Unseasonal

Musca

Rating: G
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 17/06/2006
Last Updated: 17/06/2006
Status: completed

"‘The way things were’ was a season in itself."

Chapters

1. Unseasonal

1. Unseasonal

Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I’m only playing.

And many thanks to Ai for the speedy beta, and Happy Birthday!.

**

Unseasonal

“To die far away.

Not here.

To die where nobody is waiting for us

And there may be a place to die.”

--Roberto Juarroz

From Ninth Vertical Poetry

(translated by W. S. Merwin)--

*

Rain braided the pale morning into a thousand glittering, swinging ropes. The small clock marched steadily into infinity. No hesitation there, no second-guessing, no shots in the dark. Will he or won’t he?

A quick spell got rid of the steam clinging to the mirror. Another shed a few dry leaves off the potted African violet. Toothbrush, toothpaste and shaving gear were already in the cabinet, neatly behind everything else that would be needed more readily by Ron or Hermione. His towel would have to go in the wash though it wasn’t soiled. He shook the shower curtain and unfurled it to let it dry, then straightened the deep blue floor mat with a toe and turned to leave.

She stood in the doorway, eyes wide. “What are you doing?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Um, what a bloke normally does in the morning, shower, shave--”

“I mean that!” She waved a hand at the spotless counter, devoid of anything that belonged to him, even the one-winged snitch that sat there for colour ever since he’d rescued it from a particularly violent game with the Weasleys.

He looked dramatically wounded. “I always leave the place clean!”

“Harry, stop it.”

“Stop what?”

She took a step towards him into the pool of light that lay on the floor like a stubborn old stain. He straightened his glasses. She was biting the inside of her lip.

She knew. Of course she knew.

And she knew that too, that she’d got it right.

She ran a hand over the counter. He clutched the towel around his neck. Her fingers pressed the petals of the blue begonia, traced the edge of the mirror and, unable to find a purpose, fell to her side. Silence shed its old comfortable skin and emerged gleaming, indomitable. Not even the rain rose above it. Still looking away from him, she sat up on the counter, leaning a shoulder against the window. Between her fingers she squashed the little brown teddies on her pyjama bottom.

“How can you tell?”

He shrugged a bare shoulder, wincing at her whisper.

“The way I always could.” Even after fifth year, there had always been a small grazing touch of Voldemort inside him, like a burr embedded securely in the seam of a robe.

“We’ve always had a special connection, haven’t we?” He chuckled bitterly. She refused to comply.

Her morning hair covered her face from him, curls and whorls and loops over the well-worn pyjama shoulders, on her neck and over her cheeks. Clothed in creamy yellow, rumpled and radiating warmth, she was all wrong for the sleek, stony bathroom. The bathrooms of the Black mansion were as pitiless as the rest of the house, fitted with ancient black marble. The only colour that went with it in terms of accessories, bath mats, shower curtains and the like, was a midnight blue. Not that he cared about such things, but Mrs Weasley, who had set up the place for them, did.

“Hermione--”

“But today? Are you sure it’s today?”

Rain hitched up a notch. The sky crackled, whipping a fresh gust of air inside. He rubbed a corner of the towel over his chest absently and sighed.

“Yes, I’m sure. I mean, we’ve got all of him except, well, except himself. He’s got nothing to gain from waiting.” He leaned against the counter beside her, pushing his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. “And nothing to lose, you could say.”

Water wrangled in the gutters, faster and noisier by the minute, as if to counter the deepening silence inside. All four seasons pulsed like a snitch in the fist of the rain. It was warm enough to have the windows open so early, yet cold enough--as he spotted from the corner of his eye--to make her burrow into herself. The sparse trees outside were hung with rich leaves yet the air was as fresh as spring.

All seasons, except for those that had never came to pass.

Of course, they would never speak of those; they were all wrong for their time and lives, for the war, the prophecy, for Ron, for Ginny. ‘The way things were’ was a season in itself.

His hair was still wet, leaving droplets on his shoulders and glasses. He wasn’t cold, not physically, but ice pooled somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

“Hermione, come on. Look at me.”

“I don’t need to, do I? I know exactly what you look like right now, I know exactly what you look like every time you say something, do something, think something. I know exactly what you look like every second of the bloody day.” A pile of soaked leaves stuck in the overhead gutter fell with a whoosh out into the street, pushed along by the rainwater. “And now you have the gall to stand here and tell me that today might be the last day I’ll ever see you.”

She pulled at her sleeve and swiped her nose. The heavy wooden door creaked in the wind, unsure whether to open or close.

He slid a tentative hand towards her across the counter. What a terrible thing rationality was. If it wasn’t for all those righteous but utterly wrong reasons they clutched at--Ron, Ginny, war, right, wrong--this was would be a much warmer morning.

“I’m sorry. But you know I wouldn’t say that if I didn’t know for sure,” he mumbled. Her hands curled in her lap, clutching the pyjama sleeves.

After a moment, she nodded. She let out a heaving sigh and ran both her palms over her face. Below the high window, someone set off a car alarm. It rang out savagely for a few seconds and fell abruptly silent. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited, noting the way silence relented, pooling like melting snow, warmer but full of the sorrow of a passing season. An unmarked, unknown season.

And that terrified him much more than the livid silence that stalked in with her earlier.

She wouldn’t let him go just like that, would she? With just a sigh and sad eyes she wouldn’t even let him see?

The bathtub was a monstrosity, a pit of black marble that seemed to deepen as you looked at it. He swallowed.

She slid down and turned towards him. “Well, I’d better go get dressed.” Heart gulping for air, he dared a glance at her. Her face was set. He knew her look of determination but this wasn’t it. “If you’re right, then there’s a lot we need to take care of.” This was a look of conviction.

He followed her with his eyes as she moved towards the door. “I’m going to get Lupin and Ron’s dad. Mr Weasley is the best person to handle the St Mungo’s crowd. We can’t take them by surprise when you get back, you and anyone else who’s involved, of course.” She was almost talking to herself. “I mean, as far as battles go, we’re on top of things as much as anyone could be, but we have to think of afterwards. You’re much stronger than six months ago, Harry, and he’s as weak as he ever will be, so I honestly don’t think you’ll have much trouble, but still. It is Voldemort we are talking about here, however impoverished he is in terms of followers or, well, his own soul. Ron’s dad is the best person to have St Mungo’s in alert without causing too much excitement about treating the boy who--goodness, whatever will they call you, I wonder, boy who lived aga--”

“Hermione!”

She turned around. He stared. The rain reeled across Grimmauld Place as if slapped by a giant hand.

She met his eyes. “What, Harry?” He swallowed. “You are coming back, of course. You know that…that I wouldn’t let you go unless I was sure?” She pulled her hair up into a straggling knot and frowned. “And where’s that snitch?” Her eyes scanned the counter.

“What?”

“The one-winged snitch you had here, the one--”

“Here…” He rummaged in his pocket dazedly. She stepped forward and held out her hand. “Oh, poor little thing--” she held it carefully in both her hands although there was no chance of it escaping with just one wing. “Look, it’s already squashed. Leave it here, please? I promise I’ll keep Crookshanks from mauling it.”

He cleared his throat, trying to dredge up his voice. “Um, yeah, sure. Whatever…whatever you want. I mean, he can do no more harm than the Weasleys have already done.” She smiled absently and set it on the counter. Drowning, he clutched her hand.

“Hermione, you…”

Her hand curled around his and her throat worked. She was warm against him.

“Yeah, I’ll be here, Harry.” Her eyes went dark. “You will come back.” She reached up and kissed him.