Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns everything—honest.
Note: This is in Harry's POV. It occurs right after the fifth book.
Have you ever had the strong urge to write "I don't want to talk about it" across your forehead? Well, I have—numerous times. People think that talking about your problems helps, but I strongly disagree. I especially found that whenever Cho would want to talk about Cedric, it only made her—and me—feel worse. I thought that everyone realized after Sirius died that when I said, "Not tonight," when they brought it up, they knew I meant never. Apparently not.
"I know it must be hard for you, Harry." Hermione said in that soft, caring voice she'd recently been using when talking to me. That voice that I hated because it made me feel like a five year old.
I had just been sitting on the floor in the Burrow, playing chess with Ron, when suddenly, for the millionth time, Hermione felt I needed to 'share my feelings.'
"You were so close to Sirius, and I know how hard it must be to loose someone who was one of the last sources to your parents." She continued.
I grunted in response, trying not to listen to what she was saying. But, despite my ignoring her, the words seemed to echo around my head, making my throat tighten uncomfortably.
"You shouldn't blame yourself, mate." Ron offered in what he must have considered a comforting way. I bit my tongue, not wanting him to start too. I studied the chess board intently, not daring to look up at them just in case my emotions got the better of me.
"That's right, Harry," Hermione piped up. "You didn't know that the vision wasn't true—and Sirius was just doing his job for the Order when he came to save us."
I began to bite the inside of my lip, somehow thinking that this would help me stay in control. I kept letting out long, shaky breaths, knowing that if I allowed them to quicken, it'd be broken with sobs.
"I know your upset, mate," Ron said calmly. "He was your dad's best friend, and your godfather. There's no reason why you shouldn't be upset."
Ron and Hermione were hitting every God damn nail on the head. Everything they were saying was exactly what I was thinking—and it was unnerving to know this. I felt exposed—they knew about the thoughts I didn't want them too. And it just made things ten times worse to hear them talking about Sirius in past-tense.
"Please, Harry," Hermione said, kneeling down next to me. I quickly looked away from her, biting my lip so hard I tasted blood. "We just want to know what you're feeling. You've been so distant, and I just can't stand it anymore."
I chanced a quick glance at her, and saw her eyes brimming with tears. I looked away, my throat growing painfully tighter.
"Please," she whispered, putting a hard on my shoulder. "Just tell us what's wrong."
The mere thought of opening my mouth and telling them about all of the thoughts and fears that were crushing me made my eyes grow wet with tears. But I kept my jaw clenched, knowing that if I opened it, my voice would shake, and I didn't want them to see me that weak.
So, shrugging off Hermione's hand, I stood up quickly and bolted up the stairs, not daring to look at either of them as more tears threatened to fall.
I stumbled through the hall, my emotions somehow affecting my balance. I glanced at the first door, knowing I couldn't hide in there. It was Lupin's room and he'd been in there for days.
Taking another shaky breath, I turned to the next door and saw that it stood slightly ajar. Tentatively, I pushed it open.
Ginny was sitting on her bed, reading a book. At the sound of the creaking door, she looked up, her wide eyes landing on my. I quickly looked away, blinking in an attempt to clear my vision.
I heart her book drop to the ground, and the creak of the wooden floor beneath her feet before I felt two warm arms wrap around my neck and a tiny, soft body pull itself close to me.
I pulled her tightly against me, burying my face into her fragrant, ginger hair.
As soon as she tightened her grip around me, the tears that I'd been fighting so hard to hold back fell easily down my cheeks. I started shaking with suppressed sobs and muffled my gasps of breath into her hair. She just stood on her tips toes, pulling me silently closer toward her.
This was the only thing I asked for during such a depressing time. When I'm filled to a breaking point with emotions and can't open my mouth without breaking down, the only kind of love that matters to me is silent. There are no explanations or confessions—just a comfortable silence, occasionally broken with sobs.
Note: This is in Harry's POV. It occurs right after the fifth book.
Have you ever had the strong urge to write "I don't want to talk about it" across your forehead? Well, I have—numerous times. People think that talking about your problems helps, but I strongly disagree. I especially found that whenever Cho would want to talk about Cedric, it only made her—and me—feel worse. I thought that everyone realized after Sirius died that when I said, "Not tonight," when they brought it up, they knew I meant never. Apparently not.
"I know it must be hard for you, Harry." Hermione said in that soft, caring voice she'd recently been using when talking to me. That voice that I hated because it made me feel like a five year old.
I had just been sitting on the floor in the Burrow, playing chess with Ron, when suddenly, for the millionth time, Hermione felt I needed to 'share my feelings.'
"You were so close to Sirius, and I know how hard it must be to loose someone who was one of the last sources to your parents." She continued.
I grunted in response, trying not to listen to what she was saying. But, despite my ignoring her, the words seemed to echo around my head, making my throat tighten uncomfortably.
"You shouldn't blame yourself, mate." Ron offered in what he must have considered a comforting way. I bit my tongue, not wanting him to start too. I studied the chess board intently, not daring to look up at them just in case my emotions got the better of me.
"That's right, Harry," Hermione piped up. "You didn't know that the vision wasn't true—and Sirius was just doing his job for the Order when he came to save us."
I began to bite the inside of my lip, somehow thinking that this would help me stay in control. I kept letting out long, shaky breaths, knowing that if I allowed them to quicken, it'd be broken with sobs.
"I know your upset, mate," Ron said calmly. "He was your dad's best friend, and your godfather. There's no reason why you shouldn't be upset."
Ron and Hermione were hitting every God damn nail on the head. Everything they were saying was exactly what I was thinking—and it was unnerving to know this. I felt exposed—they knew about the thoughts I didn't want them too. And it just made things ten times worse to hear them talking about Sirius in past-tense.
"Please, Harry," Hermione said, kneeling down next to me. I quickly looked away from her, biting my lip so hard I tasted blood. "We just want to know what you're feeling. You've been so distant, and I just can't stand it anymore."
I chanced a quick glance at her, and saw her eyes brimming with tears. I looked away, my throat growing painfully tighter.
"Please," she whispered, putting a hard on my shoulder. "Just tell us what's wrong."
The mere thought of opening my mouth and telling them about all of the thoughts and fears that were crushing me made my eyes grow wet with tears. But I kept my jaw clenched, knowing that if I opened it, my voice would shake, and I didn't want them to see me that weak.
So, shrugging off Hermione's hand, I stood up quickly and bolted up the stairs, not daring to look at either of them as more tears threatened to fall.
I stumbled through the hall, my emotions somehow affecting my balance. I glanced at the first door, knowing I couldn't hide in there. It was Lupin's room and he'd been in there for days.
Taking another shaky breath, I turned to the next door and saw that it stood slightly ajar. Tentatively, I pushed it open.
Ginny was sitting on her bed, reading a book. At the sound of the creaking door, she looked up, her wide eyes landing on my. I quickly looked away, blinking in an attempt to clear my vision.
I heart her book drop to the ground, and the creak of the wooden floor beneath her feet before I felt two warm arms wrap around my neck and a tiny, soft body pull itself close to me.
I pulled her tightly against me, burying my face into her fragrant, ginger hair.
As soon as she tightened her grip around me, the tears that I'd been fighting so hard to hold back fell easily down my cheeks. I started shaking with suppressed sobs and muffled my gasps of breath into her hair. She just stood on her tips toes, pulling me silently closer toward her.
This was the only thing I asked for during such a depressing time. When I'm filled to a breaking point with emotions and can't open my mouth without breaking down, the only kind of love that matters to me is silent. There are no explanations or confessions—just a comfortable silence, occasionally broken with sobs.