A/N: Here's another chapter… length-wise, it's rather short. But it should give you at least a little something to think about (and, perhaps, rail at me about) until the next chapter.
Chapter Twenty-One
The darkness itself seemed to gleam as flashes sparked the smoky air; cries rent the air like well-sharpened knives clashing in battle. Walls crumbled around him, and a dear voice was weeping, begging for mercy, and a great orange fire roared to life, a great brilliant blaze of light-
Fear seemed more familiar to his body than breath, and he saw those fearsome eyes race closer-a bony, grimy hand extended in mocking welcome- a threatening, ornate stick brandishing like a whip…
He fought to run, but the earth spurted out underneath his feet and would not allow him to move-
And another cry-and that unbearable sense of an end-of something being snuffed out…
Weeds whipped around his legs and pulled him down-far down... and suddenly someone had gripped his hand, seeking to keep him safe-but then he looked again, and the eyes gave a wild flash of triumph, and he yanked his arm away…
"Ben! Ben, listen to me!"
And suddenly his body grew rigid. His eyelids, reluctant to let him leave his nightmare, seemed to be twice as heavy as before.
"Ben-"
And his eyes opened to the faintly yellow glow of a candle. He choked on his own breath, and the tears came at last, almost a relief in their quick, salty warmth.
"Ben."
A soft whisper this time, and he looked up, drawing in great, shuddering breaths and drawing his legs up as if he were in pain, and he was-nightmares had a way of leaving an infection-
A gentle hand swept across his face, and the glow moved to rest on the bedside table. He sobbed into his wrists, for his hands were clenched.
"Here." The bed sank slightly as someone sat on its edge. "Here, Ben, it's all right."
He propped himself up on his elbows. He could not bring himself to sit up completely. Hermione held out her arms, her eyes soft with concern and weariness. He shifted; in a heartbeat he was in her arms, and he was still sobbing breathlessly.
"Oh, Ben," Hermione's hand braced the back of his head as he clung to her tightly, as if she were the sole reason he remained firmly on the ground. "Ben…"
She smelled of vanilla and brown sugar and books, and her hair fell over his shoulder as he felt his sobs leave, replaced by sudden, hiccupping spasms of breath.
"I ran."
He spat out the words, raw and sore, wet and weak. She held him more tightly as he cried out in anguish, "I ran!"
And the tears returned, stinging and fast and thick, like a hurricane. Her arms pressed against him, firm and warm and real, but he still felt as though he were being tossed in a great stormy sea of salt and regret.
He squeezed his eyes tight-remembering the sound of his feet slapping the path and turning on stones. Remembering the mad, animal way he ran, as if his only home were not burning and crumbling behind him. The rhythm of his own breath and the thud of footsteps were the only sounds in his ears-and not the cries of his mother-his mother…
"I ought to have died with them!"
The gleam of light-the cries of pain…
He felt dizzy, detached, half-conscious as he seized fistfuls of Hermione's soft nightgown, slamming his teeth down on his tongue until he tasted blood-blood, oddly metallic, oddly salty-
"I left Mum… I left Adrian… Grandfather…"
He felt himself go limp, his mouth barely forming the words under the torrent of tears streaming over it.
Mum, her wan face and small, pale smile, her cracked, rough hands-a shadow of what she had been, rosy and lively and willowy… her wet coughs, the long, wet coughs that had replaced her soft laughter…
Grandfather, his secret smile, wrinkles of secrets and shadows and wisdom…
Both memories faded, like old photographs, torn by fear and guilt. The reality, Hermione's face, gentle, dimly lit, younger than Grandfather's, younger than Mum's-eyes soft and warm and kind… hair curly and brown and wild-unlike Mum's, soft and graying and yellow.
Ben's fading memory-photographs were all Adrian really had… he hadn't known Mum before the sickness, and Grandfather was the hunched, faltering old man of the secret midnight meetings, held outside in the fading moonlight-and to Adrian, Dad was the stern, sane man who flitted in and out of the house, disappearing for months at a time, but always coming back to ensure that the family was all right.
For Ben was not above altering the pictures Adrian saw.
He hid his face in Hermione's nightgown, seeking the dark warmth that closed eyes and her tight embrace brought. She rocked him back and forth slightly, resting her chin in his hair.
"I woke you up," he found himself mumbling hoarsely, but she made a soft sound at the back of her throat.
"It doesn't bother me."
He opened his eyes, glancing around for the first time. The twisted sheets, the misplaced pillows, the candle on the bedside table.
"How late?"
"It's around one."
He scrubbed his eyes with a fist. Suddenly he felt terribly, terribly tired-guilt was a dull ache that sometimes gained strength, and sometimes hid. He looked at her, and she saw his face, and she helped him lay down again.
"Hermione," he whispered, the word barely escaping his lips, "I left."
She was still sitting on the edge of the bed, hand on his arm, eyes on his. She leaned down and kissed his forehead, steady, familiar, and gentle. The same way she always had, as if knowing this had not changed her feelings a single jot. It was because of this that Ben twined his fingers in hers and whispered, "You stayed with Adrian when he was sick."
She gazed at him, and she seemed to understand.
"Hush. Go on and try to sleep. I'll be here."
Hermione gazed at his damp, pale features and kissed his forehead once more. Her heart ached keenly, and she squeezed his hand tightly.
Who knew behind those placid blue eyes lay a heart so weighed down? She certainly hadn't. But she could see in his face the same look she had seen on Harry's face so many times before-it should have been me. It's because of me.
Harry.
For some reason, her heart quailed, and she mentally looked away.
But that was harder to do than it should have been.
Ben's breathing had slowed, indicating that he was actually sleeping at last.
She gazed at the flickering candle, vaguely aware of how tired she was. She slipped to the floor, reaching for one of the extra pillows lying beside the bed.
Why was it, her mind wondered, that she was so afraid to think of him?
I'm not afraid.
She hugged herself with her free arm, burying her face in the pillow. Harry was the first person she'd run to if she were afraid, so it was absolutely ridiculous to-
But then there was that. There was that security, that feeling of strength around him.
And yet, despite that security, there was a level of uncertainty. There was a lot of that, if Hermione was completely honest with herself.
But why?
Why was it?
She closed her eyes. Friends. Best friends.
Part of her wondered if calling him by that name was just the easy way out. Because she was almost certain that best friends didn't have constant-accusations, she supposed-of marriage or impending marriage. Especially from children and ex-girlfriends. And boyfriends.
But Ron didn't exactly count. He had been an almost in her life. An almost that had become a never. Just like Viktor.
Those were her friends.
But as much as she hated to think it, Ginny had not been an almost. She was. For a good year and a half.
Not that it mattered now. Ginny seemed happy enough only dating every now and then, and she hadn't shown much interest in Harry since.
And Hermione was far too practical to let it bother her.
Really.
That was what she told herself.
But Hermione had never been an almost in Harry's life. She wasn't sure if she had a secure place as an is.
Hermione felt like a constant maybe.
And she hated it.
As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she started violently. She must be tired, to be thinking like that. She glanced up at Ben, who was fast asleep.
She really must give herself some rest soon.
And teach herself not to blush at such clearly foolish thoughts like that.
But then her mind reminded her of all the times that she had looked into his familiar green eyes and wondered. For a fragile, tiny fragment of time, her heart would flutter, and he would smile, and she would go on wondering.
And dwelling on it.
Of course the next morning or the morning after, she would laugh at herself for being so stupid.
But then the thought crossed her mind, familiar but oddly striking. It was as if she had only ever seen its shadow before, and finally she had caught a fleeting glance of the thing itself.
I love him, don't I?
She closed her eyes and let out a breath, feeling herself drop slowly off to sleep. But Hermione had never been one to leave a question unanswered.
So, in reply, one more thought flitted across her mind.
Maybe.
But Hermione didn't register that she was back to seeing only the shadow of the answer.
-->