Ourselves Behind Ourselves, Concealed

A/N: This is an odd little piece, to be sure. As I'm currently suffering from what can only be called a monstrous case of writer's block (at least when it comes to `Rhythms', my WIP), I've decided to post this. I was browsing through some old files when I realized it wasn't finished. It's a bit disjointed and, by all accounts, rather strange, but I hope you enjoy it! (And no, I'm not exactly positive if the connection between this story, the title, and its summary makes sense to anyone but me.)

Rain streaked down the dirty windowpanes of Grimmauld Place, leaving muddy brown lines down the glass. Outside, the sidewalk was empty. Hermione supposed no one wanted to brave the wet and the humidity. She couldn't blame them. They didn't have anything to worry about; not that they knew of, anyway. Not like she did.

She raised a hand and pressed it against the window, feeling the slight vibrations of the cool glass beneath her palm. Normally she avoided touching windows at all, for fear of smudging it, but these windows seemed interminably filthy anyway. A sigh slid through her lips with practiced ease as she lowered her hand, squinting at the faint, broken reflection of her eyes in the window.

It was an odd thing to look yourself in the eye. This was what everyone saw when they looked at her. That she could relate to. How they felt about her when they caught a glimpse of her face: she was certain that the people who knew her didn't feel… nothing.

She hoped not, anyway.

Mechanically, she rose from the chair, snapping her book closed and moving toward the front door. She wrinkled her nose at the somewhat ominous combinations of complicated locks winding around the doorway, and with a furtive glance around, she turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. Immediately, the rain's patter twined with its own earthy smell; humid air swept into the small foyer where she had been reading.

Rain splashed at her feet, causing water to churn up in tiny bursts on the concrete stairway in front of her. She only stared blankly out at the rain, breathing in the hot, faintly musty smell of wet concrete and the fresh smell of wet grass and window gardens.

“Hermione?”

She could feel him staring incredulously at her. A hot blush swept across her face as she cast her eyes down at her trainers, her hand feeling suddenly clammy around the doorknob.

After a pause, she could feel him move forward, clearing his throat.

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.”

She was still breathing in the smell of the familiar outdoors of the street, almost imagining that she was just a normal person on summer holiday. A normal nobody in a sea of people.

How dreary to be somebody.

Odd. It had been a long time since she'd read anything that wasn't about the Dark Arts, much less poetry. Emily Dickinson, wasn't it?

He cleared his throat again.

“Er—can I do anything for you?”

She was about to say no when she stopped suddenly. The rain increased its rapid descent toward the sidewalk, the swish of its journey growing louder and more frantic.

She turned around, tilting her chin back and staring at him. He jumped slightly, drawing back a fraction, as if he were afraid of being studied. It was a habit she supposed he'd never really gotten rid of.

His glasses had fogged, causing his green eyes to look misty and vague. His hair flopped carelessly about his face, a tousled black mop refusing to be tamed.

She hesitated, then with one quick, fluid movement, she took his hand.

He started, almost imperceptibly withdrawing his hand. After one long second, his fingers closed awkwardly around hers.

For some reason, her heart was pounding like the rain outside.

The rain.

“Would you come outside with me?”

“Outside?” he repeated, frowning in puzzlement. He stared at the rain, then back at her. “But…”

He broke off, his eyes darting down to their joined hands. His, dirty and scarred, and hers, clean and slender.

He hunched his shoulders and shrugged, shuffling his feet.

“Yeah. Okay,” he said uncertainly. “If you're sure.”

She tugged at his hand and pulled him outside. The rain splashed warm and firm down on her head; the puddles rippled around their feet. He squinted, the rain streaking down his glasses and leaving wavy marks on the glass.

They surveyed the road for a moment. The rain was now sliding down her back and cheeks, catching on her eyelashes and causing the world to waver in its gray solidity.

His hand was still embracing hers. She could feel him eyeing her curiously, with furtive, nervous glances that reminded her of the unassuming boy she'd met in her first year on the train.

Her blouse was clinging to her in a wet, damp way, and the cloth seemed to be growing heavier on her shoulders.

The patter filled her ears and her heart.

The streets were filling with rainwater, and all kinds of debris were floating down into the rain gutter. Her hair was plastered to her cheeks.

“Hermione—“

When she turned, he knew he should have remained silent. Her eyes were narrowed slightly to keep the rain out. Even with his glasses covered with water, he could see the faint, pink tinge of her cheeks.

“Never mind,” he said finally, shaking his head. “I—forgot what I was going to say.”

A change in her expression told him that she'd caught his lie.

He hunched over slightly and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. His tangled, sodden mass of hair caught on his fingers.

“This must seem so…” she began, after a pause, “I don't know.”

“Un-Hermione-like?” he suggested, and she smiled faintly.

“Yeah. But—sometimes I just want to be… no one. Do you know what I mean?” She paused, then rushed on, “I mean to say, I know who I am, and I'm not going to deny it, but at the same time… it's nice to forget that I'm—someone with limits—limits that… define what I have to do in order to be me.”

“I know.” And he meant it.

“And the rain makes me feel as though it doesn't have to matter now.”

But then she smiled and squeezed his hand.

“Though I'll never want to stop being your friend.”

He smiled too, unsure of whether he ought to say thank you or simply return the gesture. But she seemed content with his silence and his smile.

That was what was nice about Hermione. She had no expectations for him except the ones she knew he had it in him to achieve; no dreams for him except those that were part of who he was.

Those usually ended up including her, anyway.

The rain was trickling into his slightly open mouth, and he swallowed. The rain tasted fresh and clean, though he knew it probably wasn't.

He looked over at her, and she had tilted her chin back, her faintly glistening lips parted toward the sky. The rain trickled into her open mouth, and she swallowed, her eyes closing.

“Hey.”

When she looked at him, he realized he had nothing to say.

“Erm…”

She moved forward slightly, and he drew back instinctively. Not because he was afraid or because the idea of being closer to her was unpleasant, but because he was still unused to the idea that someone would want to be near him. She drew back too.

“Yes?”

He swallowed again.

“Why?”

She shook her head. “That's a very big question.”

He chuckled half-heartedly. “I just mean—why are you still here?”

She glanced at him and held out her hand. The gray drops of rain chased each other through the lines of her small palm, dripping off her fingertips and splashing onto the stairs.

“Because of you,” she said simply. “My best friend.”

His grip loosened around hers, but she tightened her hold on his hand and faced him directly with a determined look in her eye.

“And because I believe what I'm doing is right,” she added firmly. “And don't give me that look. It's not your fault that things aren't going… as well as we'd hoped they would. It's not.”

He felt his hand move suddenly to her shoulder. He could feel the damp heat slipping past her blouse to his fingers. He stared at her, seeing the surprise in her eyes and curious tilt of her brow.

“I know it's not my fault, really,” he said at last, “It's just I wish you didn't have to be here.”

“I know,” she said softly, “I wish none of us had to be. But while we're here, we might as well make the best of it.”

The curve of her shoulder was slender and firm under his hand. The rain felt somewhat warmer than it had before. An oddly curious feeling had seized his mind as he moved his hand from her shoulder to the smooth, moist skin of her neck; if he strained he could feel her pulse fluttering beneath his fingers. His fingers trailed lightly down her neck, following the steady flow beneath the warm, soft skin there.

“Harry?”

It was a soft, uncertain gasp of a question, but he was vaguely aware that she had drawn nearer to him.

“Sorry— I…”

His hand had moved up her neck to press against her jaw. The rain carried the warmth of her cheek to his hand; he could feel her trembling.

He looked up, and the oddly hazy vision of warm brown eyes wavered before his gaze. Her arms looped around his neck.

This nearness was… rather nice. This was nice.

He could see droplets of rain quivering on the soft, smooth surface of her lips. He felt himself wonder if the rain tasted the same once it fell upon that gentle curve of her mouth…

He let out a breath she tilted her head to the side curiously, allowing him to lean forward and softly press his lips to hers. The vaguely earthy taste of the rain lingered in his mouth; a deliciously warm sensation had suddenly seized his whole body. Her lips moved slowly against his, and they drew apart, gazing at each other through the rain still falling past them. Moments later, she had risen to her toes, kissing him again. The touch of her lips was faint and fleeting, like the rain dancing through his fingers. But he knew his hand framing her face was as real as it could possibly be. His mind reminded him that it was Hermione; his heart promptly replied that of course it was.

She returned to her feet, smiling at him and looking away.

“Oh,” was all he could manage, making her blush. His mind had gone suddenly blank. The feel of her lips lingered on his. The rain continued to trickle down his back, riding on the wind to slide down his face.

“Perhaps I should go inside,” she suggested awkwardly, sounding rather breathless. She turned, but he caught her hand.

“Hermione, you're a right sight better at that then Cho.”

She turned, a shy, incredulous smile spreading slowly across her face.

“Such a way with words, Harry,” she said, shaking her head and blushing again. She returned to stand by his side, brushing away a curl of hair away from her forehead.

“Hermione?”

She turned, nodding and blinking water out of her eyes. “What?”

“D'you mind—if I try that again?”

She looked at him. He smiled, bashfully shuffling his feet.

“I liked it,” he admitted. It was then that Hermione realized how long it had been since his eyes had given that shy twinkle, the one she loved so much.

She reached out and wound her arms around his waist.

“So did I,” she whispered into his ear, her warm breath tickling his damp cheek. “So did I.”

A slight grin crossed his features before he leaned down, kissing her mouth with a sweet awkwardness unhindered by the patter of the rain.

“Then there's a pair of us—don't tell.” Hermione murmured against his mouth. He drew back, looking puzzled.

She smiled, looking rather embarrassed.

“Emily Dickinson,” she said, by way of explanation. “She… was like us.”

When Harry merely looked at her blankly, she smiled and shook her head. “Never mind, Harry. Perhaps I'll show you some other time.”

The door opened, and then closed once more, leaving the rain to shower down on an unoccupied doorstep.

And like the rain, any wizard who happened by would regard it with an impartial eye. It was, after all, a doorstep that belonged to no one.

I'm nobody! Who are you?

Are you nobody, too?

Then there's a pair of us—don't tell!

They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog

To sell your name the livelong day

To an admiring bog

--Emily Dickinson

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