Foreshadow
Title: Foreshadow
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Sirius/Hermione
Rating: G
Word Count: 517
Summary: Years later, she will not remember why, exactly, she is so desperate to save Sirius Black's life.
Author's Notes: For dark_princess17, who (ages ago) requested Sirius/Hermione, angsty romance, and rain. This is one of those fics where I jerk you around and mess with your brain. Remember, Hermione was born September 19, 1979. Also, for sure read the summary above. It puts the fic in context. Sort of.
Foreshadow
The edges of her vision blur and bleed into grey, and she sees herself, older-and not through her own eyes, but in black and white. It is the logical definition of a dream (reality warped), yet she feels, and can touch and smell and taste. There is rain upon her skin, edging along her lips like a kiss.
She sees him before she can sense him, which almost frightens her; she has had no warning, no time to prepare-yet somewhere deep within, she has known that he would be here, and she is waiting. Waiting in the rain like an old film’s cliché (edges blurred, black and white).
He looks eighteen, but in the brief second his grey eyes chance upon her, he is more than thirty.
“Hermione Granger,” he says, thoughtful, teasing, sad.
She wants to tell him something, but she cannot.
“Y’know, I don’t reckon you’ll ever see me again.”
She opens her mouth.
“’Course, I’ll still see you.”
Not like this, though, she tries to protest, pointing out the obvious, and she forms the words-but her voice is not there. She scrabbles at her throat, terrified; she cannot speak, cannot-
His hands still hers.
He is cold.
“What’s wrong?”
I can’t-
“C’mon now, you won’t miss me that much.” He laughs-playing pretend.
I-
He touches her cheek, clings to it for a moment like a life preserver. His hair is dripping, yet instead of looking wet, it suddenly appears lank, as if it has not been washed in years.
“Why won’t you talk to me, Hermione?”
I’m trying-
The rain begins to fall louder, stronger, drowning out her own thoughts; mist rises up from the ground in a phantom cloud that clings to the grass.
He takes her shoulders, staring directly into her eyes.
“Try harder,” he pleads. “Try harder, Hermione.” His whole demeanor has changed.
To do what?
He drops to his knees, begging at her feet. She does not know him as well as she should, but his behavior, she realizes, is all wrong. He is proud, he is reckless, he is-
Serious.
Insistent.
“You won’t forget me, will you? You’ll remember?”
How could I-?
“You’ll come back for me, won’t you?”
His outline distorts, unsteady-unfocused.
Hermione blinks…
…and woke up, shaking. She looked around, then down upon herself, disoriented.
Her room was still dark, the window still black and sightless. The door was still open ajar, precisely the way she had left it. She was still in her bed (no longer in that unfamiliar, rainy place). And it was still October eighth, nineteen-eighty-nine, not yet morning.
She brought a shaking hand to her lips, and found them chilled. There was a name, somewhere, somehow, locked away upon the tip of her tongue; but as her mind began to focus in its consciousness, she could not recall it to her.
It might have belonged to the strange boy-the one that seemed to have known her so truly.
But Hermione could not be certain. She had never seen him before in her life.
THE END
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Sirius/Hermione
Rating: G
Word Count: 517
Summary: Years later, she will not remember why, exactly, she is so desperate to save Sirius Black's life.
Author's Notes: For dark_princess17, who (ages ago) requested Sirius/Hermione, angsty romance, and rain. This is one of those fics where I jerk you around and mess with your brain. Remember, Hermione was born September 19, 1979. Also, for sure read the summary above. It puts the fic in context. Sort of.
Foreshadow
The edges of her vision blur and bleed into grey, and she sees herself, older-and not through her own eyes, but in black and white. It is the logical definition of a dream (reality warped), yet she feels, and can touch and smell and taste. There is rain upon her skin, edging along her lips like a kiss.
She sees him before she can sense him, which almost frightens her; she has had no warning, no time to prepare-yet somewhere deep within, she has known that he would be here, and she is waiting. Waiting in the rain like an old film’s cliché (edges blurred, black and white).
He looks eighteen, but in the brief second his grey eyes chance upon her, he is more than thirty.
“Hermione Granger,” he says, thoughtful, teasing, sad.
She wants to tell him something, but she cannot.
“Y’know, I don’t reckon you’ll ever see me again.”
She opens her mouth.
“’Course, I’ll still see you.”
Not like this, though, she tries to protest, pointing out the obvious, and she forms the words-but her voice is not there. She scrabbles at her throat, terrified; she cannot speak, cannot-
His hands still hers.
He is cold.
“What’s wrong?”
I can’t-
“C’mon now, you won’t miss me that much.” He laughs-playing pretend.
I-
He touches her cheek, clings to it for a moment like a life preserver. His hair is dripping, yet instead of looking wet, it suddenly appears lank, as if it has not been washed in years.
“Why won’t you talk to me, Hermione?”
I’m trying-
The rain begins to fall louder, stronger, drowning out her own thoughts; mist rises up from the ground in a phantom cloud that clings to the grass.
He takes her shoulders, staring directly into her eyes.
“Try harder,” he pleads. “Try harder, Hermione.” His whole demeanor has changed.
To do what?
He drops to his knees, begging at her feet. She does not know him as well as she should, but his behavior, she realizes, is all wrong. He is proud, he is reckless, he is-
Serious.
Insistent.
“You won’t forget me, will you? You’ll remember?”
How could I-?
“You’ll come back for me, won’t you?”
His outline distorts, unsteady-unfocused.
Hermione blinks…
…and woke up, shaking. She looked around, then down upon herself, disoriented.
Her room was still dark, the window still black and sightless. The door was still open ajar, precisely the way she had left it. She was still in her bed (no longer in that unfamiliar, rainy place). And it was still October eighth, nineteen-eighty-nine, not yet morning.
She brought a shaking hand to her lips, and found them chilled. There was a name, somewhere, somehow, locked away upon the tip of her tongue; but as her mind began to focus in its consciousness, she could not recall it to her.
It might have belonged to the strange boy-the one that seemed to have known her so truly.
But Hermione could not be certain. She had never seen him before in her life.
THE END