Forever Her
Title: Forever Her
Characters: Terry Boot, Hermione Granger, references to Ron Weasley
Rating: PG
Word Count: 4,913
Author's Note: Written for Katty, for the Second Annual Spooky SPEW Swap. Thanks to nephthysmoon for her wonderful beta work.
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Surely, there cannot be anything more beautiful than London in the autumn. When leaves dance along the pavements and the sun glitters upon the brown water of the Thames, only then, I believe, can a man experience complete happiness. Of course, he might be in such a hurry that he doesn’t even realise the extent of his good fortune at finding himself in this great city. But it might also be that he is wise enough to walk along calmly, to breathe crisp air deep into his lungs until they feel about to burst; he might take the time to admire the architecture, the bright colours of the parks, the rosy cheeks of Londoners passing by hurriedly. Such a wise man would smile at the sight of them, sigh contentedly and perhaps purchase a cup of tea to go so that he could walk along with its warmth against the thin leather of his gloves.
Now, if this man was a wizard, he might also enjoy the autumn market of Diagon Alley. After disposing of his empty cup, he would slip into the Leaky Cauldron, nod or wave to Hannah Longbottom behind her spotless bar, and continue into the Alley. Because he is wise enough to always appreciate the beauty of the moment, he would linger for just a minute before stepping into the crowds. Yes, he would stand there and watch the splendour of the magical shopping street, with all its colours and wonders, and enjoy the sight like only a Muggleborn might be able to do.
I often flattered myself with thinking I was such a man. Pulling my scarf a little tighter around my neck to save it from the sharp hint of October cold, I continued down the cobbled street. It was a Friday, nothing out of the ordinary, and I was on my way back to my office at The Daily Prophet. Not that it could be called an office, no, it was more like a desk against a wall with a couple of bookcases shielding me from the prying eyes of my neighbour journalist, Miss Romilda Vane. But I had a window to my right with a lovely view over the street, and all in all I was pleased with my job. The offices belonged to those with higher ambitions; witches and wizards like the notorious Skeeter who would do anything for a scoop, who would all but sell their souls for a bit of inside information on the latest scandals. Ah, let them have their offices and their Quick-Quotes Quills. I was happy to sit in my rickety chair and gaze over the comings and goings of my fellow magical people below. No one minded me much, so I was free to slip out whenever I felt like a stroll through the Muggle world, where I would gather inspiration on little articles that would, I always hoped, make one or two people smile.
I hung my coat over the back of my chair, and was just about to sit down and scribble a few lines onto a piece of parchment, when a set of large, dark eyes and a prominent chin appeared above the bookcases.
“Terry! There you are! Been out loafing again, have you?”
“Loafing, Romilda? I wouldn’t dream of it - I’ve been out collecting material for this very important article I’m working on.”
“Merlin’s arse you have. Want a cuppa?”
“Sure, why not.”
She wandered off to fetch us tea, and I watched her. There was nothing wrong with her, not really, she was just a bit bolder and less refined than my picture of the ideal woman. Slightly less intelligent, too, if that isn’t too harsh a thing to say. She had taken to regularly asking me out, mostly jokingly, but still. I dearly hoped she didn’t expect me to make a move on her. My thirtieth birthday had come and passed, but I still felt young and in no way forced to compromise with my ideals in order to find the woman to spend the rest of my life with. There simply had to be someone out there, someone who might live up to those standards that had been set to me by a special, most marvellous woman I once knew.
Romilda returned with our cups, and when she noticed me watching, her walk became in every way exaggerated as she swung her hips from one side to another. I resisted the pressing urge to let my amusement show, and only smiled politely as I accepted the cup. But Romilda didn’t return to her desk as I had hoped, but perched herself on the corner of mine. I watched the old wood wobble for a second, but for all her other shortcomings my colleague had a nice, slender body, so the desk decided to remain in one piece a little longer.
“So, Mr Boot, what are your plans for tonight?”
“Plans?”
“Yes, silly. Going to the pub or to a play perhaps?”
“Oh.” I took a sip of my tea, which was almost unbearably sweet, before answering. “No, I was just going to pop into the library on my way home, maybe have a bite to eat somewhere and then make an early night.”
She sighed and shook her head at me. “You are so boring, Terry, do you know that?”
“Entirely aware of it, Romilda.”
“Prick,” she replied, grinning. “But maybe I can persuade you into going out with me and some friends next week, then?”
“Perhaps you could, unless I’ll be otherwise engaged.”
“You’re hopeless.”
“Thank you,” I nodded and raised my cup to salute her.
Romilda only rolled her eyes at me and went back to her own booth. Chuckling, I pulled out that parchment and set to work on documenting my observations of dancing leaves and glittering water.
A couple of hours later the office was nearly emptied. It was only late afternoon, but very few of us tended to remain at our desks once the editor in chief had left for the weekend. The people sitting close to me had all left when I picked up my coat again, and only some stray whispers of sharp nibs could be heard as I took my briefcase with me and slipped through the glass doors.
The day was still lovely outside, and there was plenty of room to stroll as the lines of shoppers had thinned significantly. Most of them, I suspected, had gone home to prepare their evening meals, to eat together and later snuggle up together in a sitting room to listen to the Wireless. It was a lovely picture and I smiled at my musings, but I could not envy them. I had an entire weekend ahead of me and no commitments, I was well and had gold in my pocket; the sense of freedom was nearly overwhelming.
It was in high spirits I entered the library. I treasured the smell of it, the silence, and the almost tangible vibrations of human minds at work. This was a lovely time to come here, when there were no Auror students slouching in the Defence Against the Dark Arts section, no squealing children making exclamations over the moving animals in books by James Herriot and, most importantly, no middle-aged witches fighting over or discussing the latest issue of Witch Weekly. No, at half past four on a Friday afternoon only people like myself were to be found behind the long lines of shelves, settled deep in old armchairs and oblivious to the outer world.
I had been completely honest with Romilda - I was working on an important article. It was a pity, I thought, that so few wizards ever ventured into the Muggle world. Yes, perhaps it lacked magic, but that didn’t mean that there weren’t things to see or do. For months now I had been gathering and piling information on Muggle Britain, and I meant to write a Wizard’s Guide to experiencing it. It was a thrilling task, an extension of what I had felt during my first holidays away from Hogwarts when I got to see my old world through eyes that had witnessed magic. Trust me, the Muggle world is just as fascinating - you just need to watch it from the right perspective.
My thought buzzing with said unwritten article, I headed over to the Muggle Relations section. It was nearly always deserted, except for the occasional Ministry worker who had dragged themselves there to look up some fact or figure. The armchairs were perhaps not as soft as in other sections, as if the library staff wanted to emphasise on the unimportance of the subject of Muggles, but I didn’t mind much. Rather a hard seat and solitude, than all the comfort in the world while being forced to listen to Mrs This and Mrs That hooting about the latest love potions.
One staircase up to the left, two corridors to the right, and my excitement increased. I let my fingertips graze along the backs of the books as I went, imagining that it was the collected wisdom within, and not the old canvases of the bindings, that made me tingle. When my section came into view, with a generous pool of light over the reading tables provided by a circular window in the ceiling above, another contented sigh escaped me. Yes, I’m ridiculous like that, but large collections of books sometimes make me a little sentimental. I saw before me now hours and hours of undisturbed loneliness during which I could pour over my chosen volumes to my heart’s content.
Except, as it turned out, I wasn’t alone at all. Mild annoyance was my first reaction, curiosity the next as I saw that the intruder was a woman. In my opinion, any female found in the library on a Friday afternoon is worthy of a second look. Quietly, I slipped behind another long bookcase, attempting to get a glimpse of her face before revealing myself. Be sure that this wasn’t a display of stalker tendencies, no, I simply did not want to disturb her as I tried to find out what kind of person she might be. While looks can never tell you everything about a person, they can sometimes give you an inkling of their character. I rounded the corner of the bookcase and found myself a fine view of the object of my interest.
And my breath stopped short in my chest.
It was her. I was suddenly frozen, I was suddenly on fire, I think I grew faint. More than ten years had passed since I saw her like this, and yet my heart was hammering now with the same emotions as it had then. It was as though I had been starving for a decade and now unexpectedly sat before the finest feast. All my old longing were back and I ached in places I had only known existed when I was around her.
The light fell on her hair where she was sitting, and her soft, brown eyes were fixed on the pages before her. She had that little wrinkle on her forehead, which meant that she didn’t entirely agree with what she was reading, and that she would be checking the author’s sources as soon as she had finished. I swallowed. Naturally I couldn’t lurk here like some fool of a Peeping Tom, but I wasn’t sure that I possessed the courage to approach her. What would I say? Would she even remember me?
Fortune, however, saw to it that I didn’t have to make the decision for myself. She looked up then, evidently searching the table for her quill but by chance she gazed further, beyond the circle of light, and squinting into the darkness of library rows she saw me. My impulse to flee for my life vanished when I heard her voice. Oh, her sweet voice!
“Terry! Oh my god, Terry, is that you?”
What could I do but to step forth and pretend that my knees weren’t shaking?
“Hermione! Goodness, how are you?”
“I - Well - Terry! I can’t believe my eyes! I haven’t seen you for, what, ten years at least!”
She was out of her chair, she crossed the short distance over the oak floor, and before I really knew what was happening she had embraced me. Overwhelmed and more, I didn’t know what to do with my hands or with myself, and I must have seemed like a stiff board to her. She pulled back from me and her wonderful face was full of laughter.
“Poor Terry, I’m sorry for attacking you like that. I’m just - wow. Would you like to come and sit with me for a while?”
Sit with her? I would do everything for her. But, as I thought to myself while trying to get a grip, perhaps that wasn’t what she expected to hear. I nodded instead and sat down opposite her.
“How are you?” I repeated my question, managing a somewhat steady smile.
“Good,” she smiled back at me. But her joy faltered a little at once, as if she still couldn’t manage to give an answer that wasn’t entirely correct. “I mean, well, mostly good. How about you?”
“Oh, you know, thriving.”
It was the truth, even if in that moment I was asking myself how I had survived for so long without speaking with her.
“I’m glad. I’m… Oh, Terry, to think that we should meet here. I’m so out of the loop; I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re doing these days.”
“I write,” I answered her at once. “For The Daily Prophet.”
“You write for the Prophet? How is it possible that I’ve never seen your name in it?”
“My pieces are mostly pointless and hidden away somewhere deep in the columns.”
“Terry…” she gently scolded my modesty.
“All right. I don’t care much for attention, so I write under a pseudonym. Ever heard of Hrothgar Gillies?”
A laugh escaped her. “That’s you? I really enjoy his - I mean your - columns. Especially all your thoughts about the Muggle society. Is that why you’re here, by the way?”
“Yes, working on a little article about Muggle tourism.”
“How wonderful.”
Her first excitement had settled now, and I stole a moment to observe her features. She hadn’t changed much. And what change I could spot was all for the better; she looked more intelligent, more mature, more alive. More beautiful.
Beauty, of course, is a matter of perception. I had a friend at Hogwarts once, whom I confided in about my feelings for Hermione Granger, and he thought me barking mad. He saw naught but bushy hair and a back slightly bent from carrying too many books, whereas I saw eyes shining of knowledge and the slim figure of a girl who found pleasure in reading rather than in food.
Aware that I was all but staring at her, I shook my head slightly.
“What of you, Hermione? Last I heard you were working for the Ministry?”
“Yes, I am. And it’s fascinating work I get to do!”
She told me everything. Once or twice she apologised for boring me, but I could only urge her to tell keep going. I learned all about the years she had spent at the Magical Creatures Department, and she did not hesitate to tell me about her transfer to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the challenges she had met there. While she spoke, animatedly and captivating as I remembered, I not only listened but also reminisced about all the times we had spent together, just like this, in the Hogwarts library.
I had noticed her already in our first year. No one could help but to do, and I wasn’t the only Ravenclaw who questioned why she wasn’t in our House. But while others grew weary of her constant questions and correct answers, she only continued to fascinate me. Granted, an 11-year-old boy doesn’t know what it is to be fascinated by a girl, but I knew that I admired her. I remember how I used to hope, foolishly but dearly, that someone, Professor McGonagall or Flitwick perhaps, would one day announce that the Hat had been wrong after all and that Hermione Granger belonged with us in Ravenclaw.
No such thing had happened, of course, and it had been until our fifth year before I finally got a chance to speak with her. We met in Dumbledore’s Army, and she was my practice partner on several occasions. Then, one day, she sat down next to me in Ancient Runes and after that it felt almost natural to share her table in the library. In the beginning we had only studied and discussed homework, until that one, crucial afternoon when she had felt that it was safe to tell me about her feelings on some more serious subjects.
To this day I don’t know how or why it happened, but for some reason I became her confidant. From that moment on and all through the rest of our fifth and sixth years, she told me secrets she would share with no one else. I learned of her letters to Viktor Krum, her feelings for Ronald Weasley, her worry about the war and the woes of being a Muggleborn at those dark times, which I shared. Hermione was an excellent listener herself, and I believe that she knew everything about me back then. Everything, except for that tiny, insignificant detail that all of me, mind and heart and soul, belonged to her.
In the end, Weasley had come to his senses. Oh, that idiot! How many years had he wasted? How many hours of her affection had he missed out on? He was blind, and not worthy of her, and still he got her. No one, her included, knew of my anguish then. It wasn’t difficult to hide with a society nearly destroyed and so much studying to catch up on; we barely saw each other as it was, and I suppose that Weasley had earned her trust and was the one privileged to share all of her deepest thoughts.
Oh, it had burned my heart out then, and to my surprise I found that it still hurt, this Friday evening when we sat in the Diagon Alley library together. She had paused her long account of her work, and was looking at me.
“There, Terry. Now you know everything about me. Again,” she added, obviously remembering our mutual history as well as I did.
“Everything about your job, Hermione,” I corrected her. “Not so much about you.”
“Maybe there’s not so much to me but work.” Her smile was crooked.
“Aren’t you married? I remember reading that you married your boyfriend, Weasley.”
“I did. Ronald is his old self, even if he’s managed to grow up just a little bit. We’ve got two children, Rose and Hugo.”
“Charming and intelligent as their mother, I presume?”
“I’d like to think so, yes,” she smiled.
“Then I must ask, if you don’t mind, what brings you to the library on a Friday evening when your average witch is at home, preparing supper for her family?”
“Long day at work. I needed to relax for a bit.”
“And as we all know, there’s no place better for relaxing than a library.”
“My view exactly. Though, now that you mention it, I probably should be getting home.”
“Of course,” I nodded. “I’m sorry for keeping you, Hermione.”
“Keeping me? Terry, don’t be - don’t say that.”
She looked at me, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. My knees had stopped shaking, but inside I was trembling. Was this the end? Would I spend another ten years without the salvation of looking upon her face?
“Terry, I was thinking… Maybe I could see you sometime?”
For a moment my mind was incapable of comprehending the meaning of her words. See me? Collecting myself before something inappropriate would blurt out of my mouth, I smiled.
“I would like that, Hermione.”
“Perhaps next week?”
“Anytime that’s convenient to you.”
She pulled out a square piece of parchment from her bag and handed it to me. It had her Floo addresses for work and home, and owl directions. It might have been my imagination again, but I thought it tingled against my fingertips. When I looked up from the card, her face was expectant. I pulled out my quill and a small scroll that I tore a piece out of.
“I’m afraid that second-rate Daily Prophet journalists don’t get fancy cards like yours. This will have to do.”
I gave her the slip of parchment, and she took it. We said our goodnights, quickly because it was getting late, and she was the first to dash off into the darkness of the corridors. In her hand lay the paper with my address, but judging by the feeling in my chest, it might as well have been my heart.
I remained in my seat for a while, perhaps as long as an hour. I took no notice of time or the books I had intended to check out, and when I finally made my way to the exit I felt strangely disconnected from the place I was in and the people I met. My senses, usually so perceptive of their surroundings, were now in an uproar, and I had no clue what to focus on.
It was dark outside. A few stray stars had appeared above, and the coolness of the early night helped me sober up a bit. Deep in thought but with an unmistakable spring to my step, I headed for the Leaky Cauldron where I would Floo home to my modest apartment in Hounslow.
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When a lie can be avoided, I usually try not to speak it, which is why I’ll be truthful and confess how that weekend, and the days that followed, I could think of nothing but her. I fancied I could remember every word she had told me, and I spent my hours wandering between bliss and agony. By Monday afternoon I was debating with myself whether it would be too soon to give her a Floo call, but although I decided it was not, I couldn’t work up the courage to call her name into the green flames. I looked at the neat card again and again - Hermione Weasley. What would he say, anyway, Weasley, when he found out that his wife wanted to see me? No, I couldn’t bear to call. What if he would be the one closest to the fire, or one of their children? Even at her Ministry office, some gossip of a colleague might answer. So I forced myself to wait, wait somewhat patiently through the eternity that passed before Thursday evening.
She asked me if I wanted to come along to some Muggle vernissage with her. Granted, I would have agreed to accompany her through the desert of Sahara, but this suggestion pleased me particularly. An uncle of mine, who just happened to be a well-respected art critic, had recommended this exhibition, and there was no one I’d rather enjoy it with than Hermione.
“Oh, excellent!” she grinned through the light of her office fire. “Ron never wants to do anything remotely cultural with me.”
Only a complete and utter fool would have read something into those words. Unfortunately, I was exactly such a fool.
Autumn continued on its inevitable road to winter and decay. But I cared not, noticed not, being busy with trying to believe my luck of getting to see her regularly, at least once or twice every week. Sometimes we just met over a quick Gillywater, our mutual favourite drink, but often enough we went for long walks through London that always ended up in some intriguing Muggle place. Museums and galleries, theatres and cinemas, parks and cafés - never had I enjoyed my city so thoroughly. She was happy to look at my notes for the article about Muggle London, which was now looking as it might expand itself to the length of a book. I suspect that every struggling journalist harbours a more or less secret dream about being published, and I was no different. In fact, I was ridiculously excited about the prospect of finding my words, printed and bound, in a bookshop or a library. My dedication was already written, and it only added to my excitement when I thought that one day she might open a copy, unsuspecting, and see those words: This Guide I dedicate to my guide - Hermione. Ah, yes, a first-class fool I was.
It so happened that two weeks after the break of the new year, we found ourselves sitting back-to-back on a bench, admiring paintings on opposite walls of a small gallery. I don’t know why that was the Saturday when I chose to ask the question that had been nesting at the tip of my tongue for a month at least, but so it was.
“Hermione?”
“Terry?”
Her voice travelled through her back into mine, and it did not seem to pass through my ears and brain before it reached my heart. It was all I needed to be brave enough, and I only swallowed once before continuing.
“You never speak of Ron. Does he know that it’s me you’re meeting?”
She moved, turned around, and although I was frightened half out of my wits, I felt compelled to follow her example. I didn’t have time to wonder how she would look at me, no, I don’t even think I found a moment to hope before I met her eyes, brown and warm and wise. Maybe I would have wished to see guilt in them, as a confirmation of my hopes, but there was none. Her gaze was steady; as was her hand when she calmly took hold of mine.
“Yes, he does. And I’m glad that you started this conversation. Terry…”
I did not move. I did not breathe. I knew that her next words would make my happiness or break my heart, and I wish, I pray, that no one else shall ever have to experience the torment of that suspense.
“I think I know what you’re feeling.”
She looked at me, perhaps expecting a nod or a questioning look. I could offer her nothing but a blank stare.
“All the time we’ve spent together, at Hogwarts and these past months, you have hidden so cleverly behind that mask of politeness and kindness. When I was younger I couldn’t see through it, but I believe do now.”
If it wasn’t for hear firm hold of my hand, I would have drowned then and there, helpless in my own despair.
“I will always love Ron.”
A swift stab at my heart would have been kinder, but I knew that she wasn’t hurting me on purpose, I knew that she never would.
“He’s my husband, and the father of my children, and even if I told you about it you would never believe all the things we’ve been through together. We’re very different, but we will always belong together.”
I was dead. All that was good and bright in my world and been swiped away and replaced by a vast, endless nothingness. I wanted to curl up in a black corner, I wanted to weep and howl. But I sat motionless, holding on to her hand, the lifeline she had provided for me.
“But, Terry… That doesn’t mean I don’t need you. You know me - I always work too much, and I want to do everything for my family. Sometimes I just need a real, true friend to pull me away from all of that and remind me that I’m more than that, more than a mother and a Ministry employee. And you, you’re that friend. My best friend.”
Hermione gently placed my hand on my lap, and got up from her side of the bench. A little melancholy showed on her face, I thought. I was afraid to meet her eyes, ashamed because I knew that she would see just how much I loved her. But she put a finger under my chin and forced my face upwards.
“Do you still want to see me on Tuesday, at The Globe?”
Yes. Yes, I did, and although I could not find the voice to tell her so, I made sure to nod a clear yes.
“I’m glad,” she smiled, and stooped down to kiss me on the cheek. And then she left.
Loyalty, they say, is a common trait among the Gryffindors. Bearing that in mind, perhaps it was me, and not her, who had ended up in the wrong House. As I watched her walk away, I knew that her words had changed nothing, and that whatever happened, I would always adore her and be devoted to her. Every woman to cross my future paths would be measured against her perfection - of grace, intelligence and honesty.
Heaving a deep sigh, a breath that brought a whiff of watercolours to my nose and life back into my body, I picked up my coat and headed for the door. Outside, the sky was bright, and it was easy to fall into the constant stream of Muggles flowing past. Seeing their rosy cheeks, and the frosted treetops in Regent’s Park, I felt that nothing could be as beautiful as London on this January afternoon.
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