Light in the Darkness

Bingblot

Rating: PG
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 13/07/2010
Last Updated: 13/07/2010
Status: completed

She was his light in the darkness... One-shot.

Chapters

1. Light in the Darkness

1. Light in the Darkness

Disclaimer: Nothing having to do with Harry Potter belongs to me, etc etc. Besides which, this is AU so does it look like something JKR would write?

Author’s Note: This is a fic I started writing years ago—and I do mean years, before DH came out—and has been gathering dust on my hard drive until I finally decided to dust it off and finish it. Returning to the time just after OotP and before the nonsense that was HBP or DH ever happened.

Light in the Darkness

“No, please, m-my Lord, please…” The man fell to his knees in front of him. “Kill me but spare my children. Th-they’ve done nothing; they know nothing. P-please let them be.”

The little creatures squawked and cowered, cringing, as they clung to their Mudblood whore of a mother—as if she could save them. As if anything could save them.

Stark terror was clear and heavy in the air—he could almost smell it, the satisfying taste of fear. Ah, yes… Something inside him sighed in satisfaction, a sibilant noise.

A careless flick of his wand. “Crucio.”

One of the little creatures screamed and doubled over on the ground while his mother—pathetic Mudblood fool—shrieked and threw her body over the boy as if it would do any good. It was too late for that now.

He heard himself laughing, the high, cold, cruel laugh, feeling the usual rush of savage exultation at the sound of screams, at the sound of agony.

“No! Please! Not my children! Th- they’re innocent! My Lord, I-I beg you, kill me but not my children!” The man was begging now, sniveling, miserable coward—and that was what love did, he thought contemptuously. Made cowards of everyone, weakened those fools who believed in it, let it rule them, let it ruin them.

“Avada Kedavra.” Another flick of his wand, a flash of green light, and the other of the little creatures was silenced except for the anguished wail of the parents.

Pathetic creatures—they were too easy to break, he thought, abruptly growing bored. There was very little enjoyment to be had in seeing such pathetic weaklings groveling; it was too easy.

“Avada Kedavra!”

And then the room was completely silent aside from the harsh sound of his own breathing, only the slightly burnt tinge to the air that always accompanied a killing, the usual feeling of power. He breathed it in deep, filled his lungs with it, savored it.

Power…

The silence was abruptly broken by a voice, as if from far away, but clear enough to be heard and recognized, a voice he knew.

He felt a surge of malice—that Mudblood twit—he was going to have to deal with her…

Mudblood whore… hurt her… make her cry… kill her…

No!

Sharp, searing pain stabbed through his head, throbbing, burning…

“No! Get… out!”

The strangled roar woke him more fully than the pain had and Harry heaved himself awake, sitting up.

“No,” he gasped out again.

His scar was burning, throbbing, as if someone had tried to cut it out of his forehead with a hot knife.

“Harry?”

Hermione’s hesitant voice brought him back to reality—her voice. He had really heard her voice, recognized it too.

“Harry, are you alright?”

The concern in her voice seemed to reach out to him, warmed him where he’d been cold.

He closed his eyes in a fleeting moment of self-indulgence, let the warmth in her tone soothe him.

He opened his eyes, his gaze falling to his hands and he realized that at some point—in his dream—he had grabbed onto his wand, always kept close at hand.

The murderous, careless flick of the wand…

He hastily dropped his wand as if it had burned him, almost throwing it down.

He felt the shudders beginning somewhere deep inside him—oh God, oh God, oh God…

It wasn’t safe. He wasn’t safe.

“Harry, talk to me. Can I help? Harry?” Her voice was rising, becoming more urgent in her worry and something inside him snapped.

It wasn’t safe. “Leave me alone!”

He heard her sharp intake of breath, knew she flinched and something inside him flinched as well.

“No, Harry.” Her voice was gentle but firm.

He’d been harsh; he knew he’d been harsh, his tone harsher than he’d intended but what stopped him wasn’t that knowledge as much as it was the flicker of anger he felt, anger at her persistence, anger that corroded something inside him, anger that made him want to lash out, made him want to hurt her to make her go--

God, what was he thinking? What was happening to him? To be angry at her for caring about him? To reject her concern so harshly when all she’d done was worry about him?

Wanting to hurt her almost like—almost like he had…

He shuddered again, closing his eyes and turning away. “Go away, Hermione,” he gritted out. “Please, just go away.”

She stepped closer, although he wasn’t sure how he knew that but it was as if something in the air moved along with her, as if he could sense her movements.

“Harry, talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.” Her tone was firm; she left unsaid but he knew she meant it, that she wasn’t leaving until he did tell her what was wrong.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered. “It isn’t safe. I’m not safe to be around.”

“Harry, don’t be an idiot.”

“No!” he burst out, turning around to look at her, close enough now that he could actually see her in the dimness of his room, just make out her features. “You don’t know.” He broke off sharply and then finished, his voice low and edged with bitterness, “You don’t know what I’m like.”

“Yes, I do, Harry. I know you, everything I need to know about you.”

“You don’t know that I’m like him!” he fired back at her and heard her sharp, indrawn breath and flinched at the sound.

He could picture it, could see the horror in the eyes as she shrank back from him, from what he was, what he was capable of being… His entire soul seemed to shudder away from the thought of it.

And in that moment, he knew that he couldn’t bear it if she- if she shrank from him. He could not stand it. Not her—he might be able to bear it if anyone else ran from him but not her, never her…

He knew she should—he wasn’t safe, he couldn’t trust himself—but… But he needed her.

He didn’t dare to look at her, didn’t want to see the horror in her eyes but finally she spoke and he had to look at her then.

“You’re not.” Her voice was low, forceful, compelling. “You’re not like him, Harry. You’re nothing like him, not where it matters.”

If only he could believe her…

“I can feel what he feels. I know what his thoughts are--” he broke off abruptly and then burst out as if the words wouldn’t be contained inside any longer, “I’ve been inside his head and- and it was me doing all he did, watching people die--” He stopped, shuddering slightly, away from her. “He killed a family tonight,” he said, his tone flat, lifeless—not as if he felt nothing but as if he had to contain all he felt or it would simply overwhelm him. “It was as if it was me doing it all. I was the one that used the Unforgivables on them and I felt his enjoyment of it, his contempt of them. I felt it all…”

“No, Harry, you didn’t. That wasn’t you killing those poor people and it wasn’t you feeling that way; it was him, Harry; it was Voldemort. He’s the one who killed them and he’s the one who enjoyed seeing it. Just because he can invade your mind to make you feel his emotions doesn’t mean you really feel that way too.”

“I can’t—I can’t forget it. I felt the power he feels when he kills and…”

She sat down beside him on his bed, gripping his shoulder and turning him to face her until he had to meet her eyes. “Harry, listen to me. That doesn’t make you like him. If you were really like him, you wouldn’t feel this way now about what you saw and felt when Voldemort invaded your mind. If you were really like him, you would be angry at me right now, still.”

She paused for a moment to regain her breath and he knew a momentary flicker of mild surprise—and yet no surprise at all—that she’d guessed exactly why his spurt of anger had died so quickly, why he’d been so horrified to feel angry.

“If you were really like him, you wouldn’t care so much,” she finished, her voice softer, gentler now.

“I wish I didn’t care!” he burst out suddenly, his voice almost angry. “It would be so much easier if I didn’t care!”

“Don’t say that, Harry,” Hermione chided him sharply. “Don’t you dare even think it!” Her voice softened as she finished, “You don’t mean that; you know you don’t mean that.”

He opened his mouth on an automatic protest but then, as quickly as it had come, his frustration died and he slumped. “No, I don’t really mean that. I don’t want to be like him but I think… I’m afraid that I could be like him.”

“No, you couldn’t. You wouldn’t ever be like him, Harry.”

“How can you be so sure of that?”

“Because I know you,” she said simply.

And, somehow, the very simplicity of her words, the directness of her look, carried more conviction, was more persuasive, than any other response could have been.

And for that moment—even if it was just for that moment—he let himself believe her, let himself believe that he truly was different, that he could not ever become like Voldemort. That all he saw in his dreams was not of his doing, all he felt- no, seemed to feel—in those dreams were only projections from Voldemort and not reflections of some darker, inner truth of his character.

He might not trust himself—not completely, not yet—but he trusted her, still, somehow. He wasn’t sure why but somehow he did; he trusted her more than he trusted himself and if she believed in him…

He didn’t say anything more, only sighed wearily.

Hermione was just as silent beside him for a few minutes—and it was a comforting thing, her silence. He’d never thought about it before but there was something comforting about silence, at least at that moment, a silence in which he felt his heartbeat slow, return to a more normal, measured rhythm, a silence in which he felt his body relax. A comforting silence—and her comforting presence.

He didn’t move, sat still, staring at his hands resting on his knees—his innocent hands, he reminded himself. He hadn’t been the one to kill anyone; his hands were clean…

Almost as if she’d sensed his thoughts, Hermione reached over and gave one of his hands a quick squeeze. “I should go,” she said quietly.

His hand abruptly turned, gripping hers, in an automatic, almost instinctive movement. “No, don’t,” he blurted out without thinking about it and it was only belatedly that he realized he really didn’t want her to leave. He didn’t want to be alone again.

“You should try to get some sleep, Harry.”

“No!” His grip on her hand tightened convulsively on the sharp protest and he heard her intake of breath. “No,” he repeated again, more calmly. “I- I don’t want to sleep,” he admitted very softly. “I- I don’t dare go to sleep. It’s always when I’m sleeping when I—when he takes over my mind.” A small convulsive shudder passed through him at the words, the memories, and his grip on her hand tightened. “Stay. Please,” he added, as an afterthought.

She had tensed to stand up but he felt her relax beside him again even before she said quietly, “Okay, I’ll stay.”

He belatedly realized that he was probably crushing her hand and loosened his grip enough so she could slip her hand out of his—but then he sucked in his breath, grabbing her hand again, with more care, so her hand was only resting in his.

Her hand was red from the force of his grip. He had—he had hurt her, he thought, with a surge of self-loathing. “Hermione, I- I’m sorry,” he stammered out.

This time, it was her turn to grip his hand, turning her hand over so she could curl her fingers around his. “It’s alright, Harry. I’m fine, really I am.”

“But I--”

He was cut off abruptly as she interrupted him firmly. “It’s okay, Harry. Really. I’m not that delicate.”

Delicate. The word caught at his mind and he almost smiled. No, delicate was not a word he associated with Hermione. She was clever and determined and loyal and, yes, a little bossy—but not delicate.

And yet… He studied their joined hands, her reddened hand holding his, and for the first time, noticed how… small… her hand was compared to his. Funny, he’d never really noticed before but looking at their hands, Hermione’s did look rather, well, delicate. Hermione wasn’t petite but she wasn’t built like Millicent Bulstrode either.

He had a sudden flash of memory—Hermione, lying on the floor in the Department of Mysteries after being hit by the curse from Dolohov—how still, how pale, how vulnerable she’d looked in that moment. And how he’d panicked so completely at the sight.

With all that, though, it was only in that moment, only on staring at their joined hands, that he fully understood just how… delicate… Hermione could be—how easily she could be hurt. And it was only then that he realized fully what that meant—what she meant—to him.

He was accustomed, half-unconsciously even, of thinking of Ron as being his best friend first, perhaps going back to the First Task in 4th year when Ron had been the thing he would miss the most. Now, he realized that somehow, at some point in the past year and half or so, it had become switched around. And Hermione had become the most important friend he had. Ron was still his best friend but Hermione was… more than that, somehow.

More than that because he needed her so much. More than that because he liked being with her. He liked the comfort he felt with her, liked the understanding he found in her, liked the strength he got from being with her. He liked the way he could talk to her—about his fears and his weaknesses and even his anger—and he really liked the fact that, in spite of that, she was still with him, still believed in him.

On the thought, another question occurred to him. “What are you doing awake at this hour?” He didn’t know exactly what time it was but he knew it must be the middle of the night, both too early and too late for anyone else to be awake.

He sensed rather than saw her slight shrug. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, just thinking about things,” she answered lightly. Too lightly.

“You had a nightmare too,” he said and it wasn’t a question. “What are your nightmares about?”

She hesitated and he felt a small pang of an emotion he couldn’t quite name, a combination of hurt and guilt and regret and concern, at this evidence that she might trust him less than he trusted her, that she might not feel as able to tell him about her nightmares as he was.

“I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I have nightmares about McGonagall telling me I’d failed all my exams?” she ventured, trying to sound humorous but not quite succeeding.

“Your nightmares are the same as your boggart used to be in 3rd year—how consistent of you,” he said, falling in with her attempt at humor, at least for the moment.

He was expecting her to smile, to make some light response, but instead she let out a shaky breath and then admitted, her tone entirely serious now, “Yes, my nightmares are the same as my boggart.”

He turned to stare at her in the dim light cast by her wand point which she’d placed on the floor. That wasn’t right, couldn’t be right—could it? He knew, with absolute certainty, that she wasn’t really having nightmares about failing exams—not now. “Hermione,” he asked carefully, “what did your boggart really turn into?”

There was a moment of silence and then-- “You,” Hermione said, her voice so soft he could barely hear it. “My boggart turned into you.”

You. His heart felt like it stopped and then twisted inside him. He knew what she meant, what she wasn’t saying—what she would not say to him. Her deepest fear—even back in 3rd year—and her nightmares now were of him, either hurt or… or… worse than that. Her fears were for him.

He let out a shuddering breath. “Hermione, I…” he trailed off. What could he say? How could he possibly respond to a revelation like that?

“It’s okay, Harry.”

“No, it’s not,” he burst out automatically. “It’s not okay. It’s… Hermione, I…” He stopped again, mentally scrambling for words—any words—but then gave up and, on a quick impulse, put his arm around her for a hug.

She let out a breath that was half a sigh and returned his hug, burying her face in his shoulder.

He closed his eyes as he held her, felt the warmth of her against him, felt the emotion in the way she clutched him.

And it felt… good… He felt warm and comforted and peaceful and almost… happy… in a way he hadn’t felt in months.

At that moment, even Voldemort seemed very far away, just a remote shadowy presence—and that was perhaps the best thing of all. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel as if Voldemort’s presence lurked behind some hidden curtain in the depths of his mind, didn’t feel as if he needed to tread carefully in his thoughts.

He felt safe. He felt… loved…

His heart stilled a little at the thought.

Hermione cared about him, cared about him a lot. He knew it, felt it, in sudden, precious certainty—Hermione really cared. Amazing, incredible thought—having spent the first 11 years of his life just wanting someone to care about him, it was an amazing thing to know that now, someone did.

And he no longer felt alone.

“What would I do without you?” he asked her, half-idly, drawing back enough to look at her.

She smiled a little. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re stuck with me so I wouldn’t worry about it.”

He put on a mock thoughtful face, pretending to have to ponder it for a while. “Hmm. Well, if you can put up with me for that long, I guess I can put up with you too.”

“Gee, thanks, Harry,” she said wryly before she gave in to the smile tugging at her lips.

He returned her smile with one of his own, a little surprised he even felt like smiling but he found that, at that moment, seeing Hermione’s smile, he couldn’t not smile back.

Her smile was the same, familiar one he’d seen so many times in the past few years—except, somehow, it looked… different… as if he was only now seeing the depth of affection—the love?—she felt.

And then, almost before he’d realized what he was doing or why, he found himself lifting one hand to touch her cheek lightly with his fingertips and leaning in, closing the distance between them. And he kissed her.

Afterwards, he couldn’t exactly explain why. He’d kissed Cho because he’d fancied her and thought she was pretty. He kissed Hermione because… He wasn’t sure why; he only knew he wanted to—amazingly, since before that moment, he would have sworn he only thought of Hermione as a friend. It was something about the warmth in her eyes, something about the curve of her lips as she smiled at him, something about her loyalty and the comfort she’d brought him tonight. It was something about the flood of affection and gratitude he felt, the warmth in his chest combining with his newfound knowledge that someone—Hermione-- really cared about him. And he’d known he wanted to kiss her, wanted to kiss her with an urgency that he never would have expected he would feel about Hermione.

He kissed her—and she kissed him back. It was there in the soft, yielding warmth of her lips, there in the way she leaned closer to him, there in the light, almost tentative, touch of her hand to his face.

Daringly, he touched his tongue to the corner of her lips and then almost gasped as her lips parted and he—oh God—he tasted her, his tongue venturing inside her mouth as he deepened the kiss. He heard her make a soft sound in the back of her throat just before she let her tongue caress his and… and he felt the last of his thoughts dissolve into mist until all he knew, all he was aware of, was that he was kissing Hermione and it was incredible.

He finally drew back, ending the kiss, reluctantly, his breath coming quickly.

Her eyes fluttered open to meet his as she let out her breath in a soft sigh. “Oh…”

And it was a sign of how blank his mind was that just the one word struck him as being perfectly eloquent.

He studied her, the familiar features he knew so well but had never seen quite so close before, realizing that her eyes, which he’d always thought were just brown, had flecks of mahogany and hazel and amber in them. Her eyes were, he thought wonderingly, lovely. She was… “You’re so pretty,” he blurted out rather inanely.

She blinked and then smiled, a small, even shy, smile. “Really?”

“I don’t know why I never noticed it before,” he admitted and then found himself blurting out, “I like you.” And then belatedly wanted to kick himself for saying something so stupid.

Now, she did more than smile; she laughed, a hint of teasing entering her eyes. “I like you too.”

He wanted to tell her that he more than liked her—that he needed her and he cared about her and he was so thankful to have her with him… Wanted to tell her that he… he thought he might love her… But somehow, the words caught in his throat—he wasn’t good with words and talking about emotions and he didn’t know exactly what it was he felt for Hermione, he just knew he liked the feeling.

“I’m glad,” he finally settled for saying, lame as it was.

She smiled again and he kissed her again, briefly—or as brief as he could make it, which wasn’t that brief—because he really couldn’t help it. (He didn’t know how or when it had happened but he could not see Hermione smile now without wanting to kiss her.)

And then she shifted until she could rest her head on his shoulder and he tightened his arm around her and that was nice too. He had never sat with anyone like this, never felt the warm weight of someone leaning against him, never felt that someone trusted him and cared enough to want to lean against him.

He felt warmth fill his chest and realized, belatedly, with some surprise, that he was happy. He was happy—at that moment, with Hermione, he was happy.

He could never have expected it, after a night that had begun with yet another glimpse of Voldemort’s mind, yet another reminder of the strange, unwanted connection of sorts between him and Voldemort. But right now, at this moment, he was happy—and it was because of Hermione.

Not because he’d kissed her and she’d kissed him—ok, not only because he’d kissed her and she’d kissed him—but simply because of her, her affection and her loyalty and her strength. She made him happy. She made him stronger. She made him begin to hope.

She was, he thought, his light in the darkness.

And he was no longer alone.

~The End~