Disclaimer: Don't own it, not making money off it, so put away your lawsuits.
Author's Note: Well, here it is, my first fanfic. And possibly my last. I'm much more into reading than writing (as you can probably tell by the standard of this) and the only reason I wrote it was because the idea popped into my head and I couldn't get to sleep until I wrote it. And then I figured I might as well post it. You can do more with an account anyway :P. So here I am, and before I ramble too much (a really bad habit of mine, unfortunately, I'll let you get to it.
Enjoy!
Almost
Sometimes, she can almost remember the sound of their laughter. One is loud and unrestrained; careless, sprawling laughter that carries over anything. Innocent, and infectious. The other is its opposite in every way; they complement each other perfectly. The second is a quiet chuckle that starts in his chest and gradually builds up, bubbling out of his mouth as though longing to be set free. Both ring in her mind's ear, natural, as though they belong.
Sometimes, she can almost remember the feel of their arms as they hold her. One is gentle and light, yet slightly awkward, the owner nervous. Yet they are warm, and they give her comfort. The other is rougher, as though wanting to make sure she never leaves, but at the same time as gentle as a caress, afraid to hurt her. One arm snakes around her back, the other runs through her hair, soothing her. Both sets of arms calm her tortured mind, building an illusion of safety, until the phantom memories fade away.
Sometimes, she can almost remember their faces. One is pale, long nose and cheeks sprinkled with red freckles that match his unruly hair. Sapphire blue eyes twinkle as his lopsided smile broadens, lighting up his entire face. The other hides emerald green eyes behind round glasses as his black fringe covers a thin scar on his forehead. A small smile soon changes to a wide grin, and a light glows in his eyes and dances on white skin. A passionate face, filled with innocence. The pictures flicker in her mind before dying, leaving less than a memory in their stead.
Sometimes, she can almost remember meeting them. Two boys – one short, one tall – sitting opposite each other on seats buried beneath mounds of brightly-coloured wrappers. The tall boy holds a stick in one hand, a silvery hair falling out the end. In the other hand is a fat, grey rat, chewing lazily with beady eyes half-closed. The other boy holds a lolly wrapper in one hand and leans his weight on the other, face alight with curiosity. Both turn to look at her and she is struck by the small similarities; both are wearing large, faded clothes, and both look utterly bewildered. The scene fades away, and her once brilliant mind scrambles to collect the pieces as they slip away from her once again.
Sometimes, she can almost remember their voices. One speaks to her softly, quivering with intensity. It is firm, it brooks no argument, and yet it is encouraging, dependable, trustworthy. But she knows that it can be fierce, commanding, or beyond anger. The other voice cannot contain its passion. This voice is louder than the first, although still filled with loyalty and love. It, too, can be fierce, driven, filled with despair or filled with rage. It holds an entire range of emotions in its sound. The cacophony of voices whisper in her brain, bouncing and amplifying, building off each other and silencing each other. Then they are gone, and the silence haunts her.
Sometimes, she can almost remember their love for her. As others damage her honour, they come to the rescue, ready to fight. One is tense, barely-concealed rage simmering beneath his skin, fighting to keep in control as his face reddens with the pressure. His face snarls, his muscles tighten, his own honour is forgotten. The other is also tense, fury evident in his flashing eyes, his hand tensing for a weapon. His quiet voice becomes loud, all restraint forgotten as he rushes to her defence. She reaches out to stop them, but her hands pass straight through as their images fade to wisps of smoke.
Sometimes, she can almost remember their deaths. One is quick, merciful, over in a flash of green light, and yet it is a tragedy, occurring in the midst of a triumph. His murderer is a coward, cloaked and hidden, striking from behind. The other dies a bloody murder, tortured countless times, left to bleed to death from deep gouges in his chest. His torturers leave their circle around him to continue the battle, to torture again, to kill. She feels a weight in her chest, a lump in her throat, and her mind does not comprehend.
Sometimes, she can almost remember their bodies. They are insignificant, two in a sea of hundreds, but all others fade before them. One is on his back, spread-eagled, eyes open and glassy. His body is undamaged save for a few red scratches, and, for a moment, it is as though it will spring back to life. But his green eyes hold no expression, and his voice can no longer laugh. There is no glow about his skin as it pales even more, devoid of all colour. The other body is completely desecrated, there is no place that remains unharmed. Even in death, his figure is curled, trying in vain to find relief from the agony. His pale arms cannot be seen beneath the layers of dried blood and grime, and his freckles stand out against his pale face. His eyes are half-closed, his jaw slack. Blood cakes his chest where it dried, having flowed from four deep gashes that run across it. His tortured corpse lies in a pool of its own blood. She breathes deep in horror, but the memory slips through her groping mind.
Sometimes, she cries for them, the figures that haunt her mind. A solitary, salty tear forms in her eye and slowly tracks the familiar path down her cheeks. It pauses for a moment at her mouth, before moving onwards to drip of her chin. Another soon follows, and she wonders why she weeps.
Sometimes, she can almost remember them, and she wonders who they were.
A/N: Ok, there are several ways of interpreting this – depression, memory charms, amnesia – but I'll leave that up to you. Although originally I was going for the whole depression-causing-amnesia thing, with Hermione being in hospital, but it didn't really turn out that way so make of it what you will. If anyone's confused, its from Hermione's POV, and her subconscious keeps producing these images of Ron and Harry, but she doesn't remember who they are and whenever she tries to think about them, to rack her brains for a memory, the images just disappear. Anyway, thanks for reading and please review!