i.
Immobulus
"If I command the moon, it will come down; and if I wish to withhold the day, night will linger over my head; and again, if I wish to embark on the sea, I need no ship, and if I wish to fly through the air, I am free from my weight." - Thessalian Witches
TW: character death, suicidal thoughts, eventual self-harm and nsfw.
In the end, it wasn't any Death Eater. No killing curse rebounded, catching him unawares on an Auror's mission. No basilisk, blinded, poisoned him with its deadly venom.
No. It wasn't anything quite so dramatic. Nothing nearly as exciting. In the end, it was (as it always is, I suppose) more simple than that. When his body was bony and starved, what little energy it received being dealt out to the tumors that riddled his system, it did what bodies do best.
It – Harry, the boy who lived – died.
*"*"*"*"*
I lie in bed, now. I've been doing this often, and during all hours of the day. I remember how punctual I used to be, quite rational and level-headed – but now I have an excuse to lie here stewing, at least; it's nighttime.
I know that this isn't healthy (obviously, I'm not entirely daft), but I'm not certain if I care or not. Harry's death seems to have taken something out of me, and of course I know that Ron is worried. But it's all that I can do to open my eyes most mornings, blinking dazedly in the morning sunlight before pulling my blankets over my head (I've never been one to use magic as an excuse to be lazy, and I can't seem to justify using my wand to close the curtains). How can I find a quill to send an owl, or open the front door, when I can't get out of bed?
Unfortunately, lying in bed gives me quite a bit of time to think. I'm picturing Harry's eyes, now. I remember holding him, the night before the end, his skin chalky enough to match the hospital bed sheets. He was thin, his clavicle sharp, ribs like fish bones, but his eyes – his eyes were green like holly leaves and they were clear despite the fever that caused his forehead to sheen and drip with perspiration. He moaned and clenched his teeth, near delusion, but his eyes were bright and alive.
I kick my blankets off. Their warmth and comfort makes my body ache.
"*"*"*"*"*
It's 3:07 in the morning again. I seem to wake at this hour more and more often, now. Some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder, most likely – at this exact minute, fourteen days ago, Harry died. How my sleep-wake cycle knows that, however, is a mystery to me.
Ten days since Harry's funeral (he said that he didn't care about the arrangements, just the burial place, which was to be Godric's Hollow); eight days since I last saw Ron (coffee). Seven days since I got more than one hour of sleep (Muggle sleeping pills, three). Four days since I showered last (was going to go out with Ginny, fell asleep and woke up naked with damp hair, one hour late). Two days since I last ate (toast).
Logic screams that I should leave my bed. I'm beginning to smell rather repugnant, and I won't get back to sleep. Anyway, I'm meant to go out for breakfast tomorrow with Ron. Today, with Ron, if one wants to get specific (I can't bring myself to care either way, although specifics used to drive me mad).
He's worried, I can tell. Perhaps I will get up and go. Then again, if I don't, it won't exactly have been the first date I've missed since Harry's death. I used to see him every day. I used to see them every day.
Ron won't mind.
But I know I'm being cruel, and I shouldn't be. There isn't any need to be unkind. Ron has enough problems as it is – he's been covering Harry's assignments at The Department of Magical Law Enforcement until the Ministry is able to find an auror to replace him.
Which may not be for quite a while, I suppose. Who could ever take his place?
I'm crying, now – I ought to take a calming draught if I'm ever to make it to this breakfast date.
"*"*"*"*"*
At the funeral, it rained. I wove a wreathe of orchids and lilies for Harry's grave, reluctant to use any magic. The press was everywhere, vultures made of flashing lights and quick quotes quills.
"*"*"*"*"*
The draught makes me slap-happy and hungry, but mostly I find myself feeling numb. When I undress and stand underneath the showerhead, I don't want to wash myself. I just want to stay here, until the water goes cold, until my fingers and toes wrinkle like prunes.
I read once that our digits wrinkle under water because of evolution – to help us get a better grip while wet.
It's not helping at all.
See? Funny. I can do this. Hermione, you can do this. Yes, I can.
"*"*"*"*"*
After Harry's funeral, Ron and I sat underneath a large oak tree in the cemetery. Close to Harry, but not close enough for the reporters, the journalists, the Potter Fanatics to notice us.
Ron whispered to me: "I wish that we could hide him away in a big, stone cave, closed off from all these bloody lunatics."
"*"*"*"*"*"
I attempt to dress well, but I've never been very fashion-inclined. In the Wizarding world, anything goes, but I live in a Muggle apartment complex, and I can't just go for a stroll in anything I please. Under normal circumstances, I could simply pass as someone with poor fashion taste, but I haven't opened my door in days – with the pile of newspapers in the hallway in various stages of decomposition, the neighbors might think I've snapped.
Sod it. A sweater and jeans will have to do. Ron doesn't know the difference. He'll arrive in robes, and my neighbors will think I'm loony anyway.
I hear someone knocking on the front door (Ron says that doorbells are "bloody freaky") and I walk towards the entranceway, slowly, so I don't get dizzy. Lack of sleep and sustenance coupled with an extra-strength calming draught does not lead to optimal performance, and everything is slightly blurry, but I do my best.
I half-heartedly smooth down my hair before I open the door, and Ron greets me, wide-eyed and evidently not expecting an answer at the door.
"'Mione? Bloody hell, you look aw..." he falters. "I mean, well, it's good to see you." His eyes are shiny and red-rimmed, like he's been having a cry, and judging from his hair, you'd think there'd been a hurricane (although, that's hardly abnormal; it always looks like that). I know that mine isn't any better, anyway, so I don't comment. He leans in for a hug and I find myself tensing, unaccustomed to his touch after days without so much as exchanging a word. But we fit comfortably together, and with my face pressed against the silk of his black robes, I feel my lower lip start to wobble.
"Yes," I say quickly, pulling away from him and crossing my arms. I don't want to cry. I shouldn't be so ridiculous. Don't be daft, Hermione, shut up and don't snivel. "You too. Just…let me get my bag."
It's funny, that I don't care about worrying Ron when I'm lying in bed and letting him bang on the front door, but when he's right in front of me, I'm suddenly a mess.
My bag is in my room, but I feel myself beginning to sob and I have to stop in the hallway, just out of Ron's view, clutching the doorframe. In hysterics, I can't help but collapse on the stairs, and my house smells bad enough to turn my stomach, and my head is a mess of exhaustion and longing for Ron and something else, a hole in my stomach that isn't hunger but anguish and Harry, Harry, Ha –
Warm, freckled arms are around my waist and across my chest like a seatbelt, now, and I twist to bury my face in the robes of the man who these arms belong to, Ron. Painfully aware that I've been speaking Harry's name aloud, but unable to stop, I sob as Ron rocks me.
"You're fine, Hermione, shhhh, you're fine. Everything is going to get better, I swear. Merlin, Hermione. Are you sure you're up to going out?"
Harry, Harry, Harry…
"I know, Mione. I miss him too."
But it's not enough. It's never enough.