silence on the other side of the door bothers her for some reason. She turns off the light and shivers. Grimmauld Place seems colder than it used to. When she opens the door Ron is gone. Harry is standing against the wall, staring down at the carpet. He looks up at her. Something's going on.
"How much did you hear?" he asks.
"Not a lot," she replies. "You're really pale. How do you feel?" He shrugs. She walks up to him placing her hand on his forehead. She felt his cheeks, his face and neck. He closed his eyes, letting her hands rest on his cheeks. "You're warm," she says softly. His hand is cool when it touches her cheek.
"So are you," he says softly as well. She closes her eyes, leaning her cheek into his touch.
They're doing this dance again.
His hands are trembling. She opens her eyes. "You're shaking," she says quietly.
"It happens when I…" he doesn't finish. His forehead is nearly touching hers. "It happens some times," he whispers. They don't move. The moments seem endless as they stand there like this. She's being pulled in too many directions. She wants to push him away because now isn't the time, and yet, she feels a need so strong to just pull him close and never let him go. Would she ever know how to let him go?
"What are we doing, Harry?" she whispers.
"I don't know," he answers honestly. "I can't tell you that I know much of anything anymore." Their bodies are so close they're almost touching.
"We can't…" she shakes her head. It's not the right time for this. She steers the conversation elsewhere. "Giving up isn't an option," she says.
He tucks her hair behind her ear. "I never thought it would be," he replies. "I can't promise you that everything will be ok, Hermione." She never wants his hand to leave her cheek. She never wants to lose the feeling of his touch because it's too warm and comforting.
"Anything is possible, Harry." She closes her eyes when he presses his lips to her forehead.
Anything, he thinks. Anything but this. He knows this is a losing battle (they all know) but he'll fight anyway. He has to.
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