An angsty fic (sorry!)
A torrential rainstorm drove them to find shelter.
Hermione half-stumbled, momentarily losing her footing, and Harry hauled her up against his side, keeping his arm around her as he peered through the downpour. He squinted, thankful for Hermione’s foresight on seeing the darkening clouds a little while ago to cast the spell on his glasses that kept them clear of rain, focusing on what looked like a dark gash in the hillside.
He was too out of breath to say much but he lifted his arm to point at it. “Look!”
With Hermione, he knew he didn’t need to say anything more and they changed direction almost in unison to head towards what he fervently hoped would be a cave. He had the fleeting thought, not for the first time, how… easy… it was to work with Hermione like this. It was probably the only easy thing about this entire bloody year so he appreciated it even more, the way he and Hermione could act and function almost as one, a team, without argument and often without the necessity of many words.
It was a cave. Tall enough that they could both stand without stooping, although he could reach up and touch the top of it easily, and deep enough to remain dry through the downpour.
They both almost stumbled inside and felt the immediate relief from being in shelter. They might themselves not be soaking wet-again, thanks to Hermione’s foresight-but it still didn’t make it much more pleasant to be out in the rain.
Harry busied himself putting up the protective spells they always used while Hermione cast a warming spell on the cave against the chill in the March air and then conjured up what looked like a clear glass globe filled with what appeared to be flickering flames to illuminate the cave. He turned back to see her using another spell to keep it hovering in the air and gave her a brief smile. “Nice.”
A fleeting expression of surprise mingled with pleasure crossed her face. “Thanks.”
He was suddenly vaguely ashamed. Did he say something positive to her so rarely that she would look so surprised at a compliment, mild as it was? Surely she knew-she had to know-how much he appreciated that she was there with him, that she had stayed with him. Especially since Ron… had left-as always, he mentally flinched a little at the thought of Ron-but the fact remained that since then, every day, it seemed to mean more and more to him that she had stayed with him, that he wasn’t alone now.
He might not feel like he had managed to do all that much-just staying alive until now seemed like the only thing he’d really accomplished at all and that only with a lot of help from Hermione-and he was painfully aware that he didn’t really know what he was doing. But with all that, he knew that it would be ten thousand, a million, infinitely worse if he were alone, if he didn’t have Hermione. And he was grateful. With every day, he was more grateful. He was terrified that Hermione, too, would leave him, would realize that she didn’t need to be here, going through so much for the sake of an idiot like him. Terrified-and so grateful he didn’t think he’d ever be able to tell her how much and knew he could never make it up to her either.
They each settled down on either side of the cave. It wasn’t very wide but it was wide enough that a foot or so of space remained between them when they were seated.
They didn’t have much in the way of food left, he knew, but she tossed him a couple granola bars and they each ate two in silence, both of them staring out at the rain and the deepening gloom of twilight settling over the Pennines.
He glanced at her, noting that she looked thoughtful but not sad. He was glad of that. Sadness almost seemed to have been etched onto her face after R-well, for weeks now. When she wasn’t otherwise guarding her expression, she’d looked sad and it had hurt to see it and oddly, seeing how upset she was over Ron’s leaving had started to bother him more than his own emotions when he thought of Ron. (For once, the stab of pain at the thought of Ron felt somehow dulled.) But the silence now was just comfortable, companionable. And maybe it was something about the enforced intimacy of it-being in a cave with the rain pouring down outside, combined with the pleasant warmth of the cave thanks to Hermione’s warming spell and the sense that, at least for now, they were probably relatively safe-but he found himself relaxing a little. Relaxing more than he had in days, even weeks. The sound of the rain was oddly soothing in its steady monotony.
It was dark enough outside now that he could no longer see anything of the landscape or anything much beyond the mouth of the cave so he turned his gaze inward, looking around the cave. The stone floor was uneven but not terribly so and generally flat so it would serve their purposes nicely for the night.
He heard her sigh and glanced at her. “What is it?” he asked quietly.
She glanced at him and tried for a slight smile but only succeeded in looking wistful. “I just remembered that my parents used to talk about coming up here on holiday some time. My mum wanted to see the Peaks and the Lake District.”
His heart suddenly hurt, both at the mention of her parents and at the expression on her face. And even though he almost never spoke about or so much as allowed himself to think about a time after the War, even though he could barely think ahead to the next day, he found himself saying, “After this is all over, you and your parents should take a holiday here. It is really pretty.” He had to comfort her somehow.
Her lips trembled slightly and he knew she was wondering if they would even have an “after the War” to plan for, but all she said was, “You’re right, we should. I’ll suggest it to them,” and she even managed a faint smile.
And her courage, her strength, at that moment took his breath away, just awed him. When they both knew that she might never see her parents again…
And he wanted to tell her that she was the bravest and the strongest person he’d ever met. That he was so grateful to her for staying with him. That he didn’t know what he would do without her.
But the words stuck in his throat. He didn’t know how to say it, how to put words to all the emotions suddenly churning inside him.
All he could say, all he did say, at that moment was, “You look tired. Why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll keep watch and I think we should be all right here for the night.”
She looked at him, her eyes soft, and he had the odd sense that she somehow understood at least some of what he wanted to say even without his saying it. And after all, maybe she did. She so often seemed to have the knack of reading his thoughts.
She pulled out a blanket from her pack and curled up in it, using her pack as a pillow, once she’d used a spell to make it feel soft. “G’night, Harry.”
“Good night.”
She really was tired, he realized. She fell asleep almost from the moment her head rested on her pack.
After a moment, he used his wand to dim the light from Hermione’s globe, both so as not to disturb Hermione’s sleep and also to avoid the light serving as a beacon to anyone who might be outside. That done, he found himself studying Hermione as she slept.
He had said she looked tired without really thinking about it and because he knew she was tired. They both were. But now, looking at her, he noted the shadows under her eyes, the evidence of sleepless nights. And-his eyes narrowed a little-it looked like she had lost weight with these past few months of constantly being on the run. There were hollows in her cheeks he had not seen before.
Just a few minutes ago, he’d been amazed at her strength. Now, oddly, looking at her, he was suddenly struck by her fragility. In sleep, her expression softened, her strength of mind and will not as apparent, she looked… smaller, somehow. Vulnerable in a way that he wasn’t used to seeing, a word he never really associated with Hermione.
He felt a swell of emotion in his chest, protectiveness and affection and sympathy and loyalty all amounting to a tenderness deeper and stronger than anything he ever remembered feeling before, for anyone. It was so deep and so strong, it was, well, frightening. Frightening and confusing.
Hermione was his best friend. Only his best friend. And-in spite of everything-so was Ron. For what felt like the first time in weeks, he found himself deliberately thinking about Ron, remembering all they’d been through, Ron’s humor and his blunt honesty and his loyalty-and tried not to wince at the word. Of course Ron was still his best friend.
And-as if the thought of Ron naturally brought her to mind-Ginny was… something else. His ex-girlfriend, his friend-he supposed she was still his friend-his… dream… She was a wish, a fantasy he turned to for comfort when the reality of the war felt too heavy for him.
Suddenly, rather inconsequentially, he found himself remembering visiting Godric’s Hollow, visiting his parents’ graves-and remembering the way he’d cried, with a sort of wonder that hadn’t occurred to him at the time, preoccupied as he had been with everything else. Remembered-and tried to imagine visiting Godric’s Hollow with anyone else-with Ginny-tried to imagine being able to cry like that, just… grieve… openly and without a second’s thought, with anyone else around. He couldn’t imagine it. He would not-he could not-have cried in front of Ron-or Ginny. He knew that. Knew he would never have wanted Ginny to see him like that. Hermione was… different. It never even occurred to him to worry about looking weak or uncertain or afraid in front of Hermione.
Of course, he reasoned, Ginny was-had been-his girlfriend. Naturally, he would care more about what she thought of him than what his best friend thought. Of course he would worry more about Ginny thinking he was weak than if Hermione thought the same thing.
Except… he didn’t worry about Hermione thinking he was weak or anything like that. He didn’t worry because he already knew she wouldn’t. He wasn’t so certain about Ginny or what she would thi-he cut off the thought, refusing to even finish the sentence in his mind, suddenly feeling rather as if he’d betrayed Ginny by even thinking that about her, by doubting her like that. Ginny wouldn’t-Ginny cared about him, believed in him.
Feeling as if he needed to, for… reassurance… or something… he tried, he really, deliberately tried, to remember all he had once felt-all he did feel, he corrected himself quickly-for Ginny. Remembered watching her, wanting to see her smile and hear her laugh, remembered kissing her… And he remembered how he’d felt when he’d broken up with her, the look on her face. He cared about Ginny, he knew he did.
And yet… he could not remember ever feeling this same surge of emotion for her, when he was with her, as he had just now for Hermione.
But that was wrong! He knew that was wrong. Whatever Hermione was to him-his best friend, his comrade-in-arms, his companion, his support-she could not be-he could not-he should not- care more for her than he did for Ginny.
But maybe he did, a small voice whispered somewhere in the back of his consciousness-and he almost physically recoiled from the thought, his head jerking as he mentally backed away from the suggestion.
Suddenly restless-clearly, sitting still and thinking… things… wasn’t good for him-he stood up hurriedly, going to the mouth of the cave to peer outside into the darkness. It was still raining and showed no sign of letting up. He would have stepped outside-thanks to Hermione, he wouldn’t get wet-but he had set up the wards right at the mouth of the cave so going outside would mean going beyond the wards and he wasn’t inclined to be that reckless.
He heard a soft noise behind him and turned to see that Hermione had shifted a little in her sleep, moving one of her hands to rest before her pack, her fingers slightly curled. A faint frown crossed her face, as if even in her sleep she was worried about something, and he took an automatic step back towards her. But then after a moment, she let out a soft sigh and the frown cleared and he relaxed, feeling another dangerous rush of warmth in his chest.
He tried to shove the emotion away, turning away and pacing inside the cave. Deliberately, he counted his steps with as much concentration as if he would later be tested on it-eight steps from the mouth of the cave to where he now stood, four steps from one side of the cave to the other. He turned his steps to pace deeper into the cave. His step hitched as he frowned a little and then tightened his grip on his wand.
The back of the cave that, at first glance, had looked solid, had a break in it, mostly hidden by an uneven spur of rock. Slowly, keeping a good grip on his wand, he approached the gap in the wall, what had begun as idle curiosity deepening as he realized that the gap in the wall was deeper than he’d thought. It looked like-it did lead into another smaller cavern.
“Lumos,” he murmured.
He had to turn sideways to sidle through the gap in the cave wall before the space widened, allowing him to move forward and see into the rest of the cavern-and froze.
He swore he could feel his body ceasing to function, his mind recoiling, shutting down. He was vaguely aware of hearing a hoarse, strangled sound halfway between a cry and a sob, the sound wrenched from his vitals. Of a sharp clatter as his wand fell from his suddenly nerveless hand.
And that was when his knees-not just his knees, his entire body-gave way, his bones seeming to turn into ice water, and he just… crumbled, collapsing onto the stone floor.
No! It wasn’t possible!
Some dim corner of his mind tried to struggle past the soul-numbing horror and grief but it was no match for the visceral immediacy of what his eyes saw.
It was Hermione. And she was dead. Lying there on the ground, her lips slightly parted as if in surprise, a thin trickle of blood coming from her mouth, making a vivid red slash against the pallor of her cheek. And her eyes-oh God, her eyes… that was the worst of it. He was riveted to her eyes, could not look away even as his entire soul shuddered and seemed to shrivel and die inside him at the sight. Her eyes were open, wide and blank and staring sightlessly. She was… gone… All of her, all the things that made Hermione Hermione, were just… gone… All her cleverness, her determination, her courage-her kindness and the warmth of affection-the strength of her belief in him-the sly, surprising sparks of humor and laughter that lit her eyes when she teased him… All of it, all that he loved about her… she was… gone…
And so was he.
It was the only thought remaining in his otherwise blank mind. It was… over, done. He was over. Done. That was it. The end of… everything. Of trying, of fighting, of… surviving… The end of hoping.
It was over. He was finished.
...
Hermione half-stumbled, momentarily losing her footing, and Harry hauled her up against his side, keeping his arm around her as he peered through the downpour. He squinted, thankful for Hermione’s foresight on seeing the darkening clouds a little while ago to cast the spell on his glasses that kept them clear of rain, focusing on what looked like a dark gash in the hillside.
He was too out of breath to say much but he lifted his arm to point at it. “Look!”
With Hermione, he knew he didn’t need to say anything more and they changed direction almost in unison to head towards what he fervently hoped would be a cave. He had the fleeting thought, not for the first time, how… easy… it was to work with Hermione like this. It was probably the only easy thing about this entire bloody year so he appreciated it even more, the way he and Hermione could act and function almost as one, a team, without argument and often without the necessity of many words.
It was a cave. Tall enough that they could both stand without stooping, although he could reach up and touch the top of it easily, and deep enough to remain dry through the downpour.
They both almost stumbled inside and felt the immediate relief from being in shelter. They might themselves not be soaking wet-again, thanks to Hermione’s foresight-but it still didn’t make it much more pleasant to be out in the rain.
Harry busied himself putting up the protective spells they always used while Hermione cast a warming spell on the cave against the chill in the March air and then conjured up what looked like a clear glass globe filled with what appeared to be flickering flames to illuminate the cave. He turned back to see her using another spell to keep it hovering in the air and gave her a brief smile. “Nice.”
A fleeting expression of surprise mingled with pleasure crossed her face. “Thanks.”
He was suddenly vaguely ashamed. Did he say something positive to her so rarely that she would look so surprised at a compliment, mild as it was? Surely she knew-she had to know-how much he appreciated that she was there with him, that she had stayed with him. Especially since Ron… had left-as always, he mentally flinched a little at the thought of Ron-but the fact remained that since then, every day, it seemed to mean more and more to him that she had stayed with him, that he wasn’t alone now.
He might not feel like he had managed to do all that much-just staying alive until now seemed like the only thing he’d really accomplished at all and that only with a lot of help from Hermione-and he was painfully aware that he didn’t really know what he was doing. But with all that, he knew that it would be ten thousand, a million, infinitely worse if he were alone, if he didn’t have Hermione. And he was grateful. With every day, he was more grateful. He was terrified that Hermione, too, would leave him, would realize that she didn’t need to be here, going through so much for the sake of an idiot like him. Terrified-and so grateful he didn’t think he’d ever be able to tell her how much and knew he could never make it up to her either.
They each settled down on either side of the cave. It wasn’t very wide but it was wide enough that a foot or so of space remained between them when they were seated.
They didn’t have much in the way of food left, he knew, but she tossed him a couple granola bars and they each ate two in silence, both of them staring out at the rain and the deepening gloom of twilight settling over the Pennines.
He glanced at her, noting that she looked thoughtful but not sad. He was glad of that. Sadness almost seemed to have been etched onto her face after R-well, for weeks now. When she wasn’t otherwise guarding her expression, she’d looked sad and it had hurt to see it and oddly, seeing how upset she was over Ron’s leaving had started to bother him more than his own emotions when he thought of Ron. (For once, the stab of pain at the thought of Ron felt somehow dulled.) But the silence now was just comfortable, companionable. And maybe it was something about the enforced intimacy of it-being in a cave with the rain pouring down outside, combined with the pleasant warmth of the cave thanks to Hermione’s warming spell and the sense that, at least for now, they were probably relatively safe-but he found himself relaxing a little. Relaxing more than he had in days, even weeks. The sound of the rain was oddly soothing in its steady monotony.
It was dark enough outside now that he could no longer see anything of the landscape or anything much beyond the mouth of the cave so he turned his gaze inward, looking around the cave. The stone floor was uneven but not terribly so and generally flat so it would serve their purposes nicely for the night.
He heard her sigh and glanced at her. “What is it?” he asked quietly.
She glanced at him and tried for a slight smile but only succeeded in looking wistful. “I just remembered that my parents used to talk about coming up here on holiday some time. My mum wanted to see the Peaks and the Lake District.”
His heart suddenly hurt, both at the mention of her parents and at the expression on her face. And even though he almost never spoke about or so much as allowed himself to think about a time after the War, even though he could barely think ahead to the next day, he found himself saying, “After this is all over, you and your parents should take a holiday here. It is really pretty.” He had to comfort her somehow.
Her lips trembled slightly and he knew she was wondering if they would even have an “after the War” to plan for, but all she said was, “You’re right, we should. I’ll suggest it to them,” and she even managed a faint smile.
And her courage, her strength, at that moment took his breath away, just awed him. When they both knew that she might never see her parents again…
And he wanted to tell her that she was the bravest and the strongest person he’d ever met. That he was so grateful to her for staying with him. That he didn’t know what he would do without her.
But the words stuck in his throat. He didn’t know how to say it, how to put words to all the emotions suddenly churning inside him.
All he could say, all he did say, at that moment was, “You look tired. Why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll keep watch and I think we should be all right here for the night.”
She looked at him, her eyes soft, and he had the odd sense that she somehow understood at least some of what he wanted to say even without his saying it. And after all, maybe she did. She so often seemed to have the knack of reading his thoughts.
She pulled out a blanket from her pack and curled up in it, using her pack as a pillow, once she’d used a spell to make it feel soft. “G’night, Harry.”
“Good night.”
She really was tired, he realized. She fell asleep almost from the moment her head rested on her pack.
After a moment, he used his wand to dim the light from Hermione’s globe, both so as not to disturb Hermione’s sleep and also to avoid the light serving as a beacon to anyone who might be outside. That done, he found himself studying Hermione as she slept.
He had said she looked tired without really thinking about it and because he knew she was tired. They both were. But now, looking at her, he noted the shadows under her eyes, the evidence of sleepless nights. And-his eyes narrowed a little-it looked like she had lost weight with these past few months of constantly being on the run. There were hollows in her cheeks he had not seen before.
Just a few minutes ago, he’d been amazed at her strength. Now, oddly, looking at her, he was suddenly struck by her fragility. In sleep, her expression softened, her strength of mind and will not as apparent, she looked… smaller, somehow. Vulnerable in a way that he wasn’t used to seeing, a word he never really associated with Hermione.
He felt a swell of emotion in his chest, protectiveness and affection and sympathy and loyalty all amounting to a tenderness deeper and stronger than anything he ever remembered feeling before, for anyone. It was so deep and so strong, it was, well, frightening. Frightening and confusing.
Hermione was his best friend. Only his best friend. And-in spite of everything-so was Ron. For what felt like the first time in weeks, he found himself deliberately thinking about Ron, remembering all they’d been through, Ron’s humor and his blunt honesty and his loyalty-and tried not to wince at the word. Of course Ron was still his best friend.
And-as if the thought of Ron naturally brought her to mind-Ginny was… something else. His ex-girlfriend, his friend-he supposed she was still his friend-his… dream… She was a wish, a fantasy he turned to for comfort when the reality of the war felt too heavy for him.
Suddenly, rather inconsequentially, he found himself remembering visiting Godric’s Hollow, visiting his parents’ graves-and remembering the way he’d cried, with a sort of wonder that hadn’t occurred to him at the time, preoccupied as he had been with everything else. Remembered-and tried to imagine visiting Godric’s Hollow with anyone else-with Ginny-tried to imagine being able to cry like that, just… grieve… openly and without a second’s thought, with anyone else around. He couldn’t imagine it. He would not-he could not-have cried in front of Ron-or Ginny. He knew that. Knew he would never have wanted Ginny to see him like that. Hermione was… different. It never even occurred to him to worry about looking weak or uncertain or afraid in front of Hermione.
Of course, he reasoned, Ginny was-had been-his girlfriend. Naturally, he would care more about what she thought of him than what his best friend thought. Of course he would worry more about Ginny thinking he was weak than if Hermione thought the same thing.
Except… he didn’t worry about Hermione thinking he was weak or anything like that. He didn’t worry because he already knew she wouldn’t. He wasn’t so certain about Ginny or what she would thi-he cut off the thought, refusing to even finish the sentence in his mind, suddenly feeling rather as if he’d betrayed Ginny by even thinking that about her, by doubting her like that. Ginny wouldn’t-Ginny cared about him, believed in him.
Feeling as if he needed to, for… reassurance… or something… he tried, he really, deliberately tried, to remember all he had once felt-all he did feel, he corrected himself quickly-for Ginny. Remembered watching her, wanting to see her smile and hear her laugh, remembered kissing her… And he remembered how he’d felt when he’d broken up with her, the look on her face. He cared about Ginny, he knew he did.
And yet… he could not remember ever feeling this same surge of emotion for her, when he was with her, as he had just now for Hermione.
But that was wrong! He knew that was wrong. Whatever Hermione was to him-his best friend, his comrade-in-arms, his companion, his support-she could not be-he could not-he should not- care more for her than he did for Ginny.
But maybe he did, a small voice whispered somewhere in the back of his consciousness-and he almost physically recoiled from the thought, his head jerking as he mentally backed away from the suggestion.
Suddenly restless-clearly, sitting still and thinking… things… wasn’t good for him-he stood up hurriedly, going to the mouth of the cave to peer outside into the darkness. It was still raining and showed no sign of letting up. He would have stepped outside-thanks to Hermione, he wouldn’t get wet-but he had set up the wards right at the mouth of the cave so going outside would mean going beyond the wards and he wasn’t inclined to be that reckless.
He heard a soft noise behind him and turned to see that Hermione had shifted a little in her sleep, moving one of her hands to rest before her pack, her fingers slightly curled. A faint frown crossed her face, as if even in her sleep she was worried about something, and he took an automatic step back towards her. But then after a moment, she let out a soft sigh and the frown cleared and he relaxed, feeling another dangerous rush of warmth in his chest.
He tried to shove the emotion away, turning away and pacing inside the cave. Deliberately, he counted his steps with as much concentration as if he would later be tested on it-eight steps from the mouth of the cave to where he now stood, four steps from one side of the cave to the other. He turned his steps to pace deeper into the cave. His step hitched as he frowned a little and then tightened his grip on his wand.
The back of the cave that, at first glance, had looked solid, had a break in it, mostly hidden by an uneven spur of rock. Slowly, keeping a good grip on his wand, he approached the gap in the wall, what had begun as idle curiosity deepening as he realized that the gap in the wall was deeper than he’d thought. It looked like-it did lead into another smaller cavern.
“Lumos,” he murmured.
He had to turn sideways to sidle through the gap in the cave wall before the space widened, allowing him to move forward and see into the rest of the cavern-and froze.
He swore he could feel his body ceasing to function, his mind recoiling, shutting down. He was vaguely aware of hearing a hoarse, strangled sound halfway between a cry and a sob, the sound wrenched from his vitals. Of a sharp clatter as his wand fell from his suddenly nerveless hand.
And that was when his knees-not just his knees, his entire body-gave way, his bones seeming to turn into ice water, and he just… crumbled, collapsing onto the stone floor.
No! It wasn’t possible!
Some dim corner of his mind tried to struggle past the soul-numbing horror and grief but it was no match for the visceral immediacy of what his eyes saw.
It was Hermione. And she was dead. Lying there on the ground, her lips slightly parted as if in surprise, a thin trickle of blood coming from her mouth, making a vivid red slash against the pallor of her cheek. And her eyes-oh God, her eyes… that was the worst of it. He was riveted to her eyes, could not look away even as his entire soul shuddered and seemed to shrivel and die inside him at the sight. Her eyes were open, wide and blank and staring sightlessly. She was… gone… All of her, all the things that made Hermione Hermione, were just… gone… All her cleverness, her determination, her courage-her kindness and the warmth of affection-the strength of her belief in him-the sly, surprising sparks of humor and laughter that lit her eyes when she teased him… All of it, all that he loved about her… she was… gone…
And so was he.
It was the only thought remaining in his otherwise blank mind. It was… over, done. He was over. Done. That was it. The end of… everything. Of trying, of fighting, of… surviving… The end of hoping.
It was over. He was finished.
...