Penance

Penance

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Pardonne-nous nos offenses

comme nous pardonnons aussi

à ceux qui nous ont offensés.

---

Harry James Potter lifts his head from its seemingly rightful place in between his weathered hands, surprised to hear another sound in this consecrated room at such an ungodly hour. He turns around vigilantly, gripping tighter the white rosary beads in his hands. He listens to the soft echo of shoes on stone that flickers across the deserted church, and he watches as a dark figure makes her way nearer to him.

“Hermione?”

The young, chestnut-haired woman strides closer, her black heels clicking more briskly and louder now against the cold floor. Her black cloak trails behind her in the heavy air as she stops and stands at the end of the pew where Harry remains.

“I would ask why you’re here of all places, but I somehow know you wouldn’t tell me even if I did,” Hermione says quietly, pulling her black suede gloves off and setting them on the ground before she sits at the end of the pew.

Ignoring the comment entirely, Harry shifts his weight back, until he is against the lining of the pew. “How did you know I was here?” he asks slowly, almost uncomfortably, not bothering to catch her eyes, instead watching as the moonlight streams through the vibrant stained-glass windows above him.

“Do you think I didn’t notice you sneaking out every night?” Impatience coats her words. She walks to the center of the pew and sits next to him, shedding the cloak and her scarf and setting her wand to her side. “You’re about as quiet as an elephant when you come back in and even worse when you leave. You’re quite lucky that my parents are such incomparably good sleepers.”

“Remind me to write that in a thank-you note,” he grumbles back. “And you still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

She leans back against the hard wood of the pew, a worried sort of smile painted on her lips. “Curiosity, I suppose.”

“Hermione Granger is never curious,” Harry chuckles sullenly, finally turning to face the brown-haired witched. “Because Hermione Granger already knows bloody everything.”

“I don’t know why you’re here, Harry.”

A few moments pass by, soundless, save for the hum of summer rains on the roof. Harry looks down at his scuffed shoes before he speaks. “Everyone keeps telling me that it’s not my fault.” He half-mumbles the words, emerald eyes lingering over the empty dais in front of him. “But none of them mean it. Not really.”

“The deaths?”

He nods aimlessly.

“You’re not foolish enough to believe they’re your fault?”

(A shrug)

”Fred…Remus…Tonks…Dobby….even Snape. They died for a cause they believed in, Harry. And you can’t be blamed for their decisions.”

Anger floods his voice. “They died for me.”

“Oh, stop being so self-involved,” she hisses more purposefully than she had intended, pulling the rosary beads from his hands. “Not everything is always about you and your tragic life, Harry Potter. They made the choice to fight and stand up against evil. You can’t take credit for their heroism.”

Harry barely hears her tirade, his eyes still transfixed on the glass beads. “Could you just…?”

“Where did you even get this?” she interrupts, peering at the prayer beads before fingering the delicate glass of the crucifix. “I never had you pegged as an alter boy, Harry, and your relatives never seemed like the charitable Christian sort to be perfectly honest.”

He snatches the rosary beads back, and wipes them on his pants quite violently, as if Hermione’s hands have tainted the white glass “They belonged to my mother. I found them a few days ago when I went into London. The beads were in my mom and dad’s vault at Gringott’s. I don’t really have much from them, you know. So I took them.”

“Is that why you’ve been coming here? Because you found the rosary beads?”

Harry nods absently. “I’d never actually been to a church before. My aunt and uncle didn’t believe in any of it. God, heaven, any sort of afterlife. Said it was all hogwash and the like, and that only the truly foolish would believe in it.”

“But you believe in it?”

“I believe in forgiveness.”

She is still for a moment before she speaks again. “It’s been five days, Harry. Did you really expect that the world would be all sunshine and celebrations in less than a week?” She laughs softly. “Not even God was held to that standard.”

“Mrs. Weasley couldn’t even look at me without crying when I saw her this afternoon,” Harry says soberly. (The rain is falling harder now) “She just sat in the kitchen with her handkerchief, bawling her eyes out until I left the room. It was so terrible that I had to Apparate right back to your house without even saying so much as a hello to Ron.”

Hermione sighs heavily, eyes glistening in the twilight. “She’s been inside the house for days now. They’re all becoming quite worried about her. And Ginny says her father’s not faring much bet…”

“Ginny wrote you?” Harry asks sharply.

By his harsh tone, Hermione knows she’s said too much. “You must understand, Harry…”

“Ginny won’t return my owls.”

It takes all her self control not to slap him. “Her brother just died. And you know close she was with Fred! It’s taken a toll on all the Weasley family. Her entire home is in mourning now. Her parents probably won’t leave the house until the funeral. George hasn’t come out of his room in six days, and Ginny says he won’t even take meals. She’s got much more momentous things on her mind right now than the sorry state of her love life.”

“I know that!” Harry practically growls the words. “It’s just… difficult being so alone.”

Hermione slumps in her seat, noticing for the first time the image of the crying Virgin Mary in the stained glass window panels. “I’m afraid that you’re preaching to the choir.”

“You’ve got Ron,” Harry retorts, lifting and eyebrow.

She chuckles bitterly. “Oh yes. Obviously, since I snogged him senseless right before I realized I might be marching off to my painful and untimely death, we’re now practically married and simply the happiest couple in the world.”

Harry looks at the chocolate-eyed woman with bemusement. “You mean…?”

Even in the dimness of the church, he can see her face flushing to a light vermillion. “Well, obviously the implication is there. And I don’t doubt it’s much more…likely to happen now. But as of yet, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger are still a never-was sort of couple.”

He laughs from embarrassment at his presumption. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m not.” She blushes impossibly darker. “It was something that was quite romantic and lovely in the moment. And sure, I really do…love him. I think. Much more than I personally like to admit, to be truthful. And I don’t doubt Ron and I will be together someday. But after the battle was over and everything was said and done…”

“Things changed.”

---

The young pair sits in silence, listening to the sound of the rain on the roof of the church. Harry notices that her breathing has slowed considerably, matching pace with the steady drop of rainwater from the flood gutters on the church’s steeple to the soggy ground below. Their warm bodies are so close now, closer than he realized as he was speaking with her. Her form is so near to his own that he swears he can feel the soft pitter-patter of her heartbeat resonating through his veins.

“I never believed in forgiveness. I find it’s impossible to forgive myself most of the time. I don’t understand how other people can do it so easily.”

The words spill from her mouth suddenly, and before he’s had time to process their purpose, she has pulled on her cloak, wrapped her scarf around her neck, pulled her gloves onto her delicate fingers, and picked up her wand.

“I shouldn’t have followed you. I’m so sorry. I’ll see you in the morning.” She stands up, hurries to the end of the pew without another glance back, and begins walking hastily to the door of the chapel.

“Hermione, wait! Come back!”

But her footsteps do not cease, instead picking up pace as she nears the wooden exit.

“I never thanked you!”

Hermione’s body stills and then turns around, slightly startled by his sudden leap in volume. Harry is standing now, staring at her with stark intensity. The light shimmering through the stained glass falls on him, casting a blood-red shadow over his person.

“What for?”

Harry moves towards her, cautiously, as if he fears she might run away forever. “You never left me. Even when it seemed like everybody else had abandoned me, you were always right beside me. Nobody else has had enough faith in me to stay. But you always did.”

She smiles despondently, moving closer to the door. He continues his move towards her, and she suddenly feels very much like she is being hunted by a lion. “You’re my best friend, Harry. I’d do anything for you. You’ve always known that.”

(He’s so close that she can smell his sweat)

It’s him who kisses her. Her gloved hand was on the door to the chapel when suddenly he is behind her, around her, tangling his hands in her dizzy hair as he presses his body into hers. She is against the hard wood of the door, fumbling for his cloak as she presses back with a passion he’s seen matched only by the brightest of flames in a bonfire. Her own cloak falls to the floor, forgotten by both parties.

“You smell like rain, Hermione.”

“Harry,” she whispers breathlessly, her hands clinging almost desperately to his robes, pulling the material off his shoulders. (She never knew her name was so beautiful until he’s just said it) His hands wander up and down her sides aimlessly, and he wonders for a moment why he’s never noticed how perfectly she fits inside his arms. “Harry, please.”

“God, Hermione. I’m so in love you.”

He practically growls the short words into her mouth. She stiffens, her heart pounding against her ribs. Slowly, painfully, she pulls away from his lithe body, placing her hand against the door pane as she exhales and shakes her head.

“You’re not in love with me,” she whispers, laughing icily as she wipes a blue tear from her eyes. “I’m such a fool.”

“I am in…”

“Don’t you dare fuck with me.”

(He’s sure never heard her say that word before, and he’s almost sure he’s never heard her speak to him with that tone)

“Why would you…”

“Don’t you remember, Harry?” She’s practically chewing each word with the disdain in her mouth. “I’m the cleverest witch of my age. You simply can’t trick me.”

Her voice drips with a mixture of anger, lust, and something else he can’t quite identify. He can see that she’s freely crying now, the tears staining the lovely blue scarf around her neck and spilling onto her white blouse.

“I told myself it wasn’t a good idea to come here,” she mutters under her breath, her body finally succumbing to the sobs wracking it. She slides down the wall, a muddled heap at the foot of the oak door. “But I thought maybe, just maybe, I could help you figure some things out. I thought…” (Her hand comes up to her soft cheek to brush away stray tears that threaten to slide into her mouth) “It doesn’t really matter what I think, does it?”

He sinks to the dirty floor next to her, watching the lovely girl drown the stone beneath her feet with cold tears. He tries to wrap his arms around her shaking form, but she refuses him, instead crying harder and pushing her body against the door.

“How long have you been in love with me?”

She trembles, tears subsiding as fear replaces anger and sorrow. “Harry…”

“How long?” (It’s not a question anymore. It’s a demand.)

Her hand tugs on the door handle, her arm shaking so terribly that she can barely grip the tarnished brass. (She can’t stand up because she knows she’s going to fall down) “Harry, don’t do this. Not here. Not now.”

“How long, Hermione?”

She turns around, her hair streaked across her cheeks. “Why does it even matter?”

“How long?”

He simply stares into her eyes. She can hardly inhale anymore. (She’s afraid her heart might simply stop beating)

“Third year. Maybe longer.”

His breath is caught in his throat. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

Incredulity clouds her dark eyes, and she turns away from his penetrating gaze. “Because it didn’t matter.”

His hands are on her shoulders, shaking her frail body more forcefully than he had intended. (She’s like a limp doll in his hands) “Of course it mattered! It still matters!”

She is bordering on hysterics now. “Don’t you see, Harry? It’s always been you. It’s always going to be you, no matter how hard I try to pretend it’s not. But it’s never been me, has it? And it’s never going to be me, will it?”

“Hermione, that’s…”

Her voice is no louder than a whisper. “Will it?”

He doesn’t answer her. Instead he presses forward, catching her in a sweet embrace. For a moment, she leans into the kiss, her lips parting ever so slightly as he touches her face with a startling reverence and runs his hand along the length of her spine. She can feel the white glass of the rosary beads on the side of her neck and almost forgets that they are a sign of penance rather than condemnation.

The next thing Harry feels is the sting of being slapped hard across the face. His skin burns terribly, and he groans in pain, watching as Hermione pulls herself off the floor. She drapes her cloak around her shoulders and straightens out her skirt, brushing one last tear from her face before standing resolutely (if not shakily) against the wall.

“No.”

“Hermione…”

“I refuse to be some sort of pity fuck on the dirty floor of a church.”

(Isn’t it a sin to use such foul language in a chapel?)

“I’m going home now.” She is curt, unwavering in her frustration. “I think you’d do best to go to the Burrow tonight. I’ll send over your stuff in the morning.” And with that, Hermione turns on her heel, walking out of the chapel and into the dimness of the nighttime.

---

For a moment, Harry wants to chase her down, wants to bring her back and hold her and touch her until she has no doubt how much she meant to him, how much she truly could mean to him if she’d give him the chance. But something holds the raven-haired man back, fixed on the spot, and he watches as she runs into the darkened, wet street, splashing in murky puddles in her haste until she falls to the side of the road, crying.

He grasps the rosary beads tighter, and kneels in the muddy street.

(He prays that she might know that he was telling the truth.)

---

Et ne nous soumets pas à la tentation

mais délivre-nous du mal.

Amen.

---

Notes: The French is simply the last two lines of the Rosary prayer: “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from Evil. Amen.” I apologize if anything is misspelled/not correctly translated. My French is practically non-existent these days. That being said, I’m fairly certain the translation is accurate.

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