Part Eleven
Later that night, I saw you again at the Burrow. Ginny and I apparated into the back garden, hands linked and smiling. We walked the small distance to the long table lit by floating candles and lanterns. My stomach rumbled; I hadn't eaten very much at lunch. Our family gave a collective cheer at the sight of us, Mrs. Weasley rushing up to give us warm hugs in greeting. We laughed indulgently at the happy tears in her eyes, returning her embrace.
You made yourself busy with pouring the drinks, so adept at avoiding any contact with me. Ron waited until everyone had greeted us before coming over and hugging first me, again, and then his sister. He ruffled her hair, much to her dismay, and laughed at her slightly amused indignation.
At last, everyone settled down enough to sit around the large table. You sat next to Ron, who sat across from me, but your attention was focused entirely elsewhere. You were dutiful in asking Ginny the appropriate questions any best friend would after a honeymoon, and she was eager to answer. Once that conversation tired itself, you moved on to Luna who had also returned from a long trip of hunting Snorkacks. She gave you the usual, dreamy and fantastical responses. I must say it did amuse me so how you had given up trying to correct her, but still held firmly on to your expression of disdain with those lips pursed beneath a furrowed brow.
But I couldn't allow myself to linger on your lips too long. I had realized earlier that day how wrong I was in thinking I could handle you, anything to do with you for very long. Still, I was determined to keep trying, determined to live to see the day when I could linger on your lips without wanting to taste them again.
Maybe it was a hopeless dream, but what else could I do but try?
So I looked away from you, involved myself in Ron and George's Quidditch conversation. I faked a special interest and spoke animatedly about the Cannon's abysmal descent into sporting infamy. It was enough to keep my mind off of you, even if I had to force it.
When undistracted by conversation, my new wife was more than keen to preoccupy me. She would stroke my thigh beneath the table, lean in and whisper sweetly unspeakable things, kiss me softly. I would laugh with her, trying to find the balance of appeasing her and not hurting you, who sat so near, such an unwilling witness.
But every time I tried to catch your eye, you were pointedly looking elsewhere, your slim arms crossed over your chest, a smile forced upon your lips. Oh, your lips again… I felt drawn to them, my eyes tracing the smooth pink curves of them, as much as I willed myself to stay far, far away.
After dessert, everyone remained sitting, enjoying their glasses of wine and beer. You had disappeared earlier and so very quietly so that I very nearly did not notice when you walked away. I kissed Ginny briefly upon the lips before standing to go to the loo. She giggled and squeezed my hand as I walked away, and I heard her turn to Luna with a delighted sigh. Luna's high laugh could be heard over the peaceful chatter that drifted toward me as I entered the house. It was dimly lit but I made my way to the bathroom without error.
I opened the door without knocking and was startled by your presence there, your hands gripping the edge of the sink, your head bowed so that your hair fell into your face, obscuring your reflection in the mirror.
"Oh, I'm sorry," I said quickly, watching as you tensed and looked up to see my own reflection in the glass. Your eyes were red. My heart broke at the sight.
"No, trust me," you said, your voice thick with tears and with a bitter edge. "I'm the one who's sorry."
My brow furrowed, confused. "What does that mean?"
Lifting a hand to wipe the tears from your face, you shook your head silently for a moment. "Nothing," you said and paused to stifle a small sob. "It doesn't mean anything."
In inexplicably physical pain, I took a step forward, nearer to you. "Hermione…"
You cringed away from me, turning to face me, your back against the wall. "What? What do you want from me?"
I stared at you. What could I say? What did I want from you? I stared at you, at a loss for words. I stared at you because I knew everything I wanted from you contradicted itself. And how could I voice that? How could I tell you that I wanted you in my arms at the very moment I wanted to hold you at arms' length? How could I tell you I wanted to make love to you again and then counter that with how I wanted to be able to make love to my wife?
I just stared at you, my eyes naked. In them you could see how I was torn, confused, frightened, pained. And everything in my eyes reflected in yours.
We stared at each other, and though everything was left unspoken, it didn't mean it wasn't communicated. No, we knew exactly what words wouldn't let us reveal. We could see it. We could feel it. And it drove me nearer to you still. Your weak, silent protests were not enough to keep me from wrapping my arms around you. I couldn't not. We were both in pain and in that moment it was more of a torture to keep a distance than to hold you once more. In that moment, I didn't care about anything else. It was only you, me, us.
It didn't take long for you to stop fighting me. Silently, I stood firmly holding you until you relaxed just enough to let the tears continue as they were before my rude interruption. Your small body shook with sobs you tried valiantly to silence, and I welcomed them, holding you tighter, smelling your hair, pressing soft kisses on the top of your head. My own eyes stung, but I controlled it. It was my turn to be strong for you, to hold you up when you felt like you were falling.
My fingers played with the ends of your curls, and eventually, your shaking calmed. You still trembled, softly. But my hold on you would not relax. It was not yet enough. I needed more; I needed you in my arms longer. I just needed to keep feeling you, pressed into me. I needed you to keep needing me.
But you pulled away, your hands against my chest, gently. I looked at you with apparent longing in my eyes. I lifted a hand from your waist to smooth the hair as well as the tears from your flushed face.
The poignant longing was in your eyes too. Odd how I could take comfort in that. And after a moment, though the longing did not leave, a question appeared there, too.
I watched with quiet surprise as you leaned in, reached up to press your lips against mine, so tenderly. A whimper escaped me at the bittersweet touch. You lingered there but dared not intensify the contact. You lingered there and let us feel. Allowed us a stolen moment before you pulled away again and left me standing there, knowing I would give anything to have it back.