Frigidity

The moon was full. It was an image unfitting for the scenario. The air was stale and smelled of death. Yet the moonlight, golden, dripped through the curtain of stars in the dark sky, pushed, unrelenting, through the seamless flow of dark clouds that seemed to guard it, to fall upon the empty ground. A young boy knelt on the grassy knoll. The land was bare, except for two things, simple gravestones. He ran his hands across the gray slabs of stone. If he just closed his eyes, he could feel the imaginary engravings underneath his fingers. Lily Potter. James Potter. But murderers don't have time to give proper last rites or rituals. They just need to get the hell out of wherever they were.

Sharp, dark angles of shadow jutted onto the ground from the flat planes and corners of the building. It was so difficult to believe, to comprehend. This was both the end…and the beginning. And all he wanted was to say good-bye. Hello, and good-bye. He ran his fingers across the cold gray stone once more, feeling their imaginary names. He imagined them, sacrificing for him, imagined the warmth that came from the ubiquity of their love. But the cold began to seep in. A dank, musty cold that reached his soul with thin, grasping fingers. He stood, clutching his wand even tighter. He had to do this. For Hermione, for Ron, for all the people—friends—that had sacrificed something just because they believed in him so strongly. He had to do it for his family.

And like many years before, green light once again illuminated the night sky.

A man strode down the empty, cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley. His dark cloak swished about him mysteriously, and he kept his head down. His face was obscured by the shadows and dim light of night. He liked this anonymity, this feeling of liberation from society. He strode into The Leaky Cauldron, and sat down at the end barstool. Tom walked over to him, and he just spoke curtly. No more than needed. “Firewhiskey.” The man went and placed the bottle and a shotglass beside him. He figured he'd need more than that. It didn't matter. He had enough money. A grim smile found its way onto his face. If only his parents knew what he was doing with the money he'd inherited and earned. Booze binges. He poured himself a shot, and quickly downed it. The warmth spread from his stomach on out. It practically singed as it went down. It was just how he liked it.

It was amazing what had changed since the war had ended. No longer was he Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived. He was now Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Triumphed, and secretly, Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Hated-Himself. After the war, he had just wanted to collapse, to fall and sleep for the longest period of time. Of course, he recuperated at St. Mungo's for a bit before returning to Hogwarts for a little while. Afterwards, the extent of everything that had happened had just fallen on him.

And, of course, there was the case of unsalvagable relationships. During seventh year, he had made the decision to push his close friends away. There was no need for them to sacrifice themselves for him. Whether they wanted to or not, he wanted them to be able to survive, raise families, and die warm and content in beds as aged people. He didn't want to see them fall at the sight of bright flashes of light, didn't want to see them captured and tortured. He knew it was self-centered of him, but he could never deal with the guilt, were that to occur. And now? They had gone off, left him, as he had managed to get them to do, and he doubted their relationships could ever be resurrected again. When he was prepared to leave Hogwarts, she had found him somehow. She had caught up with him, and she was all smile as she prepared to talk with him, be as they were. And he didn't know what had possessed him, what had sezied his soul at that moment, but he had looked into her eyes, and he was sure that his were dull now. He could never forget what he saw, nor what he heard, the sounds of the deaths of people he knew and loved. Her face fell subtly, and tears welled in her eyes. “Harry—” She had wanted to say something, to be the Hermione he had known, but it was too much. He still wasn't sure what it was that he had too much of, but he had done it, the stupid act, and cast his eyes aside, and kept walking. She didn't move.

“Go home, Hermione.” No other words. Just one sentence that shattered her soul and broke her heart. He could hear her as his own steps registered within his heart. He could hear her tears softly falling on her cheeks, and the heartwrenching sobs that seemed to steal her breath away. He could hear her as she angrily wiped them off of her cheeks and defiantly raised her head. And just like that, she was no longer his friend. Just like that, all ties between them were severed.

“Goodbye Harry.” Two simple words, and his resolve had broken. His soul had broken like a mirror fallen onto the ground. He wanted to turn around, to apologize, to welcome her into his arms and tell her everything that he felt, but he couldn't. He could never pull himself to do something like that. He had to be glorified, dignified. He had to be something that made him feel fucked up half the time, and he always felt that life had a grudge against him. That wasn't true. He had a grudge against himself. And now, he found himself becoming an alcoholic in denial, living by himself in a sty, and embracing death. There was no life left in him anymore. He didn't know where Hermione was, where Ron was, Neville, Luna, all of them. He cared, but he had no idea, and he didn't know if he had the energy, the strength to go searching for them and apologize to them, reveal his faults.

He took another shot of Firewhiskey, and then another, and then another. He suddenly became aware of the whispering in the bar, as if the alcohol had heightened it. But he knew it hadn't. His hearing was simply acute. It had become so ever since he had used it and heard the screams of a friend in the distance. And now? He couldn't shut them off, couldn't change them back, couldn't do anything but absorb whatever it was sending him, and try not to think about it. The alcohol allowed him to forget, forget about the love he had for people once upon a time, forget about his parents. Maybe that's what he'd do. Grab a screwdriver, and manually chisel his parents' names into their gravestones. A bitter laugh emerged from his throat, and the bartender looked over at him. When had Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived become Harry Potter, the failure? He didn't want to think about it. He knew all too well that he would be able to come up with the answer.

So at about two in the morning, he found himself wandering through the cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley. He wandered, almost as if he was searching, although he didn't know what for. He didn't want to go home, go to the empty shell of a home devoid of warmth and color. And though he could change its appearance, he didn't want to. Right now, its appearance reflected it…and its owner. That was why, at around two thirty in the morning, he found himself in a drunken stupor, and wandering the streets of London.

He inhaled the cool night air, and he could feel the contrasts. The Firewhiskey had made him feel warm and…human. The night air in London made him feel cold…and…Harry. He felt like himself. He felt limited. He wanted to be just a boy again. He wanted to live at Hogwarts again, with its safe, charmed walls, and not think about anything but avoiding Snape's horrendously long essays. God, to live under the curtain of naivete and youth again. If only he had nicked Hermione's time turner from before.

He walked for what seemed like a period without time. It was the best scene of his life. He felt that time had stopped, it was just him…and the air. He had wandered upon a park, very well-groomed, and he had walked through there. The perfumed air enticed him so much. He wandered, and he stared at the colors, dew beginning to show on fragile petals. The sun was about to rise. He found a park bench beneath a willow, and sat, preparing himself for the ethereal beauty. He figured it was the only thing that could touch him nowadays.

The sun peeked from beyond the horizon, the faintest glimpse of golden light. As the seconds and minutes clicked by, more golden light fell from the horizon. It was a splash of color onto a blank canvas. Oranges, golds, and reds blended beautifully to form colors thus unknown and unnamed. He watched as the clouds parted, yielding to a deity far stronger than they were. And then, it reached its zenith, high in the sky, almost as if it was touching the fabled Mount Olympus. He smiled as he felt its warmth. He wanted to reach out, and grab the elusive light, and keep it with him forever, to keep him warm…to keep him human.

As people began to filter into the secluded park, he began to have a grasp on what time had passed. Rubbing his bloodshot eyes, he proceeded to leave the park. As he did, he bumped into somebody who fell to the ground. Their papers fell around him. He reached out and began to collect papers. “Sorry,” he muttered. He then stood, and watched as she stood as well and dusted herself off. She looked up, and a wave of recognition washed over her features. He handed her the sheaf of papers, and apparated right in front of her. Hermione. She reached out, her pale hand, and its slender fingers, still stationary in the stagnant air, as if maybe her presence would help him return.

He paced back and forth within Grimmauld Place, trying to collect his thoughts. He had no idea why he had returned to this place at all. He hadn't set foot in it in…how many years now? And it was filled with dust and cobwebs. He was surprised that Kreacher hadn't returned to shriek about half-bloods destroying…something-or-other. What was he doing here anyway? Was he trying to seek solace in the place that Sirius had lived? He yelled in frustration. Why had her presence changed his world that much anyhow? He had made the decision, and she had just abided by it, respected it like any friend. She looked the same, except she had grown a bit taller, and her eyes had held a bit more pain than the last time he had seen her. Pain and strength and dignity. She hadn't changed at all.

On the complete opposite side of town, in a completely different world, Hermione Granger was bustling about in her home, having returned from one of her longest days at work. She had pulled a twenty-hour shift when she sincerely doubted the presence of any form of energy within her. And now? She was awake. She was beyond awake. Every hair on her body was standing on end, attuned to the presence of someone she had not seen in a very long time. She had been shocked to see him, and then, he had disappeared, just like that, right in front of her. Right in daylight. He wasn't thinking.

She entered her flat, dazed, mindlessly setting things in their rightful place. She shook her head, almost indignant. How dare he! What right did he have to suddenly reappear in her life and completely uproot everything she had been trying to do for the past decade or so? She was so close to tears, on the precipice, but she was being held back, safe from the treacherous drop by a single hand whose name was anger. As anger began to truly set in, she decided to clean her apartment, from top to bottom, the Muggle way. She began to clean, and she ended up scrubbing until her hands were raw.

She collapsed onto her sofa when she was finished, barely registering the painful tingles in her hands and feet. She heard the slight poof of air bending around a person when they apparated, and turned quickly, prepared to scream at him. “What the hell did you think you were—” She paused, recognizing the reddish mop of hair. She sighed, and winced as her hands gave another painful tingle. “Sorry, Ron.”

But Ron was unshaken. “S'alright,” he mumbled. “What, did Tom drop by again? Bloody idiot should just leave you alone.” Tom had been an ex-boyfriend who seemed to be very possessive, and very unwilling to let go after she had broken it off. For a period of time, he had a habit of randomly dropping by her apartment for “friendly” reasons, although she turned him out. Ron had been her only friend from school since Harry had…well…done that…thing. He set things on her table, and she looked up. “I brought you food.”

She smiled faintly. “Thanks.” He mumbled something she couldn't discern and he continued to lay out the food. These dinners were a tradition. They were held at each other's flats, depending upon who was single at the time or, if both were not, whose significant other would be out of the house. It was a time for just two best friends reliving their school days and sharing new experiences. She sat at the table, and he walked over to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of wine and two glasses. “Oh, Ron. I'm sorry. I'm the host, I should be—” But he interrupted her.

“What happened today?” he asked, opening the bottle. He poured them both glasses, and handed her a plastic fork. She laughed at the absurdity of it, and he stared at her. She began to eat. “You seem distracted.”

“Oh, nothing. It's nothing.” She didn't want to share this for some reason, didn't want to let him know about this particular going-on in her life. Although he was a friend they both shared, she was still reluctant.

“You know,” he said, eyes darting around the room in nervousness. “You can tell me anything.” She nodded and mumbled something as she wiped her mouth with a napkin.

For some reason, she couldn't just tell him “Harry dropped by today.” It was very strange. The dinner proceeded almost as normal with intermittent periods of silence. They ate, and at the end of the night, he left, and she promised to be a good friend and keep in touch. She cleaned up the take-out rather easily, and found that, at the end of the day, with nothing left to worry about, she had to think about what happened. She had to dwell, to examine, to analyze, and she didn't want to. She didn't want to bring up all the old painful memories, and try to analyze it with this new occurrence. She sighed, and downed the rest of her wine glass before quickly refilling it. She retrieved her “Hogwarts, A History”, determined to forget about everything.

As her eyes scanned the familiar lines of text, her mind wandered. What had he been doing there in the middle of bloody London? She thought he had faded into obscurity or something glorified like that. She didn't even know where he lived anymore. It wasn't like she could just run up to the Quidditch pitch or anything and ask to speak with him. She laughed quietly, bitterly. She didn't even know if he still owned a broom.

Harry searched through the phone book in the telephone booth for what seemed like hours. “Granger, Granger,” he muttered to himself, finger scanning the columns. At last he found an address. Unaware of where to start, he threw out his arm, and hailed a taxi. A bright yellow car stopped in front of him, and he, dressed oddly and in non-Muggle fashion, asked for, “29 Kensington Ave, please,” which was when he came to the stunning conclusion that he had no Muggle money on him. Seizing his wand, he charmed himself some money (and he wasn't really sure if that was legal in the wizarding world). At the end of it, he paid the cab driver, and set out. Of course, when limited without magic, he really had to stand outside and wait for somebody to let him or somebody exiting to allow him the use of the open door. But having magic at his fingertips, he simply wiped the glass with his sleeve so he could see, and quickly apparated past the first door, but before the second, and checked the name list. He quickly found her flowing script. Apartment 3C.

He walked the three flights of stairs slowly, attempting to maybe get his heart rate manageable. He stopped outside her door, and took a few minutes to simply breathe. He knocked on the white door three times. He heard the shuffling of feet, and the clicking of an unlocking door, when it finally swung open and he was face-to-face with her. After so many years. He watched as her emotions played out on her faces. “Can I come in?” She looked exhausted, and merely stepped aside so he could enter. She then shut the door behind him. He looked at her, saw the lines of weariness etched in her face.

“Hermione,” he began. She interrupted him, apparently regaining her tongue and her anger.

“You…bastard. You fucking bastard.” He seemed shocked, and tried not to look so. Her face flushed with the intensity of her anger.

“Hermione, I—”

“No,” she stated, with a violent wave of the hand. “What did I do to piss off the famous Harry Potter? Was I not pretty enough, not tall enough? Or was it that you needed all the fucking glory yourself?” She knew that her arguments weren't fair, and she knew right where to insult him. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her, allowing her to see his bright green eyes blazing with fury.

“That's not fair,” he said, with clenched teeth. “And you know it.”

“You don't get to dictate fair.” She paused for breath, the tears threatening to expose themselves. “Why did you go without us, Harry? Ron and I? We were just as ready to fight alongside you.”

“I didn't need you sacrificing your lives for me!” The argument hit a fever pitch, voices were raised, tempers were flaring.

“Why'd you push me away, Harry? After you came back. There was no reason for you to. Don't even try to make one up.” Her voice was weary, as her soul was. They were both tired.

“I couldn't bear to lose you, Hermione.”

“Lose me? Lose me to what?” Her exasperation manifested itself as caustic sarcasm.

He stuttered, stumbling around the words. He couldn't express clearly the ideas that were so clear to him inside his own head. “I—I don't know. Something.”

“Harry, that's not a reason! You either didn't want me around, or you hated me, or—” Harry was seething. His knuckles turned white as he clenched his fists, trying to allieve himself.

“Hermione, I fucking loved you.”

“Liar.” And something within him possessed him, and he reached out his arm, and caught her forearm, almost as if he was catching a Snitch again, and pulled her to him roughly. He forced his lips on hers, and felt her brief resistance, before she began to kiss him back, in earnest.

“Am I lying now?”

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