In Passing

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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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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The days are scattered. Time is in broken intervals. There are pieces missing, lost or irreparable. They don't know anymore. He's lying on the sofa, a soft blue blanket covering him. The firelight makes his skin look too pale. She watches him, his eyes fluttering beneath closed lids, the rest of his body still. She's barely able to make out the rise and fall of his chest; his breaths are too quiet to hear. She sits down on the floor, looking away from him for a moment, staring at the orange flames. She muses that heat sustains life, for a little while, but not forever. She looks at him again and sees the beads of sweat across his forehead. She takes the cloth from the basin beside her and wrings it out, dabbing the cool fabric at his skin. She's waiting for his fever to break.

This is fear.

Waiting. Not knowing. Needing everything to be ok and trying not to think it won't be. It won't, she knows. She doesn't know if she can do this, but she knows it isn't a choice; she has to do this, and she's afraid of the shreds she will be left in. They'll all be left in tatters.

His eyes are open, hazy, glazed with fever. His hands are hot on her skin, covering her wrist as she touches his cheek. He needs this. Her. Whatever it is they are. Before it's over, he'll have something.

“You don't have to,” he says hoarsely. “I'll be fine.”

“Don't be silly,” she whispers, forcing a slight smile. “I don't mind. We have to get your fever down.”

He nods slightly and tugs at her wrist. “Sit with me,” he whispers. She wants to crawl beneath the blanket, hold on to him. Hold on to him. She lowers her eyes to his chest; she doesn't want him to see the tears in her eyes. “It'll be alright.”

“Harry,” she whispers, looking at his face. “You need to be hospitalized. You're sick.”

“I'm ok.”

“Stop that. You're not ok. Just… just let me take you to St. Mungo's, please, at least let them try to-“

“Don't,” he says quietly, cutting her off and slightly shaking his head. The simple movement takes too much effort. “Magic didn't do this. Magic won't cure it.”

“Just let them try; they can at least bring this fever down.”

“Hermione,” he whispers. He reaches up, touching her face and she leans into his hand. She closes her eyes and breathes slowly. When she opens them again he doesn't need to speak and she understands. His hand falls back to his side and she turns away. She puts the cloth back in the basin. She slips off her shoes, her sweatshirt, and so carefully she climbs under the blanket as he lifts it up, sliding next to him. There isn't nearly enough room, but at least - this way - she's close to him. There's a comfort in feeling his heart beat. She turns her head up toward him and she can feel the heat radiating from him. “Don't fight this.”

There is too much meaning in those words.

“I don't know how not to,” she whispers softly. In this, they know, there is too much truth. His arm slides around her, pulling her against him. He's trembling again. His fingers gently trace the outline of her face, sliding along her jaw, brushing against her lips. His face is so close to hers, his mouth so close to hers. She looks up at him. Maybe she's trembling, too. She touches his face, his skin burning beneath her fingers. “I don't know how to let go.” The tears burn. Her throat aches.

He takes her hand, placing it against his chest. His heartbeat is thready, and it scares her. “Can you feel that,” he whispers. She nods, unable to speak against the knot in her throat. “Trust it.” She looks up again, finding him looking at her - into her. She feels the tears sliding from the corner of her eyes, into her hair, dripping off the end of her nose.

“I do,” she whispers, crying. “I do…”

His lips are warm and slightly chapped. It's strange how she's always imagined he would taste just like this - something sweet, elemental, and something she can't describe. Something she could get lost in over and over again. She chokes on a quiet sob. “Don't,” she cries hoarsely, her hands resting on his neck. “Don't do that to me, Harry. Don't you dare kiss me goodbye.” And she can't fight this breakdown. he smoothes her hair with his hands, pulling her closer to him until her head is resting on his chest. She's pulling at him, needing to feel him closer, to be closer, so much closer than this. His hands run over her hair, over her back, her body shaking against his.

And shadows blend one last time (save those kisses).

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