Perspective

A/N: This was written for ladybluestar (on livejournal) for the hghpficexchange. Thanks to Flora for the beta, and to Inell for her help. I hope you enjoy this; it was written pre-DH, so there are no spoilers.

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The dirt road leads to nowhere except an old stone building, or, part of one. Four years ago, it was a decrepit single room that had served its purpose: to hide them. Hermione had surmised it must have once been a church, but if that was the case, its trappings were long gone, even then. Framed in thick, sheltering trees, it had given them a safe place to hide, a strategic position from which to defend themselves if it had become necessary. Blankets and warming charms had been all they'd needed to make it a safe place to rest in the few days before they'd nearly been found and had to move on. Now, it's more lean-to than room, with two bare damaged walls holding up part of a leaky roof.

Mortar and old stone crumble under Harry's fingers as he traces the wall of the structure from the outside, his trainers making a path in the well-traveled dirt in front of the wall. He should go in and sit, or at least stop wearing a trench into the dirt, but he finds himself unable to stand still when it's just him and all these memories. Memories that remind him of what he had. What he might have lost.

Not for the first time since arriving here, he wonders if this was the right place to ask Hermione to meet him. But it doesn't matter where they are, especially when he hasn't got a clue what he'll say once she gets here.

If she gets here.

He shakes his head. That's a possibility his mind doesn't quite want to process right now; the waiting is torturous enough without wondering if it's all for nothing and knowing that, even if it is, he's no one to blame but himself.

There's no glass in the window as he finally stops and peers through to the inside, and so he's able to rest his forearms right across the sill. It's as if the little half-room has been petrified, preserved just the way it was before, and that somehow makes it even worse to be here alone. He looks down at his hands; they're covered in dust from the wall. In his mind, he's staring at those same dusty hands from four years before.

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He'd been clutching the wall for dear life, crouched and flattening himself against it. He was about five seconds from waking Ron and Hermione and informing them urgently that it was time to go. They'd gather their things efficiently, in the familiar habit they'd honed over their time on the run. They could be gone in less than a minute if they had to.

When he caught a flash of movement in his periphery, he whipped his head to the side to see more clearly. He felt cold, crumbly stone against his cheek as he watched the doe zip off into the trees. He let out a shaky breath and a short, quiet laugh. "Get it together, you git," he muttered quietly to himself as he relaxed slightly, shivering a bit but releasing his death grip on the stone. His hands came away covered in a layer of pale dust. Another noise and he was alert, craning his neck and creeping towards the end of the wall as closely as he dared. Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he gave a start, one hand tight on his wand, body tensed and ready for a fight.

Hermione held a finger to her lips and applied gentle pressure to his shoulder, silently urging him to turn toward her. He could only comply, his eyes wide with wonder and lingering wariness as she moved closer. In that moment, there was only her, and a dangerous lack of awareness of anything else. He knew it wasn't wise, and so did she, but her hands were on his forearms, sliding slowly over his shoulders, along his collarbones. And her face was much too close for him to register anything else as she swayed forward.

He didn't remember dropping his wand, but it landed somewhere by his knees, and then his hands were flitting across cheekbones, into dark curls, thumbs brushing against her jaw, fingers curling towards her throat. She let her eyes close when he touched her, and he wondered if it was only escape for them, just a moment where they could be selfish and forget this war and focus on themselves and the fact that they'd wanted this for years.

But then her lips were on his, and that left no room for confusion or doubt because his eyes were closed and there was only her lips, warm and wet, soft and yielding, moving under his in a way that made his blood move and his gut tighten.

Much later, when they pulled back, noses brushing, he realized that he'd transferred that pale dust to her cheeks, neck and hair. She didn't seem to mind.

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Harry straightens and backs away from the wall, staring blindly at his palms for a moment before he drops them and wipes them on his trousers. He looks back in the direction he came, half-expecting to see her walking towards him, hand lifted to shield her eyes from the sun. She isn't, though, so he's stuck remembering that first kiss and wondering how, in the years since, he's managed to bugger everything up.

He thinks back to that night, the time he'd spent gazing at her, tongues brushing, breathing into her; feeling more alive than he can remember ever being despite everything that had been crashing down around them. Perhaps because of it. He'd never had a kiss like it before; with Ginny it had been about a different sort of escape, the barest hint of something he'd never really felt free enough to have. Hermione had been ... promise. There'd been so much promise in that kiss, and in the ones that had followed. For the first time he felt like he could have things he'd been afraid to hope for, and build something real out of the mess of his life. Being able to see beyond he moment was such a simple thing that had felt like a miracle to him, and just because she'd kissed him.

At the time, he hadn't realized that he was in love with her. All he'd known was that he could be happy with her, for however long it lasted.

The sun creeps slowly higher in the sky, and it's the only concept he has of how long he's been waiting for her. He could use some shade, but has a brief thought of not wanting to miss her if she shows and can't see him immediately. But that's silly, as his footprints are in the dirt and besides, he'll just know when she arrives.

There's a door on the building; it's heavy and made of worm-eaten wood, but they've never used it in either of the times they've been to this place. Easier to walk around the wall than to magick it open, as the structure doesn't even look strong enough to stand that. When he moves behind the wall, he finds the space as shady and cool as it's ever been, crumbling rock and split wood on one side, and overgrown grass and weeds creeping in from the other, where the walls have been knocked down.

He crosses the short space and rests his palm against the wall adjacent to the door, the only other wall still standing. The last time they met here, he found her sitting against this wall, he remembers. Lowering to a crouch, he closes his hand around a rock. It's round and smooth and looks utterly out of place here.

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The war had been over for all of a week, and things still looked the same. He didn't know why, but he'd thought that they might be different, <i>feel</i> different, on the other side. If he was even around to see it.

It looked like he'd made it through, and he had no clue what to do about it, or where he could possibly fit in this world that people were telling him he'd helped build. He let out a wry laugh. He hadn't built anything. All he'd done, all he'd ever been trying to do, was survive.

Harry found himself back in this place, because it reminded him of the first glimmer of uncomplicated hope he'd felt in that last year, that final push toward the end. It had been a while, but maybe if he came back here, he could find it again.

When he rounded the wall and looked across the rubble and grass, she was there, and something squeezed around his heart as he took a step forward. She almost looked surprised to see him before she sent him a brittle little smile that nearly brought him to his knees. Without a word, he lowered himself to sit next to her and moved his fingers over hers, closing lightly over the smooth, round object in her hand.

"What's this?" His voice was raw, like he'd not used it for years. He cleared it and tilted his head down.

"A rock," she said, somewhat hollowly, eyes flitting to his briefly before she glanced at their joined hands. "It was just lying here. It's a bit out of place, isn't it? I'm trying to figure out where it would have come from. I think it must have somehow been transferred here in the years since the building was destroyed, because I'm not sure what something like this would have been used for in a church."

He nodded, comforted by her random tidbits even when they were delivered in idle, hollow tones. It was a while before he spoke, and when he did, his voice was low and quiet. "What do I do now, Hermione?"

"You move forward."

"How do I do that?" It seemed impossible.

She glanced at him, her expression somewhat weary before it cleared and she lifted her fingers to tangle with his. "You aren't the only one who needs to pick up and try to make a life out of this mess, Harry," she said tiredly, and he realized she'd been as displaced and disoriented by this war as he had. Had sacrificed just as much, and had done it for him. Because she was his friend, above any and everything else. He pulled her hand into his lap and turned it over, moving his fingers over her palm.

Before he could respond, she was pulling her hand back and speaking briskly. "As for you, there's no reason why you can't pick back up with your life. You can go back to living, get a flat, a normal job; normal girlfriend." There was a twist at the end of her sentence, but he could only focus on his own confusion over her words.

"Not really sure I can do normal," he said quietly, "not sure I want normal."

"Everyone wants normal, Harry," she said, looking down at her hands.

He didn't. He was remembering stolen kisses under threadbare blankets. Nothing else mattered, not when she was everything real and constant about the last three years when nothing else had made sense. His fingers were making circles on the inside of her wrist, and she was shifting where she sat. "What about us? We're not normal."

"There's no 'us'," she said faintly, looking slightly irritated when he wouldn't let her pull her hand back this time. "Not like that. We were just..."

"I don't know what you were doing," he cuts in softly. "But I was falling for you."

She shook her head. "Don't say things like that," she said softly, even as she leaned into him. "Don't. Things are -- different, now. That was -- you don't need me any more; there's Ginny, and"--

Harry stopped his fingers moving over her arm and lifted his eyes to hers, pulling her to him. She stopped talking and moved fluidly into his embrace and then his lips were on hers, touching, tasting, tongue stroking against hers. It started to rain as they tangled together, arms and legs and skin for miles.

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Blinking, Harry releases the rock. It makes a dull thunk on the ground as he scoots back slightly and realizes he's on the same stretch of grass and concrete where he and Hermione were that day. Staring at the spot, he can almost hear her breathy moans and feel her skin sliding along his.

He folds his legs and leans against a large slab, feeling cold stone against his back. He didn't expect to be hit with memories quite this vivid by coming here, but it's not as if he can stop it.

He can remember what it was like after that first night with her, and they'd gone back to the real world. The months after the war had ended had been a circus of press and publicity, uncertainty and disorientation, and various other things that made the victory so much more bitter than sweet. Made him want to disappear to somewhere no one would find him, where no one knew him. Without her, he would have.

It's frustrating to consider those first few months of scary, heady exploration now, not because anything about those months is upsetting -- well, not as far as his relationship with Hermione -- but because he wonders how they've gotten to this point from there. He knows what happened, broadly: He lost sight of everything she meant to him. He has, however, no idea how that's possible.

Standing, he moves to the window again, this time looking out from the inside. There's nothing but dirt road for miles as he squints against the sun's glare.

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Harry stood at the window of the flat and looked out over Muggle London, squinting against the glare. He'd wanted the Muggle side, simply because he could walk the streets and blend into the crowd and be reasonably sure he wouldn't hear 'Harry? Harry Potter?' at every turn. Though she hadn't complained about the lack of notoriety either, Hermione had liked it because of its proximity to her office at the Ministry and the British Museum. It wasn't fantastically huge, but for just the two of them, it was more than enough space.

The war had been over for a year, now, and for most of the Wizarding World, it was almost old news. Though he didn't want to forget by any means, Harry hoped that at some point, things wouldn't be quite as fresh in his mind. It was just that he figured he should have reached that point by now.

Life went on, though, even for him. As much as he'd fancied himself having a more peaceful life before, he'd not been able to resist Shacklebolt's offer to join the Aurors, and he'd finished his training last month. Between his assignments and missions, he barely had time to take a moment to think.

Not that he was particularly complaining about that. Everyone had a different way of dealing with things, he figured, and this was his.

When he felt her arms come around him from behind, he lifted his own unconsciously to cover hers across his stomach.

"You've not unpacked yet," she informs him, dipping a hand beneath the hem of his shirt. They'd moved in the previous night, and Hermione had had all of her things in their proper places within an hour. His were still in boxes.

"Figured I'd leave things be for now. Give you more room in the wardrobe." He smiled slightly and turned to her.

She arched a brow, giving him a Look. "You know perfectly well that I've probably got fewer clothes than you do, Harry Potter, so you can give that line to someone else." Grabbing his hand, she tugged him toward the bedroom. "I understand that you can be quite messy, but that's not really part of your charm. If we're to live together peacefully, you simply won't be able to leave your Auror robes on the floor. That's all there is to it."

"Hey -- Ron never complained."

"That's because Ron is even less neat than you," she told him matter-of-factly. "Honestly, the two of you living together for a year? I'm surprised you were able to find anything, the way things were always strewn about when I was there."

He smirked and took her by the waist when she started to reach for a box. "Oi. We did alright. And now there's half the mess, since Ron's now able to enjoy the single life in peace."

"More like sixty percent of the mess," she muttered, but she was nipping at his bottom lip and toying with the buttons on his shirt. "I'm not cleaning up after you, you know."

"Oh, I know." He chuckled and slid his hands over her hips. "You were always handier with a hex than a cleaning charm."

She smiled slowly and nodded toward the boxes. "I'm glad we've an understanding. Now for some follow through." She laughed and wiggled out of his grip when his hands moved to her bum. "Later, Potter. After dinner at the Burrow, remember?"

He shut his eyes briefly. He had, in fact, remembered, and purposely volunteered for that night's mission. "I can't. Shacklebolt's sent Seamus and me on assignment in Kent. I'll be too late to make it."

He watched Hermione's eyes darken almost imperceptibly before she sighed. "It's been months since you've seen them, Harry, and that was only for a few minutes. Arthur's death wasn't your fault," she added quietly. "You can't go on thinking everything that happened in the war is your responsibility. And you can't avoid them forever."

"I'm not," he said with a jerky shrug, before he moved to yank clothes out of the first box he touched. "I've just got work."

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There was a lot of work after that, he remembers, backing away from the window and taking a moment to let his eyes adjust. When he'd started working full-time with the Aurors, it had just been that much easier to throw himself into work and avoid the fact that he wasn't alright.

Moving in with Hermione just meant that it became harder to hide it from her. It meant she had come to have firsthand knowledge of how many nightmares he was still having because she was the one to shake him awake from them, and blink in confusion when he'd snap at her rather than talk about them -- even though she was probably one of the two people in his world who would understand. Living together also meant that she was up nights waiting for him, worrying about him, when he was off on another assignment. When they both knew he didn't always have to go. He remembers coming home night after night to find her sitting on the couch, and the relieved look on her face each time, just from seeing him walk through the door, because he couldn't be bothered to stop taking on danger because she wanted him safe.

Ah, god, he was such an insensitive bastard. Too wrapped up in his own issues to realize he was hurting her. Such an idiot that even now every time he thinks about it he startles himself all over again.

He places a hand against the wall, leaning, as his heart races and he's sure she isn't coming. How many times can he really expect her to let him toss her concern back into her face? But if she does come ...

Harry scratches his chin and begins to pace the broken-down room, back and forth as he listens to rubble crumble under his feet. He just needs this chance, and he can only hope she gives it to him.

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This time, when he came home, she wasn't waiting for him. He didn't see her on the sofa with her book, or puttering around the kitchen with tea. She wasn't in the bedroom, sleeping in the same position where she'd settled back to wait for him.

Harry paced the flat, worried, but sure that she was just out with Ginny or one of her friends from work. Not like that was unusual, or a big deal at all. She'd be back soon. Knowing all this, of course, didn't stop him looking around the flat again as if she'd appear if he just looked hard enough. When he saw the note on the end table he snatched it up and lowered to the sofa. As he read it, he felt his insides dull.

It was short, and written in her precise script. She'd been called immediately to attend a conference in Bulgaria, where she'd be representing the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, as something had come up and her supervisor hadn't been able to go. She'd be gone for a few days. Had tried to wait for him to say goodbye, but he'd never showed and she'd had to go.

She hadn't even signed it.

A business trip. That was no big thing. But something about her letter felt different. Most likely, it wasn't all that different but later, when he'd remember this, he'd realize it was his own guilt kicking his arse. Over not being here to see her off today. Over not being there for her much at all during the past few months.

Fuck. Should he owl her? Call her boss or the Bulgarian Ministry and find out where she was staying? They didn't talk much at all in any given week these days, with him running out the door and never home until late, but now, when he couldn't talk to her -- and wasn't even sure she'd want to ... What if she didn't want to even see him again? Or, or, what if, while in Bulgaria, she ran into Viktor, who paid attention to her, and told her he'd miss her the most or whatever, and she just -- stayed there with him?

What if someone else could give her what she needed, and he'd lose her?

The knock on the door only barely kept him from going crazy, and he nearly ran to it. Maybe it was her.

"Hey, Harry -- what's up with you? Look like you were expecting someone else."

"Ron." He could only hope his face didn't fall too obviously as he stepped back to hold the door open. She'd not have knocked, you prat, he thought. "Hullo. Er, come in, mate."

He ran his hands through his hair and took a seat. "What're you doing here so late?"

"Hermione asked me to come and check on the Kneazle. Though, dunno why she asked me when Crooks'd turn round and waddle in the other direction if he saw me." Ron walked into the flat proper and looked around for the aging Crookshanks, finding him stretched out in his cat bed under the window. He nodded. "Right, then. Looks like he's fine." On a sigh, he heaved himself into an armchair. "Enjoying a bit of freedom while Hermione's gone?"

Harry was still trying to process all this. "You knew? She only left me a note. Didn't even sign it."

"Well, you're never home, are you?" Ron shrugged and stretched out his long legs. "Yeah, she popped over to my place and asked if I could check on Crookshanks tonight; make sure he still had food and such. Speaking of which, I'm starving. Have you got anything good?" He got to his feet and walked to the kitchen to root through the refrigerator.

"But -- I'm right here. I can look into the corner and see Crookshanks just as easily as you can."

Ron popped his head up from behind the refrigerator door, swallowing something. "Said she didn't know when you'd be home, so she wanted to make sure Crooks was taken care of for tonight."

"Damn it," he muttered as Ron came over with a sandwich and some crisps. "Why didn't she come find me at work or something?"

"Don't ask me," Ron said with a shrug as he reached for a crisp. "I never know what's going on with her. 'xpect she gets tired of always waiting for you, though. Told me she wanted to say goodbye or something, but you weren't around. Said the trip was sudden, so."

"Yeah, I got that," Harry said, gesturing irritably to the note. "But I would've -- I would've been here, if I'd known."

"She worries about you, mate," Ron said quietly, pausing before he took a drink of butterbeer. "I mean, she talks to me, sometimes, with you always working. Makes you sound like a right git, some of the things she says." He tipped up the bottle and took another long drink. "Which ... dunno. Thought you two were always pretty solid."

"We are solid." Harry straightened and leaned forward. "Always have been."

Ron lifted his brows, then picked up his sandwich. "Might want to ask Hermione if she feels the same," he said, and tucked into his food.

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Hermione's due back today, and the last few days have been torture. Thinking back on them now, he's not sure how he's managed to stay sane. She hasn't answered any of his owls. Ironically, he hasn't buried himself in work the way he did when she was home. He's been much too stressed to take on the extra workload -- and honestly, not knowing how she is or being able to speak with her for four days, he's ready to sod it all just to be with her.

It's unbelievable, really, how much not having her around makes him see how thoroughly he's taken her for granted. And he feels like the biggest prat on the planet because whatever issues he still has, she's the absolute last thing from which he'd ever need to escape. He's only been making things worse by trying to not deal with things, when all he really needs is her.

She's what's kept him from falling into himself all these years, and he doesn't know his life without her.

He lets out a shaky breath and lowers himself to sit right on the ground. He's not been able to sit still since he got here, but all the moving and pacing isn't helping him not to lose his mind with worry, so he might as well conserve his energy. He tucks his legs close to his chest and rests his back against the wall.

When he hears footsteps, he looks up, and his gaze lands right on hers. She's standing across the room, still in her tidy work clothes.

He remains where he is despite wanting to stand and scoop her up. He's halfway certain he's imagined her. Conjured her up as if this were the bloody Room of Requirement, or something. She doesn't say anything either, though, and in his own wishful thinking, she'd have walked to him and told him he'd been worried about nothing. So, yeah. She's real. He gets to his feet.

They haven't yet talked about any of this, and she knows nothing except what he scrawled in his note to her this morning but, for the moment, he can only look at her, a thousand 'Forgive me's on his tongue. He knows they aren't enough, that it's been too long for it to be that easy, but. She's here, and he remembers golden flecks in close brown eyes all over again, remembers precisely cut carrots in his stew and fresh-shampoo hair when she kisses his forehead on her way out before he's up, and he can't imagine how he hasn't always known how much he needs this.

When he's close enough to touch her, he does, just a tentative brush against her shoulder before he trails his hand down her arm to grip her fingers. When their eyes meet again and she steps closer, her expression curious, cautious -- but open, he can't help but believe they'll figure it out.

End

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