Harry Potter Fic: when we were young (and ageless) 1/5
Notes: I’m not going to ramble too much, lol. I’ve had a strange rebirth of love and last night, I couldn’t sleep and there was something about ninjas and the Walking Dead wasn’t really my favorite and my roommates made me watch the New Kids and the Backstreet Boys perform again. The point being I’m writing Harry Potter fic again, it’s unrated because the rating is going to change, there are most definitely five parts, and this is for anythingbutgrey because I adore her to bits. Enjoy!
when we were young (and ageless)
harry potter ; harry/hermione (implied others) ; 3,459 words ; unrated
nobody comes and asks them: if the kids are just alright. they grow up in the woods. spoilers for the deathly hallows. au.
-
1
It begins like this:
Ron leaves. Harry stops waiting.
Hermione doesn’t dream.
The tent flap is open. Hermione stands at the mouth. Her fist is wrapped around a book, and when he clears his throat, she forces an amused smile.
“I know,” she says. She pauses. “You didn’t sleep last night, Harry,” she says too, and her voice is soft and thoughtful. The secret is as simple as this: she feels miles away.
“I slept enough,” he says.
He comes to stand beside her. His shoulders have dropped. His hands carry his glasses. She watches briefly. His thumbs scrub at the glass and she thinks that it’s been winter for a very long time.
When she looks back out, there is nothing but woods. It is miles and miles of just woods, high trees arched like arms, boney and tired and pointed into a million aimless directions. She is trying too hard not to see. Ron is gone and her sense of perspective is now too clearly written in rational and weariness. She is angry for a lot of reasons, but they stay silent.
“Should we move?” she asks.
“No,” he says. “Not yet,” he mumbles. He steps outside, just in front of her, and stretches back to survey the view in front of him. “My head’s been too quiet,” he reasons. “It’s the sort of thing I’d rather stay practical about. There’s only two of us now.”
Her mouth twists. He doesn’t turn and look back. She doesn’t expect him to either; the back of her throat burns and she turns, looking into the tent. The empty bed in the corner remains untouched and for that brief, split second, she remembers her mum and her dad.
Hermione’s fingers curl tighter around her book. “I know,” she says.
They have been doing this a lot longer than you think. It may be months now, well into the new year with petitions and signs and news coming in from Ron’s old radio that he left behind. Godric’s Hollow is a strange, little memory in the back of her head, in his too, even if Harry’s wand sits sullen in the bottom of her bag.
They don’t talk much. For once, Hermione understands the function of Harry’s relationship with Ron, and the difference between her relationship with him. They are not children anymore and they have written themselves out of being heroes. For Harry, Ron was the strongest link to sanity, boyhood memories and all.
Harry says to her one night: “I know you. You’d have been back. It may have been two, maybe three, it may have been simply because you understand yourself a lot better than Ron and I do. But by now, you would’ve been back and we would’ve moved on.”
She wonders if this is true.
The snow seems to favor the tent at odd points. She standing away from the tent too, half-watching for Harry and checking the area for the sounds of voices that she thinks she’s heard.
She lost her perfume at home, slipped it into her mum’s drawer in hopes that her mum may just grab it and take it off with her on holiday. In her head, it is one of those useless things that just make sense, sense in a way that she can’t even begin to explain without feeling somewhat guilty. The smell too is forgotten into the odd jumper, but neither her nor Harry talk about it.
“Anything?”
She jumps when he appears next to her, wide-eyed. Her fingers curl at the scarf around her throat.
“Nothing,” she musters. She shakes her head. “I thought I - I don’t know. I thought I heard something.”
“It’s all right,” he says.
She shakes her head again. They’ve seen hunters and scavengers, the odd man from the Ministry carrying Muggles off and away from their homes. The whole thing is beyond feeling; she holds on quietly to her own sense of urgency like this too.
“We’ll have to move in deeper,” she says. “First supplies though.”
Harry sighs. “You’re worried.”
“I’m always worried.”
“Hermione.”
The trees start to rush, rattled. She doesn’t answer, her neck craning back as she looks up. The sky stretches and hides in front of her too, and her eyes ache as she tries to widen and steady her gaze.
“We need to talk about your dreams - flashes,” she corrects herself slowly, and thinks: she needs to keep pushing. “We’ve got to start being smart,” she tells him, “instead of waiting.”
Harry touches her arm. They don’t look at each other. I know, he doesn’t say. He doesn’t need to either.
They only have progressions.
A pub appears down the road. This is Harry’s idea of going in and getting supplies; it’s easier to return back into the woods and if it’s about going deeper, the two of them need to have enough for more than weeks.
“Should we?” Harry asks, and it’s for appearance. They walk next to each other. Hermione’s jeans are opening at the knee, ready to cut into a hole. The denim is fringe, scrapping into her skin as a reminder. She has been putting mending off. Harry needs a new coat too.
“For a little while,” she tells him. “Just enough to get warm. I don’t see anything else around.”
He nods and she moves closer to him as they walk. She tries to remember if it’s late or early March, since it’s long since mattered to either one of them. Calendars seem impractical as it is.
“There’s frost,” she says, but it’s more to herself. Her eyes follow the grass, the still chucks of snow, plated and dirty at different patches of the road. The pub seems closer and closer, and then further away, and when they get to the door, she forces herself to take a deep breath. She’s not nervous. She isn’t. Harry looks back at her and she shrugs. She corrects herself: “There was frost, this morning.”
There is nothing to say back. Harry opens the door and holds it open for her. She looks at him and then inside, taking the first step in. Her boots hit the floor and she catches an off floorboard, heavy on the back of her heel. It makes a low moan and at the bar, a man catches her gaze. He barely looks up, cleaning a glass.
Behind her, she listens to the door close. There are a few people at tables, spaced thin and far. Her eyes drop over one in the corner and she walks Harry to it, in direct line with the exit; this is the safest, she thinks.
When she passes a waitress, she takes a second glance at the apron around her hips. “Hello,” she manages. She’s not pleasant, but the other woman manages a tight smile. Hermione likes to make sure. “Sit where you will,” the waitress says too.
Harry nods. Hermione decides to lead, sliding into a small booth and sitting at the very end. She watches as Harry slides into the booth, deeper to remain hidden from the corner.
“Funny,” he tells her. “I haven’t been that hungry as of late.”
“We need this,” she says.
“Right now.”
She looks up at him, surprised. Her mouth opens and he shrugs. She isn’t entirely sure what that means, if it’s supposed to mean anything but just “right” and “now”; this is Harry though and it’s been months, and his wand is still at the bottom of her bag.
“You’re still angry,” she says quietly.
“Hermione.”
Her mouth purses, but there’s no chance for answer. The waitress comes and puts down a few cups of coffee. Hermione manages a small, grateful smile and the woman nods back.
“I’ll come back,” she offers too, and kindly, making Hermione wonder what exactly do the two of them really look like for such a change. Harry is buried in his own clothes and she can hide behind too many layers of sweaters. It makes her sit up and tense, looking around the pub and watching for the curious eye. There is a man and a woman close to the entrance, but bent in whispers and no second glance.
Hermione tries to breathe.
“So we get supplies,” she says. “This will be good for us. We’ll be away from the woods for a bit - I’ve covered all are traces, of course, and if anyone is looking, you and I will know.”
“He’s not looking for me,” Harry tells her. “Not now, not yet. We’re safe for a reason. The others too,” he adds quickly. “And Ron will stay far from sight.”
Hermione’s stomach twists. Ron, she thinks.
“Are you worried?”
She blinks. Harry’s watching her, hard and thoughtful. His eyes are dark and his mouth slips into a tight frown. She thinks about his wand again. It’s her guilt. She isn’t Ron, of course.
“Yes,” she says quickly. She swallows. “I’m worried about everyone. You, Ron, everyone we left behind, at school, my - mum and dad even though it doesn’t matter. They’re long gone, you know, and I’m not even a memory. If anything, they’re safe, safer than they’ve been in a long time.”
“Hermione.”
‘
She shakes her head. “You know it’s true.” She isn’t sure if he meant to say her name kindly or unkindly, to be patronizing or just Harry. She isn’t sure anymore and that scares her.
“I’m not Ron,” she says. “I know that.”
“I didn’t say that,” he murmurs.
“You don’t have to.”
Hermione drops her hands on the table finally. Her fingers curl around her mug and she presses her hands into the heat. Just before it gets cold, she thinks. She’d sooner rather be careful than be callous with any sort of spells and magic. It’s odd to think about like this, being careful as a student, having to be careful being home and being underage; she’s found loopholes and understood them, managed them and read. It’s just real now.
“That’s not what I meant,” Harry says.
“It’s all right.” She meets his gaze. “I understand. I miss him too. I know that I can’t be what - I’m trying,” she finishes. “And - and I’m, I’m so sorry about not being able to -”
Harry grabs her hands and peels them away from her coffee. His skin is cold and his fingers hurt as they press and then curl around her palms. He holds them there against the table.
“Stop it,” he says sharply. “Stop it. We’re both doing the best that we can, Hermione. You and I. We are and I’m not angry. You’re here and that - that’s what counts, all right? Please don’t apologize.”
“All right,” she whispers.
Her mind tries and wills her hands away, but she just ends up trying to say it again to him. “All right,” she says. “No apologies.”
For a moment, Harry doesn’t let go.
They stay more than week in that small town. Hermione talks her way into getting them board at a house where a lonely old woman lives and misses her husband. She is kind and absent, and doesn’t ask questions when Harry sleeps at night, half-crying, half-screaming, and enough to lead Hermione into the kitchen, sneaking in for tea.
On the last night, she sits at the window. There is one bed and behind her, Harry is staring into space and lying on his back. They haven’t spoken yet this morning and the sun hasn’t really walked into the room. She wonders if it will forever seem like a long winter.
“You didn’t sleep last night.”
A ghost of a smile turns on Hermione’s mouth. “Neither did you,” she says quietly. “There’s still time,” she says too, “before we have to go.”
“I’m not tired,” Harry sighs.
She turns and leans against the window again. Her legs stretch out and she rubs her knees. Her jeans are darker, stained at the knee. She’s mended the knees again, twice and Harry’s jeans are curled at the bottom of her bag as well, tied and rumpled with the very same stains and holes.
She tries carefully.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, and her voice drops, softening. Her hands brush against her knees again and then slow. “Sleeping,” she says.
“I don’t know where to start,” he murmurs.
“Anywhere.”
He laughs a little and sits up, rolling to the edge of the bed and dropping his feet into the carpet. His feet are bare.
“I think he’s waiting for me to try something,” he says slowly, “and have some kind of - I don’t know - be impulsive. If he can’t see me, can’t find me, he doesn’t know what I can do. He’s waiting - waiting and I’m just here.”
“What do you want to do?”
He looks at her strangely. Hermione shrugs and feels shy. She looks for her bag, catching it across the room.
“If I knew,” he mutters.
“I know,” she mumbles, looking away. Her mouth open and she starts with sorry, swallowing quickly. “I don’t mean to - I’m here for you,” she manages to say.
He says nothing. She imagines she’s said the wrong thing again. She almost gets up and grabs her bag, wanting to dig through it and pull out her books. She’s still okay with books, still useful with words and working through them. She wants to say she’s scared.
“I can’t -” she starts, then stops.
“Can’t?”
She meets his gaze, wide-eyed. “It - It doesn’t matter, you know.” She stands and moves to bed. When she sits next to him, the corner starts to sink. Harry doesn’t move away.
“What’s wrong?” he presses. It seems genuine, really. There is a change and it’s almost sudden, how he sits up and turns towards her. She remembers the tent, those first couple weeks and that random, strong urge he had to dance with her to Ron’s radio. She thought it was for the three of them.
“I just want to help,” she says.
He nods and reaches for her hand, then curls his fingers around her wrist. He’s gentle as he lifts her arm and pulls into his lap. She watches, fascinated, and his fingers stumble over the cuff of her sleeve. He’s slow as he pushes it up, over her wrist and then her arm, stopping the fabric just as it hits the top of her elbow.
“You’ve done enough.”
“Harry - ” she starts, but he shakes his head. She can’t look down, but she feels his fingers as they start to trace over her skin.
Mudblood.
“We don’t talk about this,” he says. She looks away, back to the window.
(There is a reason why she doesn’t think about Malfoy Manor, nor does she pull at the memory of Dobby’s death; there is Luna too, Dean, and maybe the others, shuffled into safety as she and Harry ran. They didn’t have time to grieve and she wonders if there were three of them, really three of them, that things may have been different, sharper and strong and thoughtful all the same. Hermione didn’t give herself time to react, and it’s the sort of thing that you’d think she’d give into, that she’d give herself that time and tension to be seventeen and walk herself into a standard sense of adulthood but in her head, it’s Harry and Harry’s safety. That one moment is just about pain This is why.)
The woods seem larger after two nights, maybe three and a week; it’s come past the point where she’s forgotten about time and ironically, time in turn has forgotten about the two of them.
She is in the tent, reading when Harry comes back. They still take turns watching the perimeter of wherever they stay for a few days - no longer than a few days, this is the rule.
“I found something,” he says.
He holds up a flyer with his face looking back at her; the picture moves and then hides and he holds up two more: one of Ron and one of herself. She shakes her head.
“How far did you go?”
“Close to the road,” he tells her. “I heard something so I followed. There’s a village about several miles up. You can see the flames from here.”
He says flames and she flinches. She knows what that means; too much of the Ministry trying to stand again in both worlds. She has to think of it impassively and ironically, with a bit of distance and sensibility. It’s harder and harder each time.
“Should we move?” she asks.
“No,” he says. “I’m not worried. We’re deep enough for a few more days. For some reason, it’s about getting the pieces into place.”
“The Ministry,” she says.
“Yeah. Reckon so. I imagine it’ll be much more of a plan should Voldemort have some kind of support.”
She scoffs. “It’s more than that.” She pauses and thinks about the village. It’s not the first nor will it be the last; she sniffs quietly, trying to pick out the smell of burning. It’ll be close at some point. “Whether or not you support him, he’s trying to exercise some kind of control - control the masses, if you will.”
“We can’t go back to school.”
I didn’t say that, she wants to say. She studies him, wondering if he’s been thinking of Ginny. There’s a tired flash of uneasiness and maybe even jealousy; but she’s worried too, Hogwarts is family and friends.
“It’s a good source for later,” she says carefully. “We’ve got to somehow think of who we can pull - I mean, honestly Harry - what if we don’t find the sword, what if we don’t -” she holds up the locket and it dangles from her fingertips, “what if we can’t find a way?”
“I don’t know.”
His hands clench. She immediately regrets what she says and almost reaches for him. She doesn’t know how to. Instead, she reaches for the flyers. She closes them, folding them neatly in half. It’s Harry first, then herself, and with Ron, she merely hesitates. He looks back up at her too, almost awkward and shy. For the first time, she thinks: I don’t remember how to miss you.
“We’ll have to do this in phases.”
He nods. “I know.” Then he looks back up at her, “We’ll have to move deeper. We may even have to move closer to the school again. The Dark Forest, even.”
She shakes her head. “No,” she murmurs. “It’s too dangerous. I was thinking more of Godric’s Hollow.”
He looks at her in surprise. The corners of her mouth turn and she nearly shrugs. She’s sure he wants to ask why. Shyly, she shifts closer.
“We’ve covered and recovered all our tracks. We’re careful with where we go and who we stay with. Nobody’s checked twice and neither you nor I are sloppy. If we can catch a couple of lucky days -”
Harry laughs. The sound feels strange. “Lucky?” he asks.
“You said he’s preoccupied,” she murmurs.
His eyes widen slightly and she thinks that maybe he’s getting it. Her lips purse and she brushes her fingers over his arm.
“It’s okay,” she says.
“He’s preoccupied,” he says quickly. “But do you think that going back to Godric’s Hollow is the best idea?”
“We’re not hiding.”
“That’s - are you sure?” and when he looks at her, his eyes are wider, brighter even. She’s almost compelled to smile and maybe it’s just that she’s tired and seeing things instead.
“I’m not hiding,” he says again, stronger this time.
He leans into her too, his arm dropping against hers. It feels sort of awkward, sort of necessary and stable all at the same time. She bites her lip and he chuckles a little. If something is funny, she’s missed it completely. It doesn’t matter because suddenly, almost too quickly, she realizes that she’s looking at Harry, that she’s looking at him for the first time in what seems like forever. She is aware of herself.
“We’re not hiding,” he says too, softer. His fingers brush over her chin, then sweep across her jaw. She doesn’t look to see or guess where his hand’s come in. Her eyes close and she turns her head, pressing her cheek into his palm. She thinks that he may kiss her here or she may like him to kiss her and there’s an ache, old and new, that starts to rise and twist.
Then his hand drops. Her eyes open and she watches Harry as he stands and moves to get her bag.
Finally, she breathes. Her words are careful: “Let’s make a plan.”
NEXT
when we were young (and ageless)
harry potter ; harry/hermione (implied others) ; 3,459 words ; unrated
nobody comes and asks them: if the kids are just alright. they grow up in the woods. spoilers for the deathly hallows. au.
-
1
It begins like this:
Ron leaves. Harry stops waiting.
Hermione doesn’t dream.
The tent flap is open. Hermione stands at the mouth. Her fist is wrapped around a book, and when he clears his throat, she forces an amused smile.
“I know,” she says. She pauses. “You didn’t sleep last night, Harry,” she says too, and her voice is soft and thoughtful. The secret is as simple as this: she feels miles away.
“I slept enough,” he says.
He comes to stand beside her. His shoulders have dropped. His hands carry his glasses. She watches briefly. His thumbs scrub at the glass and she thinks that it’s been winter for a very long time.
When she looks back out, there is nothing but woods. It is miles and miles of just woods, high trees arched like arms, boney and tired and pointed into a million aimless directions. She is trying too hard not to see. Ron is gone and her sense of perspective is now too clearly written in rational and weariness. She is angry for a lot of reasons, but they stay silent.
“Should we move?” she asks.
“No,” he says. “Not yet,” he mumbles. He steps outside, just in front of her, and stretches back to survey the view in front of him. “My head’s been too quiet,” he reasons. “It’s the sort of thing I’d rather stay practical about. There’s only two of us now.”
Her mouth twists. He doesn’t turn and look back. She doesn’t expect him to either; the back of her throat burns and she turns, looking into the tent. The empty bed in the corner remains untouched and for that brief, split second, she remembers her mum and her dad.
Hermione’s fingers curl tighter around her book. “I know,” she says.
They have been doing this a lot longer than you think. It may be months now, well into the new year with petitions and signs and news coming in from Ron’s old radio that he left behind. Godric’s Hollow is a strange, little memory in the back of her head, in his too, even if Harry’s wand sits sullen in the bottom of her bag.
They don’t talk much. For once, Hermione understands the function of Harry’s relationship with Ron, and the difference between her relationship with him. They are not children anymore and they have written themselves out of being heroes. For Harry, Ron was the strongest link to sanity, boyhood memories and all.
Harry says to her one night: “I know you. You’d have been back. It may have been two, maybe three, it may have been simply because you understand yourself a lot better than Ron and I do. But by now, you would’ve been back and we would’ve moved on.”
She wonders if this is true.
The snow seems to favor the tent at odd points. She standing away from the tent too, half-watching for Harry and checking the area for the sounds of voices that she thinks she’s heard.
She lost her perfume at home, slipped it into her mum’s drawer in hopes that her mum may just grab it and take it off with her on holiday. In her head, it is one of those useless things that just make sense, sense in a way that she can’t even begin to explain without feeling somewhat guilty. The smell too is forgotten into the odd jumper, but neither her nor Harry talk about it.
“Anything?”
She jumps when he appears next to her, wide-eyed. Her fingers curl at the scarf around her throat.
“Nothing,” she musters. She shakes her head. “I thought I - I don’t know. I thought I heard something.”
“It’s all right,” he says.
She shakes her head again. They’ve seen hunters and scavengers, the odd man from the Ministry carrying Muggles off and away from their homes. The whole thing is beyond feeling; she holds on quietly to her own sense of urgency like this too.
“We’ll have to move in deeper,” she says. “First supplies though.”
Harry sighs. “You’re worried.”
“I’m always worried.”
“Hermione.”
The trees start to rush, rattled. She doesn’t answer, her neck craning back as she looks up. The sky stretches and hides in front of her too, and her eyes ache as she tries to widen and steady her gaze.
“We need to talk about your dreams - flashes,” she corrects herself slowly, and thinks: she needs to keep pushing. “We’ve got to start being smart,” she tells him, “instead of waiting.”
Harry touches her arm. They don’t look at each other. I know, he doesn’t say. He doesn’t need to either.
They only have progressions.
A pub appears down the road. This is Harry’s idea of going in and getting supplies; it’s easier to return back into the woods and if it’s about going deeper, the two of them need to have enough for more than weeks.
“Should we?” Harry asks, and it’s for appearance. They walk next to each other. Hermione’s jeans are opening at the knee, ready to cut into a hole. The denim is fringe, scrapping into her skin as a reminder. She has been putting mending off. Harry needs a new coat too.
“For a little while,” she tells him. “Just enough to get warm. I don’t see anything else around.”
He nods and she moves closer to him as they walk. She tries to remember if it’s late or early March, since it’s long since mattered to either one of them. Calendars seem impractical as it is.
“There’s frost,” she says, but it’s more to herself. Her eyes follow the grass, the still chucks of snow, plated and dirty at different patches of the road. The pub seems closer and closer, and then further away, and when they get to the door, she forces herself to take a deep breath. She’s not nervous. She isn’t. Harry looks back at her and she shrugs. She corrects herself: “There was frost, this morning.”
There is nothing to say back. Harry opens the door and holds it open for her. She looks at him and then inside, taking the first step in. Her boots hit the floor and she catches an off floorboard, heavy on the back of her heel. It makes a low moan and at the bar, a man catches her gaze. He barely looks up, cleaning a glass.
Behind her, she listens to the door close. There are a few people at tables, spaced thin and far. Her eyes drop over one in the corner and she walks Harry to it, in direct line with the exit; this is the safest, she thinks.
When she passes a waitress, she takes a second glance at the apron around her hips. “Hello,” she manages. She’s not pleasant, but the other woman manages a tight smile. Hermione likes to make sure. “Sit where you will,” the waitress says too.
Harry nods. Hermione decides to lead, sliding into a small booth and sitting at the very end. She watches as Harry slides into the booth, deeper to remain hidden from the corner.
“Funny,” he tells her. “I haven’t been that hungry as of late.”
“We need this,” she says.
“Right now.”
She looks up at him, surprised. Her mouth opens and he shrugs. She isn’t entirely sure what that means, if it’s supposed to mean anything but just “right” and “now”; this is Harry though and it’s been months, and his wand is still at the bottom of her bag.
“You’re still angry,” she says quietly.
“Hermione.”
Her mouth purses, but there’s no chance for answer. The waitress comes and puts down a few cups of coffee. Hermione manages a small, grateful smile and the woman nods back.
“I’ll come back,” she offers too, and kindly, making Hermione wonder what exactly do the two of them really look like for such a change. Harry is buried in his own clothes and she can hide behind too many layers of sweaters. It makes her sit up and tense, looking around the pub and watching for the curious eye. There is a man and a woman close to the entrance, but bent in whispers and no second glance.
Hermione tries to breathe.
“So we get supplies,” she says. “This will be good for us. We’ll be away from the woods for a bit - I’ve covered all are traces, of course, and if anyone is looking, you and I will know.”
“He’s not looking for me,” Harry tells her. “Not now, not yet. We’re safe for a reason. The others too,” he adds quickly. “And Ron will stay far from sight.”
Hermione’s stomach twists. Ron, she thinks.
“Are you worried?”
She blinks. Harry’s watching her, hard and thoughtful. His eyes are dark and his mouth slips into a tight frown. She thinks about his wand again. It’s her guilt. She isn’t Ron, of course.
“Yes,” she says quickly. She swallows. “I’m worried about everyone. You, Ron, everyone we left behind, at school, my - mum and dad even though it doesn’t matter. They’re long gone, you know, and I’m not even a memory. If anything, they’re safe, safer than they’ve been in a long time.”
“Hermione.”
‘
She shakes her head. “You know it’s true.” She isn’t sure if he meant to say her name kindly or unkindly, to be patronizing or just Harry. She isn’t sure anymore and that scares her.
“I’m not Ron,” she says. “I know that.”
“I didn’t say that,” he murmurs.
“You don’t have to.”
Hermione drops her hands on the table finally. Her fingers curl around her mug and she presses her hands into the heat. Just before it gets cold, she thinks. She’d sooner rather be careful than be callous with any sort of spells and magic. It’s odd to think about like this, being careful as a student, having to be careful being home and being underage; she’s found loopholes and understood them, managed them and read. It’s just real now.
“That’s not what I meant,” Harry says.
“It’s all right.” She meets his gaze. “I understand. I miss him too. I know that I can’t be what - I’m trying,” she finishes. “And - and I’m, I’m so sorry about not being able to -”
Harry grabs her hands and peels them away from her coffee. His skin is cold and his fingers hurt as they press and then curl around her palms. He holds them there against the table.
“Stop it,” he says sharply. “Stop it. We’re both doing the best that we can, Hermione. You and I. We are and I’m not angry. You’re here and that - that’s what counts, all right? Please don’t apologize.”
“All right,” she whispers.
Her mind tries and wills her hands away, but she just ends up trying to say it again to him. “All right,” she says. “No apologies.”
For a moment, Harry doesn’t let go.
They stay more than week in that small town. Hermione talks her way into getting them board at a house where a lonely old woman lives and misses her husband. She is kind and absent, and doesn’t ask questions when Harry sleeps at night, half-crying, half-screaming, and enough to lead Hermione into the kitchen, sneaking in for tea.
On the last night, she sits at the window. There is one bed and behind her, Harry is staring into space and lying on his back. They haven’t spoken yet this morning and the sun hasn’t really walked into the room. She wonders if it will forever seem like a long winter.
“You didn’t sleep last night.”
A ghost of a smile turns on Hermione’s mouth. “Neither did you,” she says quietly. “There’s still time,” she says too, “before we have to go.”
“I’m not tired,” Harry sighs.
She turns and leans against the window again. Her legs stretch out and she rubs her knees. Her jeans are darker, stained at the knee. She’s mended the knees again, twice and Harry’s jeans are curled at the bottom of her bag as well, tied and rumpled with the very same stains and holes.
She tries carefully.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, and her voice drops, softening. Her hands brush against her knees again and then slow. “Sleeping,” she says.
“I don’t know where to start,” he murmurs.
“Anywhere.”
He laughs a little and sits up, rolling to the edge of the bed and dropping his feet into the carpet. His feet are bare.
“I think he’s waiting for me to try something,” he says slowly, “and have some kind of - I don’t know - be impulsive. If he can’t see me, can’t find me, he doesn’t know what I can do. He’s waiting - waiting and I’m just here.”
“What do you want to do?”
He looks at her strangely. Hermione shrugs and feels shy. She looks for her bag, catching it across the room.
“If I knew,” he mutters.
“I know,” she mumbles, looking away. Her mouth open and she starts with sorry, swallowing quickly. “I don’t mean to - I’m here for you,” she manages to say.
He says nothing. She imagines she’s said the wrong thing again. She almost gets up and grabs her bag, wanting to dig through it and pull out her books. She’s still okay with books, still useful with words and working through them. She wants to say she’s scared.
“I can’t -” she starts, then stops.
“Can’t?”
She meets his gaze, wide-eyed. “It - It doesn’t matter, you know.” She stands and moves to bed. When she sits next to him, the corner starts to sink. Harry doesn’t move away.
“What’s wrong?” he presses. It seems genuine, really. There is a change and it’s almost sudden, how he sits up and turns towards her. She remembers the tent, those first couple weeks and that random, strong urge he had to dance with her to Ron’s radio. She thought it was for the three of them.
“I just want to help,” she says.
He nods and reaches for her hand, then curls his fingers around her wrist. He’s gentle as he lifts her arm and pulls into his lap. She watches, fascinated, and his fingers stumble over the cuff of her sleeve. He’s slow as he pushes it up, over her wrist and then her arm, stopping the fabric just as it hits the top of her elbow.
“You’ve done enough.”
“Harry - ” she starts, but he shakes his head. She can’t look down, but she feels his fingers as they start to trace over her skin.
Mudblood.
“We don’t talk about this,” he says. She looks away, back to the window.
(There is a reason why she doesn’t think about Malfoy Manor, nor does she pull at the memory of Dobby’s death; there is Luna too, Dean, and maybe the others, shuffled into safety as she and Harry ran. They didn’t have time to grieve and she wonders if there were three of them, really three of them, that things may have been different, sharper and strong and thoughtful all the same. Hermione didn’t give herself time to react, and it’s the sort of thing that you’d think she’d give into, that she’d give herself that time and tension to be seventeen and walk herself into a standard sense of adulthood but in her head, it’s Harry and Harry’s safety. That one moment is just about pain This is why.)
The woods seem larger after two nights, maybe three and a week; it’s come past the point where she’s forgotten about time and ironically, time in turn has forgotten about the two of them.
She is in the tent, reading when Harry comes back. They still take turns watching the perimeter of wherever they stay for a few days - no longer than a few days, this is the rule.
“I found something,” he says.
He holds up a flyer with his face looking back at her; the picture moves and then hides and he holds up two more: one of Ron and one of herself. She shakes her head.
“How far did you go?”
“Close to the road,” he tells her. “I heard something so I followed. There’s a village about several miles up. You can see the flames from here.”
He says flames and she flinches. She knows what that means; too much of the Ministry trying to stand again in both worlds. She has to think of it impassively and ironically, with a bit of distance and sensibility. It’s harder and harder each time.
“Should we move?” she asks.
“No,” he says. “I’m not worried. We’re deep enough for a few more days. For some reason, it’s about getting the pieces into place.”
“The Ministry,” she says.
“Yeah. Reckon so. I imagine it’ll be much more of a plan should Voldemort have some kind of support.”
She scoffs. “It’s more than that.” She pauses and thinks about the village. It’s not the first nor will it be the last; she sniffs quietly, trying to pick out the smell of burning. It’ll be close at some point. “Whether or not you support him, he’s trying to exercise some kind of control - control the masses, if you will.”
“We can’t go back to school.”
I didn’t say that, she wants to say. She studies him, wondering if he’s been thinking of Ginny. There’s a tired flash of uneasiness and maybe even jealousy; but she’s worried too, Hogwarts is family and friends.
“It’s a good source for later,” she says carefully. “We’ve got to somehow think of who we can pull - I mean, honestly Harry - what if we don’t find the sword, what if we don’t -” she holds up the locket and it dangles from her fingertips, “what if we can’t find a way?”
“I don’t know.”
His hands clench. She immediately regrets what she says and almost reaches for him. She doesn’t know how to. Instead, she reaches for the flyers. She closes them, folding them neatly in half. It’s Harry first, then herself, and with Ron, she merely hesitates. He looks back up at her too, almost awkward and shy. For the first time, she thinks: I don’t remember how to miss you.
“We’ll have to do this in phases.”
He nods. “I know.” Then he looks back up at her, “We’ll have to move deeper. We may even have to move closer to the school again. The Dark Forest, even.”
She shakes her head. “No,” she murmurs. “It’s too dangerous. I was thinking more of Godric’s Hollow.”
He looks at her in surprise. The corners of her mouth turn and she nearly shrugs. She’s sure he wants to ask why. Shyly, she shifts closer.
“We’ve covered and recovered all our tracks. We’re careful with where we go and who we stay with. Nobody’s checked twice and neither you nor I are sloppy. If we can catch a couple of lucky days -”
Harry laughs. The sound feels strange. “Lucky?” he asks.
“You said he’s preoccupied,” she murmurs.
His eyes widen slightly and she thinks that maybe he’s getting it. Her lips purse and she brushes her fingers over his arm.
“It’s okay,” she says.
“He’s preoccupied,” he says quickly. “But do you think that going back to Godric’s Hollow is the best idea?”
“We’re not hiding.”
“That’s - are you sure?” and when he looks at her, his eyes are wider, brighter even. She’s almost compelled to smile and maybe it’s just that she’s tired and seeing things instead.
“I’m not hiding,” he says again, stronger this time.
He leans into her too, his arm dropping against hers. It feels sort of awkward, sort of necessary and stable all at the same time. She bites her lip and he chuckles a little. If something is funny, she’s missed it completely. It doesn’t matter because suddenly, almost too quickly, she realizes that she’s looking at Harry, that she’s looking at him for the first time in what seems like forever. She is aware of herself.
“We’re not hiding,” he says too, softer. His fingers brush over her chin, then sweep across her jaw. She doesn’t look to see or guess where his hand’s come in. Her eyes close and she turns her head, pressing her cheek into his palm. She thinks that he may kiss her here or she may like him to kiss her and there’s an ache, old and new, that starts to rise and twist.
Then his hand drops. Her eyes open and she watches Harry as he stands and moves to get her bag.
Finally, she breathes. Her words are careful: “Let’s make a plan.”
NEXT