The Poetry Reading

khermione85626

Rating: PG13
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 08/03/2007
Last Updated: 08/03/2007
Status: paused

Double-shot. An muggle's view of a scene from Harry and Hermione's life. Years after the war, a forgotten Harry reads poety to muggles. One week Hermione comes to listen...

Chapters

1. 1st reading

1. 1st reading

I never fancied myself as someone who could write poetry. Never really tried though either. It is more an art for the gifted soul. But I'd be lying if I said it didn't interest me. In fact once a week I'll head down the café, not too far from my flat. They have a poetry reading time, when new poets, or old ones for that matter, can read their own work.

For a few weeks, a new poet has read. Goes by the name Harry, just Harry. Many people have been astounded at his poems, but only a handful of people can actually comprehend them. A bit messy looking, but most of us think that it might just be his hair. Peculiar individual really, all he ever does is read his poetry solemnly. He doesn't talk to anyone, if possible. He does not even acknowledge that we sit in awe when he finishes. This week his poem was different. There is no other way to describe it. Meaning can put so much behind words. And after that week I never looked at words the same again, nor a person, or story.

He took the stool and steadied himself. He prepares to read by clearing his throat. A woman enters quietly in the back. Dressed well, nice skirt and shirt, rather plain but stylish. Silently she sits down in the far corner. “This is a poem from a while ago.” For a second he pauses, before continuing just the same.

(The following are lyrics from a song by John Mayer called Slow Dancing in a Burning Room)

“It's not a silly little moment,

It's not the storm before the calm,

This is the deep and dyin' breath of,

This love we've been workin' on.

“Can't seem to hold you like I want to,

So I can feel you in my arms,

Nobody's gonna come and save you,

We pulled too many false alarms.

“We're goin' down

And you can see it too

We're goin' down

And you know that we're doomed

My dear

We're slow dancing in a burnin' room

“I was the one you always dreamed of

You were the one I tried to draw

How dare you say it's nothing to me

Baby, you're the only light I ever saw

“I'll make the most of all the sadness

You'll be a bitch because you can

You try to hit me just to hurt me

So you leave me feeling dirty

Because you can't understand

“We're goin' down

And you can see it too

We're goin' down

And you know that we're doomed

My dear

We're slow dancing in a burnin' room

“Go cry about it why don't you?

My dear, we're slow dancin' in a burnin' room,

Don't you think we oughta know by now

Don't you think we shoulda learned somehow.”

With that he silently got off the stool and went to sit down at his table. I scanned the room to see reactions; many people held the same look on their faces of sorrow found in lost love. The woman sat silently in the back, streaming salty tears. Poet after poet followed, but his was the one that stuck in my head. Afterwards, many people attempted to applaud the poets. Once I said my part of a job well done, I started to leave.

That was when the scene caught my eye. She had finally made it up to him. The strangers began a conversation. “That was beautiful.” A tears still streamed down her cheek. He looked up and muttered a thank you. “How long have you been writing, if you don't mind?” She was timid in her presence and question. Not sure whether she should even be there.

He shook his head. “No, not all. Three years ago, I left everything that had ever meant anything to me, in my life.” It was strange for him to answer any questions. I'd often wondered what could spur a person to become what he was.

“Why?”

“Why did I start to write? Oh, well I had…”

“No, why did you leave?”

“Ma'am, I'm sorry, but that is my personal information. If you don't know already, you aren't meant to known.” He finished gathering his things and gave her a sympathetic look.

“The girl, in your poem. Was it because of her?” She looked down at the ground, as though it would hide her from the answer.

He sighed. “There was nothing she could do…”

“Was it because of her?” her head snapped back to look at his face. This time the question demanded an answer.

“I couldn't watch everything I loved fall apart.” His eyes met hers for a flash before continuing.

“You didn't have to.” She took another step forward. He felt himself forced to look away.

“Yes. I did. I couldn't stay.” At the sound of this response, her eyes refilled with the salty tears. It occurred to me at some point that there was something more here. She was not merely a woman overhearing a poetry reading. She came to listen to him read about his life, about her life, about their life.

“But what about the people you left behind? What about them?” She pauses, gathering her strength again. “ They couldn't disappear into a mist. They couldn't forget. This was their only life, their only hope. And you deserted them.” Her tone was coursed with a bitter vile that poisoned his emotions.

“You don't understand…”

An awful hackle escaped her lips. “I don't understand? Who was by your side every step of the way? Who watched as her family murdered before her eyes? Who helped you get out of every mistake? Who could possibly understand more?” Her fury pushed every word out of her mouth.

“That was exactly why I had to leave. I caused all this.”

“Don't you dare! Don't you start that with me! We all willingly fought in that war. We were not naïve enough to believe that nothing would happen—or that everything would be bloody perfect.” As she spoke her hands made drastic motions, illustrating her point.

He looked away. He could barely stand to face her. A face he'd dreamt of for years, yet in person, he couldn't handle it. “I know,” he meekly comments. “I know all that and more. I also know that we were naïve enough to believe that what we had was real.”

“Wasn't it?”

“…I think we were very confused.” He finishes gathering his belongings and walks away from her.

“Liar.” She calls after him, just looking for a reaction.

“I can be.” He whispers almost to himself.

“You are lying.” She was trying to convince herself, as much as she was trying to convince him.

He paused with his hand on the knob of the café door. “Does it really matter any more?”

Her eyes well again, and the words puff out. “Of course!”

“No, it doesn't. We've played too many games, had too many scares. You still don't understand, this is the only way it can be. The only way it can work.” He tries not to show that he is concealing the same emotions that she holds. Except he told himself, he had a better understanding. “We're still the same spot we were when I left. When I wrote that poem.”

“Yea, that one and all the others or maybe you don't remember them? There were the ones about the `love of your life,' then the ones about `making a mistake,' and `missing out' on what we had. The ones you refused to tell anyone who they were about. And then there were the ones about your pain, about the disappointment, about the torture you felt and wanted. Do you remember those?” New tears formed in anger.

“I do.” And that was all he said as he opened the door and walked outside. I watched her sink into a chair, and her small form shook so violently in sadness. Yet I knew there was nothing I could do.

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