The Scene that Should Have Been

reimanr06

Rating: PG
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 7
Published: 24/07/2007
Last Updated: 24/07/2007
Status: in_progress

When Ron storms off into the night, Harry does more than just throw some blankets over Hermione, and makes some major realizations. One-Shot

Chapters

1. The Scene that Should Have Been

1. The Scene that Should Have Been

The Scene that Should Have Been

By reimanr06

This is my first real attempt at writing any kind of fiction in the past several years, so please tell me how I did!

“Protego!” she cried, and an invisible shield expanded between her and Harry on the one side and Ron on the other; all of them were forced backwards a few steps by the strength of the spell, and Harry and Ron glared from either side of the transparent barrier as though they were seeing each other clearly for the first time. Harry felt a corrosive hatred toward Ron: Something had broken between them.

“Leave the Horcrux,” Harry said.

Ron wrenched the chain from over his head and cast the locket into a nearby chair. He turned to Hermione.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you staying, or what?”

“I…” She looked anguished. “Yes--- yes, I’m staying. Ron, we said we’d go with Harry, we said we’d help---“

“I get it. You choose him.”

“Ron, no --- please --- come back, come back!”

She was impeded by her own Shield Charm; by the time she had removed it he had already stormed into the night. Harry stood quite still and silent, listening to her sobbing and calling Ron’s name amongst the trees.

After a few minutes she retuned, her sopping hair plastered to her face.

“He’s g-g-gone! Disapparated!”

She threw herself into a chair, curled up, and started to cry.

Harry felt dazed. He stooped, picked up the Horcrux, and placed it around his own neck. He dragged blankets off Ron’s bunk and threw them over Hermione. Then he climbed onto his own bed and stared up at the dark canvas roof, listening to the pounding of the rain.

--- Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows --- pages 309-310

No matter how he concentrated on the steady, thundering beat of rain against the roof of the tent, nor how he tried to let everything go and allow sleep to claim him, Harry could not drown out the quiet, heaving sobs of Hermione. As the minutes stretched into hours, which in turn stretched into the veritable eternity experienced by all those frustrated by the inability to find the cool solace of sleep, two minds shared one thought—“He’s gone and he’s not coming back.”

As the night wore on, punctuated only by the periodic crash of thunder and the occasional outburst of broken-hearted misery coming from the chair across the cramped room, Harry was startled out of his whirling insomnia by a sudden rustle of cloth and footsteps fumbling in the dark. Violently, he jerked upright, buoyed by both a hope he knew to be impossible and a burning anger he knew to be unjust. At the sight of moonlight and rain pouring in through the half opened flap of the tent around a dark silhouette, he leapt from his bed, he hand clutching somewhere, anywhere, for his wand.

“Ron?!” He nearly shouted at the figure, his imagination racing with possibilities. Had Ron returned, abashed and ashamed, apologizing, searching for forgiveness? Or had he come back to the lonely, hidden tent to vent further frustration at Harry for his lack of plans or direction. Grimly, Harry allowed himself to imagine how he would receive Ron, if he had indeed returned for that purpose. Shuddering, he rebuked himself, knowing full well that once Ron had Disapparated, he would be unable to find his way back. Furthermore, conflicted by his anger with Ron’s abandonment and his own self doubt, he decided that if it really were Ron, he would accept any apology with an open heart. There was enough to be dealt with without fracturing a precious friendship. As he slowly stepped towards the open flap, which was still streaming rain, the figure turned and fled out into the night, leaving a harsh and agonized wail lingering on the threshold. Raising his wand, which Harry had unconsciously lit with a mental command, he plowed out into the downpour.

There, huddled on the ground, weeping profusely, was Hermione. She was dripping with mud and was clutching her knees to her chest. A distant bolt of lightning lit the glade for a brief instant, and the roar of thunder reverberated, rolling, echoing for seconds afterwards. Harry could not be sure whether it had caused the tremulous shaking within him. In the dim light which effused from the blanketing clouds, Harry could see Hermione’s eyelids had swollen almost shut, and the gasping, rattling breaths she hastily drew shook her shivering frame. Harry was struck by how tiny and helpless she looked, and by how tiny and helpless he himself felt at this sight. As his own throat tightened and locked, and an iron band wrapped itself around midsection and squeezed, he fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around Hermione, whispering, “It’s ok, everything is going to be fine,” and other hurried, comforting platitudes into her ear. Still sobbing, Hermione threw her arms around Harry’s neck and clutched at him as if he were liable to fade into the shadows and disappear at any time. Harry had never seen Hermione in such a state, so unmade, so consumed by grief and despair. Unwillingly, Harry remembered that dark and frantic flight on the backs of thestrals, and the desperate, terrifying escape from Death Eaters, and the utter shock and impotence that had consumed him as he watched a Silenced Antonin Dolohov send a streak of purple flames into Hermione’s abdomen and watched her crumple to the ground. He had stood agape, senseless, empty, as Neville fumbled for a pulse. Though the Hermione that was still clinging to his neck was definitely alive, his mind had momentarily reverted to that hollow, lost, feeling that had filled his very soul at the moment he watched Hermione fall to the floor what seemed like a lifetime before.

“Ha-Harry?” Hermione’s heart rending sobs had faded into a small, hesitant sniffle, but Harry could tell she could return at any time to the clutches of misery. “Please, -hic- d-don’t leave me too.”

“It’s ok, Hermione, I won’t leave you, I promise.”

“Promise? –hic-“

“I promise, Hermione.”

At this, Hermione slowly released her vice-like grip from Harry’s neck, and slowly, she began to relax. Harry could feel the erratic spasms that had wracked Hermione seconds before float away like a leaf bobbing along a stream of water running off the tent.

“C’mon, Hermione, let’s get you inside.” Harry lifted the shivering girl from the freezing muck and gingerly carried her into the tent. Placing her on his bunk, he waved his wand, and instantly, Hermione was dry. With another flick, the mud and detritus of the forest floor that caked her face and clothes blinked into nothingness, and a merry green fire lit in the center of the room. Again, Harry lifted his wand, and the remains of last evening’s meal flew to his hand. With a desperate, determined mental command, Harry commanded the bowl of cold, burned fish to become something edible. Much to his surprise and pleasure, the contents of the bowl shifted, then melted into a steaming broth, and Harry’s nose caught a whiff of pepper and herbs. Hesitantly, he lifted the bowl towards Hermione, who gladly took the bowl after a little nudge. Pausing only to hiccup again, Hermione drained the bowl in a few long draughts. Finally smiling, she lifted her head up and looked at Harry.

“I-I’m not sure how you Transfigured that nasty fish into a bowl of my mother’s chicken soup, Harry, but the effort is well appreciated.” Her eyes, which had seemed so empty only minutes before, now swam with life and gratitude.

“It was nothing, Hermione, though I’m not sure I could do it again!” Harry chuckled at himself. Hermione’s small, hiccupping giggle warmed his heart, probably as much as the soup had just warmed hers. The two shared a long moment staring into each other’s eyes. Harry felt that if he could spend the next ten years sharing this connection, it would not be long enough. When Hermione eventually broke her gaze, she began to whisper. “He won’t be able to find us again, will he?” Harry again felt that burning hatred within himself for Ron, but this time, it was not his weakness or harsh (but true) words that Harry remembered. It was the sight of Hermione, frail and bedraggled, sobbing in the mud. He hated Ron then, and Dumbledore, and himself, for being the cause of Hermione’s pain. Again, he wrapped his arms around Hermione and pulled her close.

“No, Hermione, I’m afraid he won’t.” At this, Harry let loose a deep sigh and felt Hermione shudder against him. Inwardly, he swore he would never let Hermione be so heartbroken, so undone again. Against his chest, the Horcrux burned with a fierce cold and his scar prickled insistently. Deep in his mind, Harry heard a distant wail of excruciating pain. With a defiant grin plastered to his face, he let the penetrating feeling of wholeness permeate his entire being for a moment. When he heard the scream in the recesses of his mind rise to a fever pitch, he savored the sound for a moment before squelching the connection between his mind and Voldemort’s. Instantly, the ragged cry died and was silent. He knew then, as he had only caught glimpses of somewhere, sometime seemingly long ago, that here, now, was right, complete. Distant memories flashed through his mind:

“Harry ---- you’re a great wizard you know.”

“I’m not as good as you.”

“Me! Books! And cleverness! There are more important things--- friendship and bravery!

Another time, another scene:

Two small figures soared through the night atop a strange, winged creature, against a backdrop of an enormous castle.

Again:

Three teenagers standing at the head of a large gathering inside a dirty, dingy pub.

Another:

Harry and Hermione running hand in hand pell-mell through the Department of Mysteries, desperately looking for a way to escape.

More:

At a familiar train station

“Bye Harry!” said Hermione, and she did something she had never done before, and kissed him on the cheek.

As theses scenes and more rushed and stampeded around inside Harry’s head, a stunning insight was revealed to him as if a blindfold had suddenly been removed. Harry had been happy with Ginny. She had helped him forget the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and to slip serenely into some far off realm. He had felt alive. Yet forgetting what was going on was to forget who he really was, to forget his very being. Here, now, sitting in this dingy tent which smelled of cats, in the middle of nowhere, but holding the one person that had never abandoned him, had never doubted his ability (maybe his plans or lack thereof) or determination, who had never let him forget who Harry Potter was and who he needed to be, he felt complete.

“Hermione?” Harry whispered.

“Yes, Harry?” Hermione looked up with what seemed to be a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

Harry lowered his lips to hers.

For what could have been seconds, or minutes, or an eternity, Harry kissed Hermione. For a moment, she seemed shocked out of her wits and sat rigid in his arms. Harry paused, flummoxed, desperate for Hermione to say or do something, anything. He continued to kiss her, unwilling to stop now he that he had finally taken the fateful leap from which there was no returning. It didn’t matter, not now, that Hermione was still locked in some kind of internal struggle. He didn’t care. All that mattered was showing the woman in his arms that which his voice would fail to express. He soldiered on, reveling in Hermione’s soft lips, in the feel of her hair draped around her face and her hands, of her warm, rapid breaths fluttering against his face, and finally, gloriously, her hands tightening around his back and the thrilling, dreamlike sensation of her moist lips parting slightly, then more fully, as their tongues met for the first time. His heart racing now, beating a complex pattern in synch with Hermione’s through their pressed together chests, he poured all of his thankfulness, his loyalty, and his soul into their kiss. Hermione’s hands ran unchained by any inhibition through his hair, clutching his face, and around his back, pulling their two bodies together.

Finally, reluctantly, Harry extricated himself from Hermione’s embrace and once again stared into her shining eyes.

“Wh-why, Harry? Why now?” Hermione’s voice trembled with unspoken anxiety. “Why after all these years? I used to dream of this moment when I was just a silly little girl. You can’t imagine… “ Tears had begun to stream from her eyes. Harry’s heart soared.

“I’m not sure. I just knew.” He squeezed Hermione to him in a sudden hug. “All these years, all the tragedy and trouble we’ve experienced… you’ve always been there for me, always.”

“Not always…” Hermione shuddered. “This past year and a half… I’ve been such a twit!” The last part came out something like a moan. She was crying fully, now. “I’ve been so… afraid! Harry! So afraid. After the Department of Mysteries, I-I-I…” She sneezed loudly. “I snapped. I tried to escape, tried to forget the danger and everything that came with it!” She buried her face in Harry’s shoulder, and wept. Harry just held her, patting her on the back and stroking her hair. Regaining control over herself, she sat up and spoke again. “I failed, Harry, I failed you! I spent all of my time and energies … OH the waste!... beating myself up over Ron and his stupid tart, knowing all along, somewhere deep inside, that the only reason I cared at all whether Ron thought I was pretty or likeable or… sniff… anything was that I felt I had already lost you, Harry. As much as Ron may hate it, he could never measure up in my eyes to you!” She sniffed again, seemingly attempting to suck in all of her pain. “ I…” She broke down again and clung to Harry even tighter.

“Shh, Hermione, I already promised, I won’t leave you, not ever, not for some place you can’t follow.”

Again, he raised her face towards his, and they collided together. After gently kissing her, he lifted his lips and with them, wiped away her tears. He returned his lips to hers, and she feverishly kissed him back, on his lips, on his chin, on his forehead, on his neck, even sucking his earlobe into her mouth and nibbling for a moment, trying to feel and taste all of Harry, all of his being, at the same time. All the while, Harry clung to Hermione like a man clings to a piece of his broken ship after it has been broken on the rocks during a storm, knowing, feeling, that if he ever let go, he would surely die. “Thank you, thank you Hermione,” he repeated over and over again. Slowly, inch by inch, they slid from their uncomfortable upright position to lie next to each other on the bunk. The green fire roared in the hearth. As the kiss ended, Harry and Hermione, lying side by side, held the other’s face in their hands. Harry finally broke the silence.

“Things can never be the same now, can they?” Hermione grinned at this.

“Why would we want them to be?”

“They say the devil you know…”

“Oh hush, Harry. Don’t be a coward. It’s beneath you.” Hermione silenced Harry with another kiss. When they had calmed down, she opened her mouth as if to speak when a jolt of what could only be fear shot through her. Harry looked up at her in alarm.

“Hermione…Hermione, what’s wrong?” Harry shook her gently.

“H-How are we going to tell Ron, if we ever see him again? He won’t take this well, no not at all! He’ll be heartbroken, feel betrayed! What about Ginny?”

“Can’t forget Mrs. Weasley either,” said Harry with a grim chuckle. Hermione’s panic was slipping over, spreading to him. Ron had always felt overshadowed by Harry and had thought, on occasion, that Harry sought to “steal” those things that Ron desired. Undoubtedly, he would initially consider this thing, whatever it was, between himself and Hermione an usurpation by the ‘Chosen One’. A good slap to the face may or may not bring him ‘round. Ginny, on the other hand, was an entirely different breed of dragon. How could he explain how he felt for Hermione? How does one express love? Hermione made him feel whole, whereas Ginny, fiery in hair and spirit, had occupied so much of his thoughts that he had forgotten he was missing something to begin with. Now that he had found that missing piece of the puzzle, how could he possibly forget it? Suddenly, his heart swelled, filled with the knowledge of finally finding completion. He knew that nothing, not Voldemort, not Ron, or anyone or anything else would stand in his way of cherishing this newfound bond. The Horcrux, squeezed between the two, burned fiercely, searing Harry’s chest. Hermione obviously felt the burning sensation, as she cried out. Harry jumped from the bunk and ripped the scalding metal from his chest, throwing it on the ground. The locket emitted a high pitched, keening wail, not unlike the sound a wet log makes as the water inside is vaporized by fire. The locket popped open, and a ghastly black dust whirled from inside, sucked out of the tent by a passing wind. The small fragment of Tom Riddle’s soul stored inside the gold locket had been destroyed.

Upon seeing Harry clutching his chest, Hermione rushed over, and with the tip of her wand, traced the glaring red burn. Immediately, a cooling sensation filled the area, which seconds before, had pulsed maliciously, as if the soul fragment had tried to burrow its way into Harry’s skin. As Hermione lowered her wand, Harry grasped her hands in his, and once again, looked deep into her eyes.

“Somehow, someway, Hermione, I know I’ve always loved you, always.” A tear leaked out of his eye. “I’d have never made it this far without you. I would have been lost. I was lost, for the longest time. But now that I’ve found you, as long as I love you, I’ll never be lost again.”

Hermione’s face was streaked with tears, but her smile stretched across her face.

“Never be lost again…” she repeated. “I like the sound of that.”