It had been so long since he had been happy. Sure, the smile was there,
even a hollow laugh every now and then; but the eyes were gone. So far
gone. His countenance was cold, and hesitant. Everyone knew that Harry had
the Midas touch, but he only saw it as the propensity to turn what he loved
into dust. So he shied away. The expectations placed upon him compounded
more and more with time, and the pressure began to show. Cracks appeared in
his personality, in his expression. He became angry, and paranoid, and the
senseless deaths surrounding him shattered him completely, and it was
Hermione could do to hold him together.
It was hard loving him, she acknowledged. He repelled joy; halfway to being a Dementor himself. Her heart broke to see him this way. She remembered happier days, in their early years of schooling- when there were three of them. They laughed, more often than the teachers would have liked, and embarked on many an adventure, with the naivety only youth can provide. The innocence he'd lost so soon. Harry had needed to grow up so fast, to fight Voldemort, and it had broken everything about him that she'd loved. Life had become a matter of routine for him, and he went about it mechanically. He ate what was served, watched what was played out, and listened to what was spoken. He absorbed nothing though. It was a merely the habit of existing that kept him afloat, a habit too ingrained to break.
Despite herself, and her great love for the wizard that had been her everything since she'd met him, Hermione had often found herself contemplating ending it. It was so difficult to keep going this way. He was so distant, and yet so close. He needed her with every fibre of his being; indeed, she was all he had left, and she knew it. It would be too cruel, and too selfish to leave him. And she didn't want to leave him. It pained her no end to see him in such anguish, and she could never forgive herself to cause him any more.
It hurt her, and angered her. He was given such a wonderful gift, and he wasted it with every second he ignored it. She wanted to shake him into some semblance of common sense. She wanted to scream her reasoning in his face. That he should be happy. That he was alive. That he was loved so much, by so many. That he was hurting those people by regretting his own existence. That he had done so much, and could do so much more if he could only see just how damned important he was in the grand scheme of things. But, even if she did, his brilliant green eyes would glaze over, and he would nod mutely, accepting anything she threw at him. It was never an argument, only a permanent sense of defeat that surrounded him and became the depressing stifle in the air.
She was so confused, and in two minds about the situation. He was being selfish, for squandering the life he maintained when so many lost theirs. He was to be pitied, because he hadn't asked for this. For any of it. He hadn't asked to have his parents killed, for a lightning bolt scar raking across his worry-creased forehead, to be the modern saviour of the wizarding world. At such a young age- still a child- he had been expected to do the work that a thousand wizards could not take on themselves. How could he be expected to protect the world from Voldemort, when he needed protection himself? Protection that Hermione only wished she could provide.
Oh, but she tried. She loved him unconditionally. She'd hold him close, and tend to his shivers and spasms of shock. She'd keep him warm, and keep him breathing. She held him so desperately, as a part of herself, that she feared his end would be her own, and she hated that reality. She listened for every breath, and breathe it with him. When they didn't come, she held her own, and wondered if she could let him slip away where he couldn't be hurt anymore. But she was cowardly, she reflected, and always kept him through the nights. Hearing soft shaky breaths in her ear, and feeling a thready heartbeat through a startlingly thin ribcage beside her own. He wasn't aware, she doubted he even knew of her presence, but nevertheless, she tended to him, and cried inside, and often aloud against the sharp line of his back. She would whisper his name and sob endearments to the man she knew wasn't listening, because only hope could pull her through, and without her he would surely decay.
Harry wanted to die. It was evidenced in the purple scars lacing his wrists and arms, and the reckless abandon with which he treated his life. The reluctant way he treated getting out of bed. The utter disappointment on his face upon waking in the mornings, and realising that it was another day he'd be alive. It broke Hermione's heart. He didn't quite recoil from her touch any longer, but he didn't respond, either. She meant everything, and yet nothing to him. And, it was killing both of them.
These fragmented thoughts clouded Hermione's mind constantly, making concentration on any other subject impossible. She steeled her countenance to the inevitable decision, and resigned herself to the heartbreak it would cause. But she wouldn't do it just yet. Not for a while.
For countless nights she lay beside him, a slideshow of their time together rolling slowly through her mind. The happy times, and the terrifying times. And, gradually, the difficult times. Recent times. 'You don't need to be brave,' Harry had told her once. 'I'll be brave for both of us.' She had known even then why he had said it. She wasn't a brave person, and never had been. Being brave was about being afraid, and taking the risk anyway. Harry had always taken the risk, and won, but Hermione had none of his bravery. Everybody knew it. It was perhaps her only failing, and she hated herself for it.
She thought back over everything she had ever done, and none of it had been brave. There were times she had accomplished things through being reckless, careless even, but she had never deliberately set out on any project if there was even a possibility of failure. Including her relationship with Harry. She'd never even imagined it could have turned out this way; that Harry- strong, brave, loving Harry- could be so affected. He came out of the final battle a changed man; the only survivor. 'Talk to me,' she had pleaded, 'I want to help you, I want to know.' He had looked at her incredulously, and replied slowly. 'I don't want you ever to have to know what it means to do the things I have done.' And he walked away.
A gasping cough from the other side of the bed roused her from her thoughts. "Oh, Harry." She cradled his head close. "I know what you did. You did what you needed to, you did what would have been in everyone's best interests." His dry, even breaths tickled at her elbow. "But you didn't do what was best for Harry." She leant over and kissed his cheek gently. Her long brown ringlets fell forward and curled against the side of his face. "I love you."
He didn't struggle much. Didn't even reach for his wand. Hermione didn't use hers either. She had considered using Avada Kedavra on him, but he deserved better. She loved him, and wanted to reflect that personally. He didn't seem surprised at all when she held the pillow to his face. He didn't move at all, until his chest started to shake, and his oxygen- starved body started to twitch and buck under her slight weight. And then, too soon, it was over. His rigid body fell limp. Hermione held fast a few moments longer, and then tentatively lifted the pillow. Harry's still frame lay as if asleep, but no gentle breaths exited his blue-tinged lips.
She touched his face gently. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. was dead. She arranged his hair, straightened his bedshirt, and lay beside him as she had always done, and held him close.
And cried until she could cry no more.
It was hard loving him, she acknowledged. He repelled joy; halfway to being a Dementor himself. Her heart broke to see him this way. She remembered happier days, in their early years of schooling- when there were three of them. They laughed, more often than the teachers would have liked, and embarked on many an adventure, with the naivety only youth can provide. The innocence he'd lost so soon. Harry had needed to grow up so fast, to fight Voldemort, and it had broken everything about him that she'd loved. Life had become a matter of routine for him, and he went about it mechanically. He ate what was served, watched what was played out, and listened to what was spoken. He absorbed nothing though. It was a merely the habit of existing that kept him afloat, a habit too ingrained to break.
Despite herself, and her great love for the wizard that had been her everything since she'd met him, Hermione had often found herself contemplating ending it. It was so difficult to keep going this way. He was so distant, and yet so close. He needed her with every fibre of his being; indeed, she was all he had left, and she knew it. It would be too cruel, and too selfish to leave him. And she didn't want to leave him. It pained her no end to see him in such anguish, and she could never forgive herself to cause him any more.
It hurt her, and angered her. He was given such a wonderful gift, and he wasted it with every second he ignored it. She wanted to shake him into some semblance of common sense. She wanted to scream her reasoning in his face. That he should be happy. That he was alive. That he was loved so much, by so many. That he was hurting those people by regretting his own existence. That he had done so much, and could do so much more if he could only see just how damned important he was in the grand scheme of things. But, even if she did, his brilliant green eyes would glaze over, and he would nod mutely, accepting anything she threw at him. It was never an argument, only a permanent sense of defeat that surrounded him and became the depressing stifle in the air.
She was so confused, and in two minds about the situation. He was being selfish, for squandering the life he maintained when so many lost theirs. He was to be pitied, because he hadn't asked for this. For any of it. He hadn't asked to have his parents killed, for a lightning bolt scar raking across his worry-creased forehead, to be the modern saviour of the wizarding world. At such a young age- still a child- he had been expected to do the work that a thousand wizards could not take on themselves. How could he be expected to protect the world from Voldemort, when he needed protection himself? Protection that Hermione only wished she could provide.
Oh, but she tried. She loved him unconditionally. She'd hold him close, and tend to his shivers and spasms of shock. She'd keep him warm, and keep him breathing. She held him so desperately, as a part of herself, that she feared his end would be her own, and she hated that reality. She listened for every breath, and breathe it with him. When they didn't come, she held her own, and wondered if she could let him slip away where he couldn't be hurt anymore. But she was cowardly, she reflected, and always kept him through the nights. Hearing soft shaky breaths in her ear, and feeling a thready heartbeat through a startlingly thin ribcage beside her own. He wasn't aware, she doubted he even knew of her presence, but nevertheless, she tended to him, and cried inside, and often aloud against the sharp line of his back. She would whisper his name and sob endearments to the man she knew wasn't listening, because only hope could pull her through, and without her he would surely decay.
Harry wanted to die. It was evidenced in the purple scars lacing his wrists and arms, and the reckless abandon with which he treated his life. The reluctant way he treated getting out of bed. The utter disappointment on his face upon waking in the mornings, and realising that it was another day he'd be alive. It broke Hermione's heart. He didn't quite recoil from her touch any longer, but he didn't respond, either. She meant everything, and yet nothing to him. And, it was killing both of them.
These fragmented thoughts clouded Hermione's mind constantly, making concentration on any other subject impossible. She steeled her countenance to the inevitable decision, and resigned herself to the heartbreak it would cause. But she wouldn't do it just yet. Not for a while.
For countless nights she lay beside him, a slideshow of their time together rolling slowly through her mind. The happy times, and the terrifying times. And, gradually, the difficult times. Recent times. 'You don't need to be brave,' Harry had told her once. 'I'll be brave for both of us.' She had known even then why he had said it. She wasn't a brave person, and never had been. Being brave was about being afraid, and taking the risk anyway. Harry had always taken the risk, and won, but Hermione had none of his bravery. Everybody knew it. It was perhaps her only failing, and she hated herself for it.
She thought back over everything she had ever done, and none of it had been brave. There were times she had accomplished things through being reckless, careless even, but she had never deliberately set out on any project if there was even a possibility of failure. Including her relationship with Harry. She'd never even imagined it could have turned out this way; that Harry- strong, brave, loving Harry- could be so affected. He came out of the final battle a changed man; the only survivor. 'Talk to me,' she had pleaded, 'I want to help you, I want to know.' He had looked at her incredulously, and replied slowly. 'I don't want you ever to have to know what it means to do the things I have done.' And he walked away.
A gasping cough from the other side of the bed roused her from her thoughts. "Oh, Harry." She cradled his head close. "I know what you did. You did what you needed to, you did what would have been in everyone's best interests." His dry, even breaths tickled at her elbow. "But you didn't do what was best for Harry." She leant over and kissed his cheek gently. Her long brown ringlets fell forward and curled against the side of his face. "I love you."
He didn't struggle much. Didn't even reach for his wand. Hermione didn't use hers either. She had considered using Avada Kedavra on him, but he deserved better. She loved him, and wanted to reflect that personally. He didn't seem surprised at all when she held the pillow to his face. He didn't move at all, until his chest started to shake, and his oxygen- starved body started to twitch and buck under her slight weight. And then, too soon, it was over. His rigid body fell limp. Hermione held fast a few moments longer, and then tentatively lifted the pillow. Harry's still frame lay as if asleep, but no gentle breaths exited his blue-tinged lips.
She touched his face gently. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. was dead. She arranged his hair, straightened his bedshirt, and lay beside him as she had always done, and held him close.
And cried until she could cry no more.