Falling Down To Come Back Up

Falling Down to Come Back Up


NB: I don't own them. JK Rowling does. No money being made here, mate.


1 – Abandonment.


He is alone.

He curls his body into a tight ball. Even with his ears covered he can hear the screams. His eyes are closed, yet he can see the carnage. He can taste salty tears. He smells blood. His mind's eye replays the scene over and over again, like a faulty muggle video recorder. He cannot shut it out. He rocks back and forth, willing himself to rid his senses of everything, pleading with his body to let him alone, let him sleep, let him forget. But the body is cruel. It heeds not its master. Relentlessly, insistently, it showcases its macabre revue.

He is alone.

He has no-one.

Dumbledore was right.

“You do care. You care so much you feel as though you will

bleed to death with the pain of it.”

A cry escapes his wind-chapped lips. A desperate, heart-rending howl. A cry that is laden with grief that has been stored away inside; a grotesque parody of a squirrel storing its food for the winter months. His entire being is consumed with grief. His body shakes, his eyes roll, his thoughts are enveloped in a smothering, choking blanket of despair.

Bleed to death.

Dumbledore was right.

*


She wakes up sharply. She rubs her eyes, looks blearily at her watch. She pauses, then looks away, her chest hitching involuntarily. For what is time when one has stared pure evil in the face?


She looks around, noting the surroundings without deriving pleasure from them. Libraries used to fill her with glee – the worn books, almost exhaling knowledge from between their dusty covers. The pots of quills, begging to be dipped in shiny ink, pleading to impart theories, and diagrams, desperate to become part of the writing process. Was it only a week ago she felt this way? Funny. It feels like an age. The library has changed. It is a hiding-place. A sanctuary to which she can escape from the horrific reality of events past. A place she can sleep awhile, forcing her mind to become blank as a fresh sheet of parchment.

A place she can make creditable attempts to focus on matters other than him.

It is an effort she would do well to abandon.

She loves him.

It has always been him.

A tear rolls from her almond-shaped eye as his visage burns into her brain once more. She wishes she could reach him, comfort him, protect him from the demons he is compelled to face. She wishes with all her heart that he would let her love him.

But he is alone.

>

A/N: Thankyou so much for the reviews, I'm glad you like it! I've never written fanfiction before, so it's really heartening to get reviews like that. Anyway – onwards to Chapter 2.

Chapter 2 - Desperation.

“You've been waiting a long time
To fall down on your knees”

Black and Blue – Counting Crows.

She sits alone on the windowsill of the common room, watching the stars twinkle benignly in the skies. In spite of herself she tries to identify a few, remembering her Astronomy lessons and all the effort she put into extra research in the library, poring away over textbooks in the hope that she would attain top grades; after all, what could be possibly be more important? A good education is paramount in her hopes for a dazzling future. But her priorities have slowly changed. She is gradually, reluctantly conceding that her words in her first year were true, when she saw one of her friends knocked unconscious by a giant chess piece and another resolutely disappearing through the fire to face his nemesis.

Friendship is more important.

She worries about them. Though Ron sustained no lasting injuries other than the welts on his arms, she suspects this is not the entire truth. What did those brains really do to him? He will not say. Instead he adopts his characteristic sense of bravado, playing the 'man'. But she knows him better than he would like to admit. Deep down, part of Ron died that night. The eerie, octopus-like tentacles robbed him of something that she cannot fathom.

And Harry... and Harry.

Tears spring unbidden to her eyes as she thinks of him. It hurts to think of him. His grief is all-consuming. He has become a recluse, retreating to a different part of the castle each night. She has seen him. Seen how he rocks back and forth, screaming silently. Heard his mutterings, nonsensical and yet, in some perverse way, completely logical. And she has seen him afterwards, when dawn breaks, when he returns, when he makes half-hearted attempts at pretending to be normal. He goes about his daily business – classes, quidditch, conversations with classmates. Students who only know him by virtue of his fame assume that he is fine, that he has adjusted to the death his guardian. That the horrors of the ambush in the Ministry of Magic and the untimely death of his godfather will become a distant memory, like a sepia-toned silent movie. After all, as they say to each other in hushed tones, he did not know him for very long. And Black was a wanted criminal. It will not be long before Harry is back to normal, they conclude.

They are wrong.

She has to do something for him. She cannot let himself destroy himself in this way. But how can she save him if he does not want to be saved? Will he let her love him this time, or will he simply cast her away once more?

*

He sits in the deserted tower, watching the sky. It is clear tonight, and the stars shine brightly. It will be frosty tomorrow.

For a fleeting moment he wonders if she is watching the stars too. He smiles, but quickly replaces it with a grimace. Because he should not smile. To smile would be an insult to Sirius' memory. He does not deserve to be happy. His godfather is dead. He is not coming back.

And deep down, very deep down, Harry is sure that it is all his fault.

As if on cue, his memory starts feeding his mind's eye memories of his godfather. Happy, sad and downright frightening memories intermingle in his head, and he claws desparately at his face, trying to forget. He winces as the nerves in his skin alert him to the injury he has just inflicted upon himself, but he does not care. He feels he deserves it.

He stands up and shakily makes his way to the battlements so that he might look out at the night sky. The wind has picked up, buffeting previously unseen silvery clouds about the sky and obscuring the stars. He looks downwards and sees the trees of the Forbidden Forest, swaying gently from side-to-side as the wind rushes through them.

Suddenly he hears a noise below. He looks dispassionately, and his breath catches in his throat as his heart skips a beat. A dog is softly padding across the gravel path by the school gates. A black dog. A large black dog.

Is it – could it be – surely not - ?

He yanks off his smeary glasses and rubs them against his robes. Jamming them back on his face, he looks again.

His heart sinks, and he is sure that it has plummeted right down to Snape's dungeons. He begins to shake as his eyes insist that he accept what his imagination is hopelessly trying to fight against.

There was no dog.

He had imagined it.

His glasses are ripped off his face. The frames tinkle gently on the ground as his knees give way and he sinks to the hard stone floor of the tower. A feral howl tears from his throat as his head is thrown back and his fists hammer the ground. Furious screams issue forth from his mouth as he wrenches himself to his feet and he strikes his head rhythmically against the stony battlements.

Finally he stops and slumps once more to the floor. His chest hitches as he pulls himself into a foetal curl. His head hurts. So do his hands. But his mind insists he deserves it. As he shakes uncontrollably, looking at his bleeding hands, a small corner of his brain speaks with more gravity than any other of the thoughts clamouring for attention. As if being controlled by some external force, his aching and throbbing head slowly moves up and down, nodding.

He cannot go on like this.

He has to end it.

Now.

*

She is broken out of her reverie as the candleflame beside her flickers and dies. Dawn is slowly breaking on a new weekend. A glance at the clock in the corner of the common room tells her it will not be too long before people will be waking up and hurrying into the Great Hall for breakfast.

This observation is almost immediately overtaken by another, more worrying thought.

He has never been gone this long.

She sits up sharply, her innards taking on an icy consistency. She does not need to think. Her instincts go into overdrive as she grabs her cloak and yanks open the portrait hole, passing the loudly snoring Fat Lady.

She has to find him.

Now.

*

A/N: Whew. That was quite a bit longer than chapter 1... stay tuned to see if Hermione can get there in time. And don't forget to review ;) T xxx

3 - Absolution

I've looked at life from both sides now

From win and lose

And still somehow

It's life's illusions that I recall

I really don't know life at all.

-- Joni Mitchell, “Both Sides Now”

Her feet pound up the stairs in a frantic rhythm. She has bruises where she's stumbled and fallen to her knees but the pain is not registering. It doesn't matter.

She has to find him. Before it's too late.

Before he lets go.

Her legs are hurting. Normally she would assess this, tell herself that it's a result of anaerobic respiration. But such observations are lost on her right now. She doesn't care. Nor does she care for the pounding in her head, or the freezing sensation that clutches at her heart like a skeletal glove of ice.

She doesn't care about anything, anyone, but him.

Finally, her whole body shaking, she reaches the tower's stairs. They've been up here many times together to look at the stars. She smiles briefly as she remembers those nights, huddling up together around her bluebell coloured fire. She remembers his chaste touch, him squeezing her knee in a manner that a casual observer would dismiss as that belonging to a platonic best friend.

But Hermione knows the true meaning of platonic.

She sits on the floor, hugging her knees pensively as more flashbacks spring unbidden to her mind's eye. Sharing butterbeer with him in the common room after the others have gone to bed. Long walks around the lake, where he told her how lucky he was to have her care about him. Watching his elation after winning a hard-fought Quidditch match, when he looks at her in ways that make her heart melt. Yule balls, when they've danced cheek to cheek, holding each other so close and yet afraid to bridge the final gap and kiss. Scared of what the implications might be. Scared of what it would do to Ron, to Ginny... to them.

Yes, Hermione knows the true meaning of platonic.

She is jolted out of her wistful reverie as she glimpses a flicker of silver by the middle stair. Standing up to investigate, she realises he is close.

He is up there.

Picking up the invisibility cloak that he has discarded on the stairs in his despair, she tiptoes up the stairs. Her heart trembles at the thought of the scene that might well await her on the battlements.

Her head says that she is probably too late.

But her heart insists she can save him.

So without a second thought, she climbs the final stair and opens the door.

*

He is frightened.

There are a host of voices in his head, telling him how to do it. How best to end this eternal pain and find his guardian in that ethereal world beyond the veil.

Jump, Harry. You'll pass out before you hit the bottom. You won't know a thing. And you're high up here. You'll hit the flagstones of the courtyard with no evil chance of being revived. It's the best way.

No Harry. Don't do that. Use your tie. There's a place you can hang yourself from, just there. Far less messy. And you'll still be whole. There'll still be some of you left. Something for them to grieve over. This is how. This is how to do it.

Fuck them, Harry, they drove you to this. It's their fault. Slit your wrists instead. Nice and dramatic. You've got your wand, you know the incantation. Red blood and yellow eyes. The colour of Gryffindor. It'll hurt, but that's only for a little while. You're a brave Gryffindor, aren't you, Harry? This is best. This is fitting.

But what about that poison in your pocket, Harry? The one you stole from Snape's office. The one they say could kill twenty grown men. How very Romeo and Juliet. Except you don't have the Juliet. That's a problem. But not insurmountable. The gesture's the same. They'll all think you killed yourself because Hermione wouldn't look twice at you. You should do that, Harry. Don't listen to them. This is the best way.

No. No. You should honour your parents. Cast Avada Kedavra on yourself. So what if you don't know if you can cast it on yourself? You'd die the way they did. People are always dying for you, aren't they? Best to thank them, best to emulate their heroism.

This is how.

This is the best way to do it.

This is the best way to die.

The voices start again, but he doesn't pay attention. He's got his options.

He looks out across Hogwarts lawn. He can see the Quidditch field not so far away. Quidditch. He was good at that, once. Before his grief robbed him of his will to play. Before Gryffindor lost the cup.

Maybe jumping is like flying.

He may as well breathe his last while doing something he is good at.

Smearing his tears all over his face, he pulls himself up and makes his way to the ledge. He climbs up easily and sits, comtemplating the massive drop. Somehow when you're devoid of a broomstick it seems so much bigger.

He closes his eyes. I'll be with you soon, Sirius, he thinks. Mum, Dad, I'm coming. Your son. I'm coming to see you.

And this time none of us will have to let go of each other.

He stands up carefully, balancing on the ledge. The ledge is wide and there's no wind, as if the elements themselves are holding their breath.

Harry. You know you can't do it like this. You know you can't let go. What about your parents? They died for you, Harry, you. This isn't what they'd want. You know this. And you know that Sirius wouldn't want it either.

And... I... I don't want you to let go.

I don't want to say goodbye.

Harry's brow creases. This voice is wrong This voice isn't telling him how to die.

More to the point, he's fairly sure that this voice is not in his head.

She's come.

She's standing there, sobbing, wearing her pyjamas. She looks tired and frightened. Her chest is hitching. And she's standing there with her wand trained on him, her arm trembling but determined.

I won't let you do this. I won't let you punish yourself for something that wasn't your fault.

He snarls aggressively. Fuck off, Hermione. Leave me alone.

No. I'm not letting you jump. You can try, but you won't be able to.

I want to do this. Let me go. Let me end all this suffering. I'm ready to go. I've had enough of this world. I can't do it anymore. I can't be The Boy Who Saves Everybody From Everything anymore. I don't care about anything. I just want to end it. Let me be with my parents. Let me be with Sirius.

... let me be where I belong.

And what about here? You belong here, Harry. At Hogwarts. In Gryffindor. With the Weasleys. With Ginny. With Ron.

With me.

If you loved me you'd understand. If you loved me you'd let me go. You'd help me.

It's because I love you that I won't let you do this. It's because I love you that I understand why you want to let go.

It's because I love you that I need you here with me. I need you to help me. I can't cope in this world alone, Harry.

His hear pounds as all but nine of her words go unheeded.

She loves him.

She loves him.

She loves him.

You were the first person I ever met in this world who was like me. Someone who'd been a muggle. Someone who understood what it was like to be here. Someone who shared my insecurities, my doubts. Someone who saw me as me and not some weird swotty muggle-born. Have you forgotten that? Have you forgotten everything about us?

She loves him.

You've saved me so many times Harry. From trolls. From Dementors. From Death Eaters. Now let me save you just this once.

Let me save you from yourself.

Trembling, he lets her help him down. At once he collapses into unchecked hysterics, screaming in tears of overwhelming grief. He grasps her close as she holds him tightly against her breast, rocking him as she would a child and crying her own tears for her own suffering. She strokes his hair, sweaty and unkempt as she whispers the words into his ear.

I love you.

They stay this way for hours, two teenagers trying desperately to find absolution in each other, clutching to each other in desperation. Neither will let each other go.

Finally, when the tears have subsided and chests have stopped hitching, they lie in each others arms and look at the stars, just as they used to. And as Harry looks up at the dogstar, he knows that the pain will take months, years to heal. But heal it will, eventually.

And he knows in his heart, as Hermione silently leads him to Gryffindor Tower and from there to bed, that he loves her too.

And perhaps, just perhaps, things will be alright.

Fin.

A/N: Well, finally it's finished!! Thankyou so much to those who kept badgering me to finish this; and especially to the Wonks for all their support and encouragement - you know who you are ;)

I don't pretend that this is an easy fic to read - it's a style that wasn't intentional at all. Rather I like to think that the fic decided on its own style and content, and I just wrote as it directed. Anyway, thanks for reading, and please feel free to review. All comments of all forms much appreciated.