Survivor

Bingblot

Rating: PG
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 13/04/2006
Last Updated: 13/04/2006
Status: completed

He had never thought it would be like this. He had never thought it would end like this... Sad one-shot.

Chapters

1. Survivor

1. Survivor

Disclaimer: JKR owns everything HP; I am only the poor student who plays in her world.

Author’s Note: An angsty fic- tissue warning!

Survivor

He always remembered that last moment as if it had happened in slow-motion when, in reality, it had taken only about a second.

The last moment of seeing Voldemort’s glare and the slashing motion Voldemort had made with his wand before it (and he) disintegrated, the flash of green light, the split second when he’d met Hermione’s eyes, hearing her last scream, “Harry!” that echoed in his mind and in his nightmares—and then her body lying on the cold ground.

He didn’t remember what happened after that. His memory seemed to have blanked out on the initial moments of agony although he knew because Ron had told him that he’d staggered over to where Hermione was to take her body into his arms and that it had taken three people to make him release his hold on her and that he’d fainted into merciful unconsciousness immediately afterwards as if only when he wasn’t touching her did the true meaning of what had happened occur to him.

Nor did he awaken to his anguish for many hours.

~*~

“D’you want to eat something?” Ron asked, his voice subdued, quiet.

Harry shook his head in silence, not even bothering to look up at Ron.

Ron sighed. “You haven’t eaten a scrap in two days,” he began but then stopped at Harry’s look.

“I never--” his voice cracked, he swallowed hard and went on, despite the tears fogging his vision, “I never thought it would be like this. Never thought I would be the one to survive when she—when she didn’t. I- I was prepared to be the one to go—not her, never her…”

Harry shook his head, his head dropping again to stare blindly down at the floor, and his words were barely audible. “I- I should’ve tried harder to stop her from coming. Shouldn’t have let her come… I should’ve--”

“Don’t, Harry. You’re wrong, too. You know nothing could have kept her from going with you—not even you. You know how determined she was; you would’ve given in to her anyway.” And it was the truth. Ron remembered that last moment, how Harry had been about to go on to meet Voldemort, had paused, turned around and opened his mouth to say, “Don’t--”… And Ron remembered how Hermione had thrown herself against Harry, cutting the rest of his words off with her mouth, kissing him with more desperation than accuracy, just long enough for Harry’s arms to close around Hermione with stunning force as he kissed her back, before she’d ended the kiss, stepping back to say flatly, “We’re coming with you.”

Harry had opened his mouth to protest again but Hermione had only given him a look—a look that Ron had been fleetingly grateful had been aimed at Harry and not himself—and Harry had given in.

So they’d all been there at the end; it had been the three of them, as always.

And now it was just two.

As if he had had the same thought, Harry’s face crumpled before he shot to his feet and left the room, going, Ron guessed accurately, to the room Hermione had always used when they stayed here in Grimmauld Place.

Ron sighed again, blinking back his own tears. Oh Hermione, where are you when we need you?, he couldn’t help but think. Hermione had always been better at comforting Harry, at knowing how to bring Harry out of his brooding… Ron didn’t know how to comfort Harry, could only watch in helpless sympathy really, knowing just how devastated Harry was—and he somehow knew that Harry would never be the same again. He would never really recover from Hermione’s loss. Ron, of all people, knew just how close the two of them had gotten, knew just how much Harry had loved her, needed her, and how much he was agonizing now.

Just once, Ron had gotten enough Firewhiskey and they had both drunk enough to dull the edge of the sorrow they were both feeling, Harry until he had fallen asleep. But Ron was smart enough never to do it again and not to allow Harry to drink himself into oblivion again. It wouldn’t do any good, other than making Harry dependent on it, and, in the end, Hermione would still be gone.

When he’d made that decision, he could swear he sensed Hermione’s approval. See, Hermione, I did learn something from spending 7 years with you, he had thought.

Ron shuddered slightly as a wave of grief for the best friend who had annoyed him, helped him, taught him, fought with him and beside him, for 7 years, went through him. He had lost a best friend—but Harry had lost more.

Ron sighed and could almost be grateful that he still had his other best friend to worry about; it kept him from thinking too much about his own sorrow—and he knew it was the best way to remember Hermione because it was what she would have wanted too.

~*~

Harry couldn’t cry anymore. He didn’t think he had any tears left in his body. All that was left was emptiness, desolation. He felt as if he’d lost part of his soul—which, he thought, he had…

He knew Ron was worried but he couldn’t bring himself to care that much. He couldn’t bring himself to really care about anything—except a sick wonder of how he was going to get through the day and the next day and the next day and every day for the rest of his life, without Hermione…

He’d known he loved her, had told her he loved her (it was the only thing he was thankful for, that he knew she’d known he loved her)—but it was only now he fully realized just what that meant, just how vital she was. He wasn’t sure he knew how to live without her in his life.

He had never thought he would be the one to survive if she didn’t—he’d thought he would die and thought of how he would hate to leave her; he’d thought they both might not survive; he’d thought that they would both survive and how he wanted to spend the rest of his life loving her…

He closed his eyes, his face going down to bury itself in her pillow, as his shoulders shook with dry sobs.

“Hermione…”

His glasses were digging into his nose so he lifted his head to take them off, putting them on the nightstand by her bed.

He looked around, suddenly wishing there was more proof of her having stayed here, her books, her clothes, pictures on the wall instead of the utilitarian bareness of it from their having been so focused simply on surviving, on destroying the horcruxes.

On a sudden impulse, he opened the drawer of the nightstand, wondering if she had left anything of hers, something he could keep, could hold onto.

His breath strangled in his throat.

There was a picture which, Harry figured, Colin Creevey must have taken, of the first time she had kissed him at the end of their 4th year. As he watched, picture Hermione kissed his cheek, before leaving—and Harry, watching, was suddenly struck with the expression on his own face at that moment. He remembered the surprise he’d felt, remembered feeling a little embarrassment at his consciousness of the warmth of her lips where they had touched his skin—but there was more than that in his expression. There was a fleeting hint of something—an awareness, a softness, the beginnings of some feeling more than friendship perhaps… Even then, he thought—if he hadn’t been such a blind prat and so set on thinking of Hermione as somehow belonging to Ron because of Ron’s fancying her.

He picked up the picture with trembling fingers. He hadn’t known there was a picture of that moment but she had kept it—as if, somehow, she’d always known… He’d always loved her, even before he knew it himself.

And then his heart stopped.

There had been a letter underneath the picture, a letter addressed in Hermione’s familiar, neat handwriting, simply, to Harry.

He almost snatched up the letter, fumbling as he tore open the envelope and took out the piece of parchment inside, his fingers trembling and his throat tight.

Harry,

I know what you’re thinking.

Harry let out a sound halfway between a choked laugh and a sob. He could hear Hermione’s voice- knew the exact tone of her voice as she said this- so clearly he had to stop himself from looking up as if she was there with him.

She knew what he was thinking—with anyone else, it would have sounded ridiculous in a letter; with her, he knew it was true. She did know what he was thinking, as she always had…

He blinked back the renewed tears to continue reading.

Don’t blame yourself, Harry. I don’t know exactly what happened but I do know it won’t be your fault. You can’t stop me from going with you tomorrow—I made up my mind I would months ago and I will. You can’t stop me and it’s not your fault, whatever happens. I promised myself that I’d do anything to help you get through this—anything. And I meant it.

I know you’ll try to blame yourself and shut yourself off, but I want you to promise me you won’t do that. Don’t shut yourself off from Ron; he’s been our best friend for so long and he’ll be there for you when I can’t be. But more than that, Harry, promise me you’ll go on living. You have to go on living; you have to survive. You’re stronger than you know, Harry, you always have been—and I know you can. Live, Harry, for me—and as long as you’re alive, some part of me will be too.

I love you, Harry. And I’m glad I got to tell you that; I’m glad we were together. Maybe it would have been smarter for us to wait, like you said—but I was right, you know. Life is too short to wait—and I’m glad we didn’t. I love you and I don’t regret a single moment we had.

Live and remember I love you—and whatever happens, I’ll never leave you alone, not really.

Love,

Your Hermione

Slowly, Harry pressed his lips to where she’d signed her name. She’d signed herself as his, which was a surprising touch of sentiment—and it warmed his heart, comforting him in an odd way.

She had been his—just as he’d been hers…

He read over the last sentence, hearing her voice in his mind—and for the first time, he felt as if she really wasn’t gone, that some part of her lingered with him…

He let out a long breath and spoke aloud to the empty room, though he was somehow sure that, wherever she was, she could hear him.

“I love you, Hermione—and I promise.”

I promise to live; I promise to survive; I promise to remember… I will go on living—for you…

Slowly, he folded the letter back up and slipped it back into its envelope, putting it with the picture.

And then he stood up. I promise you…

~

Ron looked up in shock as Harry walked into the kitchen.

Harry met his eyes directly, something which he hadn’t done in days—and Ron saw a new expression in Harry’s eyes, and a silent thank you for being there, for trying. And he knew that Harry was back, somehow. Not the same—he wouldn’t be the same—but he was back and he would go on.

All Harry said, though, was the simplest thing imaginable—but it was enough.

“Is there anything to eat?”

~The End~