A/N: It's their story. 10 drabbles wound into one, 10 scenes of their life. But even though it's just 10, it can hold the story of a lifetime. This is based off of "10 Things I know About Hermione Granger," but it's a different thing altogether. Because this time, it's not just a list. It has an ending.
so don't move an inch
don't move a single second
until the shade behind your thoughts is not confused
because I felt your inch
i know the scent as well as any
clot in your guard
and all paints or pollen
brick in your mortar
petals to soaking
on the cracks
-[Paint or Pollen, Blind Pilot)
She is concentrating hard, I can tell. Her brow is furrowed in that inquisitive way of hers and I can hear her muttering things under her breath as she runs her finger down the list of ingredients. Her bushy hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail and her shirt is damply clinging to her body, but she looks sexy to me, she looks like a princess, even sitting there in that hot, dark room full of the smell of elixirs and things that have been dead for a long, long time. I don't know why my legs are moving, don't know why I'm walking over to her side until I'm there. And then my mouth, my stupid mouth opens.
"Need help?"
She looks up. There is fire in her eyes, sparks flying off her tongue.
"Go away."
The rejection. It's in every syllable, infiltrating every letter, every gap between the words. With a sigh of contempt, she goes back to her book and I walk back to my cauldron because maybe I'm just not cut out to be her Prince Charming.
I forget about my potion for the rest of the lesson, and even when it simmers over, I don't care, because I only have eyes for her, for watching her tiny little hands pour ingredients into her pot, watching her twist her hair around her finger and contemplate, watching her wrinkle her nose in frustration and flip through the pages like they have an answer. Watching her be her.
I stare at her, counting the freckles on her nose. She doesn't ever notice me, not even when I count oh so high, all the way up to fourteen. It's a magic number, and when the voice tells us we're dismissed, I leave and wait for the night to come. And then when it does, I stare out the window, stare into all that shuddering blackness, that cloudy expanse, and when my vision focuses, I see fourteen stars, one for every single freckle.
ooo
Across the room, I see her sitting with Potter and Weasley, talking to them, grinning. She's sipping something from a goblet, maybe pumpkin juice, maybe just water, but when she puts it down, she has the biggest smile on her face. She laughs at something Weasley said, and even though it was probably something unintelligible, I see her eyes flash for a second, merriment lighting them up like fireworks. But even after the moment passes, she's still smiling, smiling as Potter passes the butter to her, smiling as she cuts off a wedge and applies it to her toast, smiling as she takes a delicious bite.
It's unfair. How can her lips be so curvaceous, her teeth so straight and white? I forget about breakfast because time is standing still, everything is frozen in motion. I study the movement of her lips, every gracefully swooping curve, every smirk of amusement, every grin of that's-so-funny. And maybe I've just been looking too long or maybe she feels my eyes staring at her, but she looks up at me, meets my gaze head on.
And all of a sudden, she's not smiling anymore.
We hold glances for nothing, less than a second, but it's enough to tell me everything I need to know.
ooo
She's sitting in the library when I walk in, yawning. It's hardly a surprise to see her here, buried behind an endless stack of books, because when you think about it, 2 in the morning really isn't that late, especially not when your paper about the lifecycle of flobberworms is due in two weeks. I walk past silently, trying to go unnoticed.
Inconspicuousness, as it seems, does not suit mevery well.
A hiss out of the darkness. "What are you doing here?" She's perched on the edge of her chair, eyes peering out at me from over the top of her book. Candlelight transforms her face to a flickering mass of shadows and perfection. She's wearing pajamas, great big hideous things made of flannel, but she still looks beautiful, like she just stepped out of a dream.
"Returning a book."
"And I just became Headmistress of Hogwarts."
"No, really. See? It's right here. Catch."
I throw the book in an upward arc, watch it fly toward the ceiling like a caged bird set free. She looks scandalized but really, what else can she do but catch it? So as it flies through the air, she opens her arms and after one wavering, hovering second, it falls down neatly. She glares daggers at me and reads the title.
"A History of Transmorflagration and the Dangers it Imposes on Modern Society?" She quirks an eyebrow and looks up at me, completely dubious. "Doesn't exactly sound like the thing Mr. Malfoy would be reading in his free time."
"Wasn't my book. It was Crabbe's."
And I leave before she can make another reply. It's best to leave her to herself tonight, buried in her books and knowledge, cramming all that learning into that pretty little head.
Distractions can wait until another day.
ooo
McGonagall has asked the question, the hand flies into the air.
"Yes… Miss Granger?"
"Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration."
"Precisely. 10 points to Gryffindor."
And while the rest of the world tries to figure it out, she relaxes back into her seat, a smile as bright as the sun on her face. This is her place, her time, and we're all just strangers on her planet of knowingness. But then I catch a glimpse of her face, a real glimpse, and what I see shocks me because the triumph is gone, the victory has abandoned her, and all I see left is a girl with a tired expression and red-ringed eyes.
She's been crying.
I don't think anyone else notices. But I do.
ooo
Every single day, when every last piece of toast has been gobbled, each egg devoured, every glass of orange juice poured, she sits there eating her oatmeal with diced peaches. It's a strange combination, something you wouldn't come to expect of the sensible, pragmatic Hermione, but one that she enjoys nonetheless. It's her comfort food, something she relies on to pull her through each day.
She's eating it again today, nodding and smiling at something Weasley is saying. I decide to try it because when has a little oatmeal ever hurt anyone? I ladle some into a bowl and the steam washes over my face, almost soothing. I raise the spoon to my mouth and take a bite.
It's perfect. Almost unbelievably so.
I finish one bowl and go for another.
As I'm finishing my second bowl, our eyes catch among the sea of crowded faces. She looks at the bowl, then back up at me, and I swear, I can almost swear that the corner of her mouth turns up.
I see her face in my mind for the rest of the day.
ooo
She's crouched down in the last aisle, snuggled up against the shelf with a smile on her face because she's reading a book. It's something about her casual posture that strikes me, resonates within my heart. She doesn't care, she really doesn't care if anyone sees her because this is her home, this is her element, and she knows she belongs here, hiding behind these shelves with a world at her little fingertips. This time, she's reading a leather-bound book, a dusty old thing that looked like it's survived through the ages. I can't recall her ever looking happier than she does right now, dust on the tips of her fingers as she flips page after page.
A small, careless movement, and her head flips up predatorily.
"Who's there?"
I duck behind a bookshelf and mutter a quiet reprimand to myself because I never thought that even the faintest flash of pale blonde hair could distract her.
Apparently so.
"Who's there?" she says quietly, more desperately.
I want so badly to say something, but even as the words are leaping into my throat, longing to escape, I push them back down. As I walk away, softly and so mad at myself, I whisper an answer.
"No one."
ooo
"Granger, I just want to talk to you."
"Leave me alone."
"Please, Granger, just give me a chance."
"I said leave me alone."
"But – "
"Do you not understand English?" She whirls around to face me, fire dancing in her eyes. "Or are you simply too egotistical to realize that some people in this world would just rather not have to deal with you every day?"
Her words hurt. They sting, as if each one is alive and stabbing me in the chest. I take a deep, shuddering breath and dislodge the chips of ice piecing me.
"Granger – I mean – " I pause. "Hermione."
She looks up at me, and I can see something in her eyes, something change, something shift.
And then I see her. All of her, exposed before me, her mind a beautiful place for me to explore, me to see as she stands there, vulnerable and completely mine. Her eyes are broken, and I can see it all, see her pain and every teardrop she's ever cried, every time she's ever stayed up late into the night, pushing for glory and praying for a miracle.
The words bubble into my throat and this time I don't stop them.
"I love you."
A flicker of confusion flits across her face because this isn't what she's used to, isn't what she's expecting.
She takes a step backwards. "A little too much to drink at Blaise's party last night?" Her smile is uneasy, cautious, guarded, and it breaks my heart because the first time she ever smiles at me, really smiles at me, it is out of pity.
ooo
"Look, Granger, what I wanted to say is – "
"That you're sorry. I get it." She turns to look at me, adjusting the books in her arms. "You don't need to explain any more than that. You were drunk. Happens to everyone." She says this like it's the most reasonable thing in the world, then goes back to shelving the books, her fingertips gently caressing each spine as she slides it back into its proper place.
I want to scream at her, take her by the arms and shake her, tell her that I wasn't drunk that night, that I wasn't just trying to pull something over her head, I was telling the truth.
Somehow, she can see my internal struggle. Putting the books down for a moment, she lays a small hand on my arm and I have to tell myself to breathe because maybe I'm not in heaven yet. I close my eyes tightly then open them, and she is still looking at me, her face scrunched up into a cute cross between bewilderment and reassurance.
"Are you okay?"
When I don't respond, she removes her hand and turns back to the bookshelf, twisting a small stand of hair around her finger. She doesn't know what to say anymore. I know I should tell her something, at least acknowledge that she has tried to help me, but my brain doesn't seem to be working properly.
"I – I'm okay," I manage finally, breaking the silence. "I – I think I'll leave now."
She doesn't respond, just goes back to shelving books, and not for the first time since I've met her, my heart takes a plunge.
ooo
It was a rough Quidditch match. Flint fell off his broom twice, Weasley snapped a few fingers, and while diving for the Snitch, my broom had other plans and bucked me right into the stands. They said I was lucky to escape with only a fractured femur and a few bruises.
I didn't feel lucky.
Weasley's bed was right next to me, and every so often he'd shoot me a disparaging look, which I would return with my customary smirk. No use wasting my breath on him, who whimpered in pain and clutched his fingers to his chest every few minutes, like he had suffered the most terrifying injury ever recorded in the history of Quidditch. But now his presence was a blessing, because she came sailing in through the door.
Her hair was windblown, her cheeks rosy, and I could swear there were snowflakes clinging to her lashes. She went straight to his bedside, all fuss and worry, a nurturing angel in the form of a person.
"Oh Ron, Ron, I thought that when he slammed into you – I – I thought – "
"Nah, just a few fingers, 'Mione, that's all," says Ron, squeezing her hand with his good one. "Just a few fingers." She sighs in relief and clutches his hand tighter.
I almost snort. The comment 'just a few fingers' doesn't really match up with the shrieks of agony he let out just a few minutes ago when Madam Pomfrey force-fed him a spoonful of Skele-Gro, but I decide not to comment.
She stays for a few more minutes before Madam Pomfrey decides to close the Hospital Wing to visitors. The pain in my leg is growing stronger with every second that passes, but I force myself to ignore it, force myself to concentrate on her, only her, to not let anything else cross my mind. She stands up to leave, a big smile on her face as she looks down at her friend.
"Harry misses you already," she says. "Get better soon, okay?" She starts to leave, then hesitates for a moment. She turns back around.
"You too, Malfoy."
This time, when she turns around, she continues walking out the door and doesn't look back.
But that's when I realize that my leg doesn't hurt anymore.
ooo
Because now, it's not just rumor after all these years, it's fact, and it's staring me straight in the face, sparkling like a diamond, because it is a diamond. It's hooked around her finger, and he's hooked around her arm, walking in my direction. Two years working at the Ministry and I'd never seen a sight as unsettling, something so raw that it could tear everything inside of me to shreds.
She's engaged, and the ring, the cursed ring – it's proof.
I never gave up hoping after I left Hogwarts. Never gave up hoping that she might still have feelings for me, harbored somewhere so deep inside that she just couldn't find them, couldn't dig them up out of the dirt and ashes she'd scarred her memory of me with. But then as time passed, my naivety lessened, and I began to realize that maybe the whole time I'd known her, I was just kidding myself. Maybe she'd hated me all along.
But as they pass me in the hallway of the Ministry, Ron and Hermione, happy couple-to-be, she lifts up her face… and smiles.
It's a smile, nothing more than that. But it speaks volumes.
It says that we can never be more than just acquaintances. We can never be friends, never be lovers; all that we can be are two people whose paths met on the road of life one day and happened to intertwine for a few moments. We aren't enemies, and she never hated me, but she's never felt anything for me.
So as she passes me, arm linked with her future husband, I stare at her retreating form until my eyes burn.
And this picture of her – this one, last desperate picture I have of her, so happy and so beautiful – will have to stay locked in my memory forever.
A/N: Please tell me how this made you feel. It would make my day so much if you pressed that review button(:
XOXO,
-Sianatra
