"'You know what, fuck you,'" Hermione read out. She sounded like she might be close to tears. The parchment letter had been delivered that afternoon; the nurses had left it on the bedside table for Hermione to read. It had looked personal, they had said. "'You don't deserve to have me there. You didn't even--' Harry, I don't think I can read this." He heard her fold it in half.
"Read it," he said.
"Couldn't you--"
"What? Ask a nurse to read out my best friend's fuck off letter for me? Read it myself?"
Hermione was silent. It was as though she'd vanished, although he hadn't heard the pop of Disapparation or the clack of her heels against the tiles. A deep, hitched breath. "Just give me a minute, then," she said.
Harry scowled. "Give it to me," he said. He reached out towards her, his hand shaking; his arm hit a glass that hadn't been there before, and it shattered loudly on the floor. Hermione gasped; he guessed that some of the glass, or the water, or both, had hit her.
"No," she said. "No." Her voice sounded a little firmer. She muttered, "Reparo," and then he heard the letter crinkle a little as she opened it again.
"'You didn't even try to stop her, did you? What's one fewer Weasley when the Boy Who Lived could have a chance at revenge and glory? A chance at defeating Voldemort? I'm done. I won't forgive you, Harry, not that you'll ever ask. You're everyone's hero. What's one Weasley?'"
Harry felt cold.
"I tried to talk to him before I came, but he said that as long as I--as long as we're together, he's through with me, too," Hermione said, voice flat. "I know he has it wrong, Harry; you would've saved her if you'd known. I think if you talk to him, he might come around."
"I'm not talking to him."
"You're both children," Hermione said crossly. "You can't let this get between us. You have to make him understand--"
Harry frowned, looking away. "But he's right. I could've saved her if I'd spared one second for something other than killing Voldemort. But I wanted--I don't know what I wanted." To earn my fame. To be more than just a scar. For Mum and Dad to be proud. Nothing worth a life--not the lives Voldemort had cut short or those he'd ended himself.
He rolled onto his side awkwardly, facing away from her. He heard a sigh, the rustle of cloth, then click, click, click, click. Hermione placed her hand--cool, strong, familiar--over his, twined their fingers together. He cringed away weakly; he didn't deserve her. He didn't deserve anyone. He could feel tears prickling behind his eyes and wished she'd leave so he didn't have to cry in front of her.
"It's not your fault," she said. "He's just upset. He'll come around if we talk to him. It wouldn't just be Ginny dead if you hadn't killed Voldemort." The first time anyone had said Ginny's name since she'd died. Hermione pressed her lips against Harry's shoulder and he shuddered; his face screwed up.
Don't cry, he told himself. Don't be weak.
"Harry," she said. "We can hold each other up."
He let the first tears fall.
"Read it," he said.
"Couldn't you--"
"What? Ask a nurse to read out my best friend's fuck off letter for me? Read it myself?"
Hermione was silent. It was as though she'd vanished, although he hadn't heard the pop of Disapparation or the clack of her heels against the tiles. A deep, hitched breath. "Just give me a minute, then," she said.
Harry scowled. "Give it to me," he said. He reached out towards her, his hand shaking; his arm hit a glass that hadn't been there before, and it shattered loudly on the floor. Hermione gasped; he guessed that some of the glass, or the water, or both, had hit her.
"No," she said. "No." Her voice sounded a little firmer. She muttered, "Reparo," and then he heard the letter crinkle a little as she opened it again.
"'You didn't even try to stop her, did you? What's one fewer Weasley when the Boy Who Lived could have a chance at revenge and glory? A chance at defeating Voldemort? I'm done. I won't forgive you, Harry, not that you'll ever ask. You're everyone's hero. What's one Weasley?'"
Harry felt cold.
"I tried to talk to him before I came, but he said that as long as I--as long as we're together, he's through with me, too," Hermione said, voice flat. "I know he has it wrong, Harry; you would've saved her if you'd known. I think if you talk to him, he might come around."
"I'm not talking to him."
"You're both children," Hermione said crossly. "You can't let this get between us. You have to make him understand--"
Harry frowned, looking away. "But he's right. I could've saved her if I'd spared one second for something other than killing Voldemort. But I wanted--I don't know what I wanted." To earn my fame. To be more than just a scar. For Mum and Dad to be proud. Nothing worth a life--not the lives Voldemort had cut short or those he'd ended himself.
He rolled onto his side awkwardly, facing away from her. He heard a sigh, the rustle of cloth, then click, click, click, click. Hermione placed her hand--cool, strong, familiar--over his, twined their fingers together. He cringed away weakly; he didn't deserve her. He didn't deserve anyone. He could feel tears prickling behind his eyes and wished she'd leave so he didn't have to cry in front of her.
"It's not your fault," she said. "He's just upset. He'll come around if we talk to him. It wouldn't just be Ginny dead if you hadn't killed Voldemort." The first time anyone had said Ginny's name since she'd died. Hermione pressed her lips against Harry's shoulder and he shuddered; his face screwed up.
Don't cry, he told himself. Don't be weak.
"Harry," she said. "We can hold each other up."
He let the first tears fall.