When I Have Fears

vanillaparchment

Rating: G
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 7
Published: 02/08/2011
Last Updated: 02/08/2011
Status: completed

Truly fearless people are scarce. Those without fears rarely become heroes. It is, after all, our fears that make us courageous.

Chapters

1. untitled

1. untitled

A/N: A scene set in the Deathly Hallows. Where precisely, I'm not entirely sure. This is what happens when I let my poetic side take over. It's sparse but I rather like it. That said, it might not make much sense. I haven't written a one-shot in a while. For the title, I must bow and apologize to Keats, whose beautiful poem `When I Have Fears' is only vaguely related to this piece.

She sat across from him.

That was it. She sat there, a shaft of dusky sunshine across her eyes and the shadow of a pine across her hands. He didn't move.

“Hi,” was all she said. He looked up.

“Hi,” he said back, putting aside the scrap of parchment. He could see scratches on her face, but he said nothing of them. Neither of them ever spoke of their injuries. It was an unspoken agreement, here in this forest. Complaining wore away at their frayed thoughts; complaining sapped them both of energy and willpower—complaining reduced them to frightened children, and they could not afford that.

“You didn't come in and wake me,” she said, her voice soft with reproach. He ducked his head, looking at the earth strewn with pine needles.

“I reckoned you needed the rest.”

“So do you,” she countered, “but… thank you.”

He looked away.

“How's Ron?”

“He's alive,” she said briefly, and he felt those words pierce him like needles. “He'll need time, though.”

“We haven't got time,” he said shortly, “When can he travel?”

“I don't know,” she returned, her expression darkening, “He nearly lost an arm, Harry—“

“And whose fault was that?” he flared up, before he could stop himself. “Wait—Hermione—I'm sorry.”

She had jumped to her feet at that question, turning away from him and taking a few steps away from him. And, guilt hot in the pit of his stomach, he had followed.

He drew closer to her, seeing her shoulders shake in the way they did when she was crying.

“Hermione, I'm sorry.”

“I know,” she choked, turning back around with a tearstained look. “I know. I'm afraid, too.”

Her eyes fixed upon his and he didn't move—he didn't know if he could, with her looking at him like that, as if she could read his every movement and breath.

“We've never been allowed to be afraid, have we?” she murmured.

“No,” he said in a low voice, “we're supposed to be brave.”

She looked down, a jagged sob catching in her throat.

“And what if I'm not?” she asked, and a cloud moved over the sun's face, and cast a shadow across Hermione's bowed head.

He did not know, exactly, what prompted him to hold her in the shadow. But he did, his arms round her and his eyes misty.

“That's okay,” he whispered hoarsely, and she sobbed, and wound her arms around his waist.

The shadow stayed. A wind blew, and the pines rustled. He was vaguely aware that his eyes had closed. He took a deep breath and let it out, and rested his chin on her head.

“Hermione,” he said, slowly, letting her name fall softly from his lips, like a leaf fluttering to the forest floor. She looked up and he saw the glimmer of tears on her cheeks—he felt something brush softly across his mouth and realized he was close enough to feel her breath. She was still crying, and it was the only sound, for he could not say anything more.

He closed his eyes and looked away.

“It's beautiful.”

He looked back at her, unable to believe what she had said. She looked up and around him, her tear-tinged eyes turned toward the shadowy gray sky. A breeze swept past them, and Harry could feel the coming rain on its trail.

The trees stretched tall and strong above them, courageous against the endless sky. They stood united against an eternity of gray.

He did not reply to her and turned his head at the crackling voice of the wireless coming from the tent.

“Harry.”

He turned his eyes away from their dingy white tent and found the brown of her eyes.

“We'll be okay,” she whispered, and she reached up and brushed her hand against his jaw. Unexpectedly, a wisp of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“Yeah?”

Her eyes moved softly across his face, and he felt his cheeks turn warm. And he felt tenderness in her look, tenderness and warmth that gave his heart a strange ache and a strange courage. He met her eyes and his breath caught and his heart stopped.

Her close, tender gaze felt as gentle as a kiss.

“Together,” she said softly. Her fingers matched his and they left the grayness.

Then the rain came, thundering against the trees and the tent and the forest floor.

And to them, it sounded beautiful.

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