Spin
Rating: PG-13
Books: All seven, minus epilogue.
Disclaimer: Isn't mine. Most unfortunately. No money is being made. Even more unfortunately. The characters are JK Rowling's. The song is Landlocked Blues by Bright Eyes.
Author's Note: Lyrics by Bright Eyes is a lovely tonic for emo-tastic souls. And Harry and I are in the same boat there… so here's the result. Do enjoy!
Summary: The calm before the storm is said to be worse than the storm itself, for in the calm lies anxious confusion and in the storm lies understanding and action. But this is a tale of the aftermath, and the harsh concoction of both extremes and what our hero does with them. Harry's POV.
If you walk away, I'll walk away
First tell me the road you will take
I don't want to risk our paths crossing some day
So you walk that way, I'll walk this way
I watch her quietly, feeling a painful delight each time her brow furrows with frowning concentration. My own work lay uselessly before me on the polished wooden table. I feel no urge to pay it any mind. I barely feel the urge to wonder why I'm even here, most of the time.
The fire crackles in the distance, almost muted entirely by the sleepy, subdued chatter of our fellow students. The Gryffindor common room holds a slight chill on this quiet autumn night, despite the thick, intricate tapestries covering the ancient stone walls. The warmth of the fire doesn't spread as far as I might like, but the flickering shadows it casts over her thoughtful face makes me forget my own discomfort.
She glances up every once in a while; I suppose she feels my unwavering gaze. But she's right there, so close, and when I look at her, I can almost feel her. It's intoxicating.
But he enters the room - the open portrait door welcomes another chilly draft - and he walks to our table, a happy grin on his face. My best friend delights in distracting her, and he leans down to greet her with a kiss. I look away.
Her verbal response is agitated, exasperated, which is, perhaps, the reply he seeks, as he seems entirely unperturbed when he sits next to me. He says hello in my direction almost as an afterthought; it has been this way for a while now. Ever since my reluctance to jump back into life and love - with his sister, of course - right after my victory over Voldemort, our friendship has become nothing short of strained.
I cannot blame him for that, I suppose. He always did have misgivings about my relationship with her, and once I thought him a fool for it. But I was blinded by passion and - as any teenage boy would be - by breasts. If I had a younger sister, I would probably behave very similarly.
I hurt her, I will readily admit it - not that it gives me any pleasure. But at that point, Ginny was tired of waiting. She was hurt by my hesitation, my reluctance, my distance. And so I let her go. She would have been hurt far worse had I continued anything so half-heartedly.
Sometimes I miss her. I miss the intimacy that comes with seeing someone through rose-colored glasses. I miss the affection, the whispers, the sensuality of a kiss or a glance.
But something has shifted inside me. It doesn't have a name. It doesn't make any sense. But something did shift. I changed a great deal that night, just five months ago. I lost a part of me that I had always known but never understood. I also realized how short life really is - not that it ever seemed very long to me. Still, it woke me up, it taught me, it made me see. And nothing can be the same after that.
Ron reaches across the table, grasping for a quill, and in the inside pocket of his robes, a gleam of glass catches my eye. I recognize the bottle, and I want to say something, but what? I am not the only one the war affected. We each handle loss in vastly different ways, and I am glad that he, at least, can sleep at night, even if only for the help of generous doses of fire whiskey.
She sits across from us, oblivious. She immerses herself in her studies; is that her tonic? But I notice how the flickering firelight plays with the scar on her neck from a madwoman's knife. And I notice, too, how every few minutes she reaches to make sure her hair is covering it.
And the future hangs over our heads
And it moves with each current event
Until it falls all around like a cold steady rain
Just stay in when it's looking this way
I find myself still watching, gazing at her openly. It has been happening often, too often, especially since she convinced me to return to school. It hadn't been terribly hard to do. The final battle had brought me relief, but also an unsettling indecision. Where was I to go from there? I had never imagined living to see the ripe old age of eighteen, save for a few brief fantasies at the thought of an Auror career or a life and family with Ginny.
Sure, I could have immediately pursued Auror training. Hell, I probably could have married Ginny. But something held me back. I was suddenly so uncertain when faced with an actual future which was free of prophecies and nightmares and evil masterminds hell-bent on killing me. So I needed a break. I couldn't fight anymore, not yet. But I also didn't know exactly how to live once the dark cloud over my head dissipated.
Many people were, I assume, disappointed in my obvious inaction. Ginny, especially. No one really seemed to understand until Hermione came knocking one day, waking the portraits at Grimmauld Place where I had banished myself weeks after that fateful day. She had looked at my haggard face - stubbled and surrounded by still uncut hair - with a mixture of concern and exasperation. I suppose the outfit of dirty pajamas didn't help my rough appearance.
Immediately and wordlessly, she invited herself in and made her way to the kitchen. Kreacher stopped by a couple of times a week to check in on me, even though I had sent him again to help at Hogwarts. Still, the kitchen was a bit of a mess, but she was able to prepare tea and crumpets while I sat at the table. The delicate frown was present and in place, and I could practically see the thousands of questions forming in her vast mind. For a while, however, the only sound came from her preparations. The click of the stove, boiling water, fingertips brushing the papery cloth of teabags, pouring, the clink of a knife, the scraping of butter. And I just watched.
When she brought the tea to the table, littered with newspapers both magical and Muggle, she set my cup in front of me and sat opposite. Finally, she looked at me again and her gaze was steady.
"I'm going back to Hogwarts," she said at last, with a quiet voice. "I've thought about it for a while now. Even while we traveled. I always planned on going back if we survived and I always planned on asking you to come with me." Here she paused, her eyes still steadily staring into mine. When I made no move to reply, she continued still quietly. "Honestly, Harry," and her voice was sweeter now as she came to grasp mine, "I think it's exactly what you need. You need a year in a familiar place and with familiar people to help you sort it all out."
Her hand tightened and I returned the pressure. Merlin, she was right. She always was. But I didn't know what to say. I lowered my eyes to the table where headlines blazed about ongoing Death Eater activity, which Kingsley was trying to staunch while also taking on the task of cleansing the Ministry. I frowned at the accompanying picture of a magical fire blazing in a Belgian village.
"Harry," she said my name again and my gaze returned to her. "You need this. You deserve this."
And the moon's hanging low in the sky
Forcing everything metal to shine
And the sidewalk holds diamonds like a jewelry store case
They argue walk this way, no, walk this way
Presently, Ron is clearing his throat loudly. My eyes leave her at last, look at him, and he's watching me quizzically. I arch a brow and he looks away, with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. And he's looking at her now. And she looks up. She gives him a small, distracted smile.
And I stand suddenly, my thoughts still churning from my memory. I walk away without a word, without a backward glance; it isn't uncommon; sometimes I just have to leave. I just have to be moving.
Soon I'm gone from Gryffindor Tower altogether, walking the candlelit hallways at an agitated pace. It's getting late, but no one stops me. I suppose saving the world has put me above reproach. No one stops me, but they watch me. They are always watching me. And that drives me outside, into the cold, late autumn air.
The ground is damp from an earlier rain, but clouds linger sparsely in the sky, allowing the full moon to peak through as they drift languidly from horizon to horizon. The breeze ruffles my hair and a sharp pang hits my chest as I face the moonlight, remembering a night so long ago when the same moon turned a trusted friend into a feared foe. The ache in my chest throbs as I remember, unable to resist, the sight of that fallen friend's face, so peaceful in death, lying next to his still and pale wife, who didn't seem lifeless at all with such a vivid pink color in her spiky hair.
I stand on the stone steps, dark and glittering with moisture, and I look out over the grounds. Distantly, I can see a fire smoking in Hagrid's hut, and the rippling lake a little farther beyond. The cold wind carries on, shaking the barren limbs of timeless trees, seeming to carry my thoughts back to the tower and back to the thoughts which had so recently haunted me there.
And Laura's asleep in my bed
As I'm leaving, she wakes up and says
'I dreamed you were carried away on the crest of a wave,
Baby don't go away, please, come here'
I shudder and continue walking. My pace is even more agitated as I walk down the slightly sloping grounds, aimlessly. This has become a regular occurrence for me. With each day I grow more restless, more anxious to leave this place and everyone here - even and maybe especially her.
Why did I let her convince me to return? I knew almost at once that it was a terrible idea, even if she was right in telling me it was what I needed. I did need it, I'm sure, but now I grow weary. Now I want to escape.
I had looked down at her sleeping form, the morning sunshine caressing her peaceful face. I had only seen her so serene once before, and the sight broke my heart in the best and worst of ways.
We had fallen into each other quite unintentionally. Her hand which had earlier grasped mine across the table had somehow made its way to my neck and before that, I had somehow moved to her side of the rough and littered kitchen table, wordlessly confessing how I had truly missed her. The details were fuzzy until we reached my bedroom, where we stripped off our clothes and gave in to each other.
She lay naked to the waist, curled on her side, breathing softly, her brow untroubled. Her body was a wonder to me, something I took a forbidden delight in, something I could not get enough of. I knew better, to be sure. She would be gone soon, of course, satisfied physically but also with the knowledge that she would have another year to spend with me, making sure I was coping properly. Making sure I was present.
I sighed and sat up, rubbing my eyes and grabbing my glasses. Standing, I went to the wardrobe and pulled out some clothes, barely paying any attention to them as I pulled them on. It was as I reached for the shirt that I heard her stir, the sheets rustling with her waking movements.
"Harry?" she said, her voice thick with sleep, and I turned to look at her. She was moving to sit up and modestly reaching to cover her bare breasts with the white sheet. "What are you doing?"
I just looked at her hopelessly, shrugged my shoulders. What was I doing? I never knew what I was doing.
She let the sheet fall, exposing herself again to me as she extended her arms in a plaintive gesture. "Don't leave. Come back to me."
What could I do but acquiesce? What could I do but indulge in her and us while she was still here?
And there's kids playing guns in the street
And one's pointing his tree branch at me
So I put my hands up, say 'enough is enough,
If you walk away, I'll walk away'
And he shot me dead
If Ron knew, it would be nothing short of a disaster. It wouldn't help at all if he realized that it probably wouldn't have happened at all, had it not been for him. His hateful words and cruel departure had left us both alone, driven closer together. In so many ways, I both love him and hate him for this act.
Almost as soon as it happened, he had returned, and it is only now that I fully regret all that wasted time. She and I never had a chance to discuss what we shared that day, but instead formed a silent agreement to never share the experience with anyone, even each other. Indeed, it remained nearly entirely unacknowledged until that unexpected summer visit.
Ron was already at odds with me, seeing as how Ginny and I didn't work out, and she suddenly seemed to favor the company of our childhood enemy, Draco Malfoy.
Whenever he does talk to me, the conversation is short and trivial. Our longest exchanges happen only on the Quidditch pitch, and they are occasionally heated. For Hermione, we try to keep civil tongues. We don't want to disrupt her and the salvation she finds in her studies. She means too much now, to both of us.
It pains me that my best friend treats me so. But it also pains me to know how I betrayed him. Still, a part of me - and I hate to admit it - doesn't quite see it as betrayal. He had left us, and we had found comfort in each other. It was only natural. She wasn't a possession, and even if she were, was she really his? Does she not belong to both of us?
But he had a claim on her that I only came close to a few times. I had had her, felt her, loved her, but nothing could ever be said. And it pains me.
I found a liquid cure
For my landlocked blues
It'll pass away like a slow parade
It's leaving but I don't know how soon
Sometimes it is all I can do to keep from telling her about his secret affair with whiskey. Certainly, she would disapprove, but what would it accomplish, besides a stern reprimand and even harsher feelings? Would it make her come to me again? Would it make her come for me again? Would it make her love me?
And who am I to tarnish the very thing that gets him by? He isn't a drunk; he's a man lost, just like me, battling demons few can comprehend.
And who am I to tarnish her faith in the one who unknowingly dashed mine? She is just a woman, hoping for a future that seemed so improbable not so long ago.
But who are they to live so obnoxiously in their world of self-indulgent delusions, making reality even more difficult to bear for me, their best friend. Who is he to hate me for doing what I thought best in order to spare his sister and family years of uncertainty, secrets, distance, lies? Who is she to revel in my affectionate company and leave without a word to return to him?
What am I to her? I hardly know. She shares something with me that far exceeds what she or I share with him. Should that not tell her something? Where was he when she was crying herself to sleep every night, confused and abandoned? Where was he when I faced the physical proof of my family's mortality, grief-stricken and weary?
What would I have done without her? What would she have done without me?
And the world's got me dizzy again
You'd think after 22 years I'd be used to the spin
And it only gets worse when I stay in one place
So I'm always pacing around or walking away
I'm at the lake now, staring into its black depths. I stand there and my mind is reeling, overcome. What I wouldn't give for a Pensieve of my own right now. Maybe I could forget everything, forget her, for a while. But that thought, too, unsettles me. What I wouldn't give to remember her with even more, painful clarity.
Overwrought, I take a seat beneath the naked beech tree, close to the shore. My robes aren't warm enough for the chilly air, but I can't go back, not yet. I sit and fidget with the cuffs of my sleeves, but soon I'm up again, and I'm pacing. I'm shaking.
Why am I here? Why did I return? What's the fucking point?
Every day, I live in torture. My heart is scattered, shredded. I want to touch her, run from her. I want to take up my wand and join the Aurors. But I want to run away, run away from this world I helped save.
She would not approve of my desire to escape. I can see her frowning, as if she were standing before me now. She might even tell me to grow up, buck up, and learn to live the peaceful life I have always strived for. She would be right. She always is.
This castle is my home and my hell. I turn away from the lake, stare up at the stone walls which hold my best and worst memories within. I want to run back into its warm, candlelit and laughter-filled embrace. I want to turn and run away from the screaming visions of its recent past.
But instead I walk toward it again. How can I not? This place and its people made me who I am, and I must return. I must return to see how it will shape who I'm becoming.
I keep drinking the ink from my pen
And I'm balancing history books up on my head
But it all boils down to one quotable phrase
If you love something, give it away
As I reach to push open the great oak front doors, there she is. She looks worried, which happens too often. I blink, my eyes adjusting to the candle light within, which surrounds her like a halo, magnifying the frizziness of her rebellious hair. She breathes my name. I walk past her. My pace is no longer agitated. I'm tired and I walk slower than usual, silently allowing her to follow.
"Harry," she says again, and though her voice is quiet it almost echoes off the stone walls of the entrance hall. She follows me and I'm nearing the stairs. "Are you okay?"
"Of course," I say, and I know she knows I'm lying. Maybe that's why I don't feel any guilt about it.
She only sighs as we mount the steps, but her queries have yet to cease. "Where did you go?"
"For a walk," I respond, shortly. It's the same questions and the same answers every time. When would it stop?
"Won't you tell me what's wrong?" she asks as we approach the landing. "You never talk to me anymore."
I snort derisively, not daring to look at her, shaking my head. I can feel her indignation, her hurt eyes staring at me even before she grabs my arm, whirls me about to face her. Indeed, those brown eyes are pained, offended. "What do you want me to say?" I ask.
Her eyes narrow a fraction, her brow knits together with frustration. It is a loaded, indecisive moment before she speaks, but when she does, I can hear a small note of irritation in her voice. It doesn't please me at all. "I want you to speak honestly, like you used to. Isn't that what you expect from friends?"
A good woman will pick you apart
A box full of suggestions for your possible heart
But you may be offended, I know I was afraid
But don't walk away, don't walk away
I look away from her, unable to stand her gaze any longer. It's too intense. Her hand lingers on my arm, she's standing too close. But I don't move away. I can't move away. And words don't come to mind or mouth, so she continues.
"You came here to sort it all out," she says, and her tone is slightly softer now. "How can you do that all alone? Don't you need me anymore?"
At this, I do move away. I pull my arm from her grasp and I take the second flight of stairs, a little faster. I have to get away. Her words anger me and my fuse is short. There's no telling what I might say or do. And I'm too tired, too lost to hold back for very long.
"Harry!" she calls, sharply, following me. "What is going on? Why are you always running from me?"
Half-way up the stairs and I turn on my heel to glare at her, just two steps below. I feel fury pulsing in my veins. Her audacity appalls me, stabs at me. "I am not the one running, Hermione. I came back, didn't I? I have endured months…" I shake my head, stopping myself. "Aren't you satisfied?"
"Satisfied?" she asks, incredulous. She takes the next two steps to stand level with me, after a moment of stunned immobility. "Satisfied with your distance? With your silence? Yes, you came back, but for what? You make little effort with your studies. You make little effort with your friendships!" Her angry breath is shaky, her lips tremble, and she takes a moment to calm herself. "You make little effort with me."
It is my turn to be incredulous. I stare at her, amazed. I shake my head and release a humorless laugh. "What more can I do?"
And I see the thoughts racing, and emotion chases after it. Her face almost crumples, but she refuses to give in. She stares at me, at a loss. She doesn't know what to say. She doesn't know what to do. So all she can do is stare. All she can do is watch as I turn again and retreat from her oppressive silence.
We made love on the living room floor
With the noise in the background of a televised war
And in the deafening pleasure, I thought I heard someone say
'If we walk away, they'll walk away'
A while later, I lie awake in my bed. This, too, has become a habit of mine. Sleep is evasive when it isn't tormented. The sleeping sounds of my roommates - Ron's snores loudest of all - are oddly comforting, despite how I covet their rest. I simply stare at the dark ceiling, not knowing someone has entered the room until the curtains of my four poster bed move and the mattress shifts with the weight. I know who it is, though any noise she makes is drowned out by snores and shifts.
"Silencio," she whispers, so softly, casting the charm on the bed and its burgundy curtains. She doesn't make another noise, not even to greet me, as she adjusts herself and finally settles beside me.
I refuse to look at her, so sure it would be my undoing, even as she speaks again. "I can't sleep," she says quietly.
"What should I do about it?" I ask, not entirely unkindly. And I keep staring at that ceiling.
"Harry," she sighs. "Please. I'm trying here." There's a pause and she's not looking at me anymore. Her knees are pressed against her chest and her arms are wrapped around them and she's staring into the darkness. "I miss you," she says at last.
"What do you want from me?" I ask, barely a whisper.
Her hand runs through her frantic hair. She doesn't know how to answer. She doesn't know what she wants. And so she speaks of other things, long past. "Remember that night, after he came back?" she whispers, as if she hadn't placed a silencing charm on the bed. "I can't stop thinking about it. The way the radio played loudly, static and words filling our ears as you kissed me. Did it feel like goodbye to you, too?"
I'm silent. Yes, I remember that. How could I forget? The look in her sad eyes has haunted me since and my arms still ache as they did that night, ache to keep her locked in them forever. "Yes," I say, almost silently.
But greed is a bottomless pit
And our freedom's a joke
We're just taking a piss
And the whole world must watch the sad comic display
If you're still free, start running away
Cause we're coming for you!
It wasn't goodbye. But it always felt that way with her. Even now as her lips find mine, I am realizing that this could be it. Maybe this is the goodbye we've always felt. Maybe this time we won't return to each other. Oh, what if this is it? How can I refuse her if this is our last?
And so I give in, greedily. My hunger for her has never waned. And I'm kissing her, grabbing her, stripping her. And if this is wrong, the flames of hell are delicious, addictive, and I can't get enough. As ever, I am a slave to her. I cannot resist, I cannot get enough.
She is a wonder to me. For so long, I took her for granted. I imagined her immortal and constant. Well, she had been. For so long, I overlooked her. I loved her, I'm sure, but I never looked at her until I looked at her. That cold winter day, how it is scorched into my memory. The shivering closeness of our bodies huddled under blankets and barely warmed by her trademark, bluebell flames. Sunlight barely touched our tent through the thick trees in the Forest of Dean and the snow that piled around it. All we had was each other.
We reveled in each other, in our warmth and the sensation. Her body wrapped around mine, hot and pulsating, kissing and grasping, tensing and arching. She woke me up.
And now here we are, giving into each other again. She is just as greedy as me, her lips and hands exploring me as mine explore her. My resistance is utterly shattered, she has me again. There is no escaping.
I've grown tired of holding this pose
I feel more like a stranger each time I come home
So I'm making a deal with the devils of fame
Saying 'let me walk away, please'
My brief slumber is troubled, and I wake exhausted and dazed. I'm warm and my limbs are entwined with hers. I look at her and my heart throbs and she's sleeping, oblivious. I sigh. I reach and run my hand through her hair, over her serene face. She doesn't stir. Her breathing is steady, her breast rises and falls.
What am I going to do when she wakes and it really is goodbye? What will I do when she walks away?
I remove my hand from her face and run it through my own hair. I'm staring at the ceiling again, feeling the crushing weight of hopelessness.
There's no other option available. I must leave. I must escape. I can't do this again. I can't watch her leave again. I'll be the one to go. I'll be the one to make sure it's goodbye, finally. There will be no return.
You'll be free, child, once you have died
From the shackles of language and measurable time
Then we can trade places, play musical graves
Till then, walk away, walk away
I lie there, determined but unable to move. I'm not yet ready to leave her embrace. I'm willing to torture myself by absorbing every last moment with her, inhaling her warmth, soaking in her sleeping limbs. It's all I can do now, it's all I have. Soon, I'll be left only with her memory. And, as memories are inclined to do, she will eventually fade.
So I lap it up as my heart tenses and my eyes sting. I gently kiss her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, her lips. She continues to sleep. And I stroke her arm. I bring her hand to my lips, kiss her palm. Silently, I thank her for everything she has done. Silently, I worship her for being my rock, my ailment, my cure.
Silently, I watch her untroubled face, and silently I say goodbye.
So I'm up at dawn,
Putting on my shoes,
I just want to make a clean escape
I'm leaving but I don't know where to
I know I'm leaving but I don't know where to
The sun peaks through the window and the snoring of my fellows continues. I can't wait any longer. Gently, I remove her leg from mine. And I hold my breath as I pull her hand away from my chest, moving away from her as quietly as possible. Out of her arms, I look at her again, aided slightly by the blue-green tint of the sunrise.
I reach for my discarded pajama bottoms, pull them on. And then I'm beyond the curtains, digging in my trunk for Muggle clothing. I plan to take very little with me. I find myself caring very little for whatever may happen to the things I'll leave behind. I dress as quietly as possible, but my hands are shaking and my throat feels constricted. Breathing is painful and I haven't even left the room.
I pack my shabby rucksack with extra clothes, the moleskin pouch filled with useless treasures, money, a couple of books. As I stand at the foot of the bed, I let the realization sink in. I'm leaving. I'm leaving now and for good.
A pang of anxiety hits me then, and I realize I've forgotten something. After a few confused moments, it hits me - my wand. I groan almost silently, return to the curtain's opening. Barely disturbing them, I reach in to grasp under my pillow for it. But a hand catches mine, pulls at me. I climb back in, wary of waking anyone.
Her eyes are red with sleep, but somehow alert. She's frowning and all traces of serenity have vanished. She makes no move to cover her naked body, but continues to grasp my hand. Soon, she's pulling me closer, her arms wrapping around my neck tightly.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
Finally, finally I have an answer to give. "I'm leaving."
Her grasp tightens and she shakes. "Harry," she breathes in my ear, and I feel compelled to fall into her again. I close my eyes tightly. I must resist. "Don't leave me again," she says.
"What else am I to do?" I ask her, taking her arms in my hands and detaching her. Still, I don't let go.
Tears well in her eyes as she stares at me. She is silent for a few, long moments, and she looks away as one of those tears makes its escape, quickly fleeing, its trail streaking down her cheek, shining and melancholy. The sunlight is yellowing. I need to be going. But as I release her and grab my wand, resolving to turn my back on her, she speaks.
"Take me with you," she whispers. And I look at her, surprised.
"You don't mean that," I say, after a stunned moment. "Why would you leave Hogwarts? Why would you leave him?"
"Don't you see, Harry?" she whispers, reaching for me again. Her ink-stained hand strokes my face, and I lose myself in it. "You… You are everything to me. I can't say goodbye to you. I cannot let you go."
Her words echo in my head. I close my eyes to hear them again, and again. And I shake. And my hand reaches to cover hers upon my face. Slowly, my eyes open and I look at her. Another tear has fallen, and I pull her close and I kiss the glistening path. Words escape me, as they so often do when she is near. So I kiss her instead, in greeting, in surrender, in acceptance.
She kisses me, too, gently. And when she pulls away, there's a small smile on her lips. We stare at each other and we revel in it. The orange light of the risen sun illuminates the room and our two figures, sitting on our knees upon the bed of my adolescence, ready at last to abandon all that was before for the sake of what could be.
At last, she speaks, and her voice is as soft as her hand which has traveled to my messy hair. "Where are we going?" she asks.
I laugh a little, kiss her again and briefly. "I don't know."