On the Precipice
Hermione watched a single leaf floating idly by, being carried along on the ripples of the river in front her. Its name might have escaped her, but she couldn't be more certain of where she was at this point in time. It swirled around with the current over the tip of a submerged rock, through a cracked twig, and under the weight of a heavier current before it disappeared beneath the surface of the water with whatever else that happened to be down there and didn't resurface. There was something oddly beautiful about nature that has fascinated man since the dawn of time. Art, music, literature, and science—yes, science—have served as outlets to answer, temper, slow down, or provoke thought and questions about the conclusions natural beauty can draw between itself and human nature. When there were other things going on in the world before now, nature was a hideout for Hermione. Something about the landscape served as a template for interpreting the rest of the world, but right now as she sits on a rock, allowing herself to be hypnotized by the water, she finds neither peace nor closure in this place she once visited with her parents.
The Grangers have always been a small family. Her parents both grew up as only children which means there are no aunts, no uncle, and no cousins of varying degrees. There are just grandparents and her parents, and of course, her. Hermione, herself an only child, was young once and characteristically smaller in physical form, but she was never afforded the luxuries of mindless youth. Her parents never purchased tickets to shows featuring the latest cartoon characters of the day or the newest Malibu Barbie. She had things of an appropriate youthful nature, like books and chemistry sets. She had a natural affinity to children's literature and nature games. Her upbringing was intelligible and that was how she preferred it. Of course she knew of death, robbers, and morality, but she was kindly blessed with a good life, having never been harmed or traumatized by it. Hermione Granger had a good, quiet life with her parents. She's 17 years old now, and those days seem like they happened an eternity ago, or in another life, or in a dream.
She thought in some way that by coming to these secluded woods after Godric's Hollow, she'd find a sense of comfort in what once was. It was selfishly chosen, of course, because it took great strength to rationalize to herself that it would be good for Harry's benefit as well, but he didn't take any notice to the place or seem drastically affected by it in the end. He's continually distracted by many things, naturally. Looking back at everything now as well as the water, she only feels worse, maybe even depressed because the memories here no longer exist much like those of her parents', which she obliviated. This place and the life she remembers with them don't exist anymore because the tributaries from which her whole being flowed has been cut off, rendering her unrecognizable in their eyes should she choose to randomly show up at some point. Hiding in the forest under protective charms and spells, living in a bubble, being regarded as nonexistent does in fact make her just that. Feeling her breath getting caught in her chest, Hermione stands up and stops for a moment before taking a step. Her vision blurs for a second and she's alarmed by the disparity her life has taken on recently. She feels more and more alone as the minutes pass, but an even worse thought for her is death; hers. Worry seems to loom over her head wherever she goes, but there is truly nothing that can be done about it, especially when there are horcruxes to be found.
She turns back again gazing once more at the water, looking for a leaf, but she's only coldly reminded of what she had to do a month or more ago to and for her parents. Their safety is her concern, but part of her needs to cling to someone and when that someone doesn't know you from a hole in the wall, endurance becomes a hard thing to maintain. She ambles back to camp, wondering what the essences of memories look like. Are memories fluid and viscous like water, swirling about, one over the other, or are they the blood that runs through our veins—intangible – only invented by men for comfort? Is memory alone a natural phenomenon that developed over time through evolution and mutation meant only as another device to ensure survival in a wild world? Was man's sense of emotion conjured up because time, chance, and Fate would have inevitably dictated its place in the world anyway? Are we not more than war, suffering, and death? Yes! even death. Shouldn't man expect more out of this life other than unhappiness? Hermione believes there is in fact more than what we're shown, more to our drives like companionship, because the impact memory and sense perception have on our lives is so great, it can't just be coincidence, so she believes there's a force… She has to if she's going to maintain a semblance of hope in hope.
This sinking feeling in her soul wasn't always there because Hermione distinctly remembers a time when she was excited about being a rebel with a very good cause. It was such a rush, abandoning the rules, but that's easier to do, especially when they're corrupt. They're in the thick of it now, the end is definitely near, and for the very first time, the end looks very opaque. To her, it could go either way, and in her dreams, she envisions a dark room. Just black. If the light goes on, Harry wins. Should it stay off… it's meaning is obvious because it will have stayed off forever, which would have meant that she, along with everybody else in Dumbledore's Army, would be dead. She's never felt so clueless, powerless. Ever. Now Ron's gone, they're all alone, and there isn't much to feel good about, especially when she feels like the microcosm of the universe, but even worse than that is feeling like a motherless child.
The current continues to drift by with the help of the wind and she sighs, feeling the despair settle deeper into her heart. Upon finally reaching camp, she sits down to warm herself by the fire. Harry is already there, staring at what is left of his two-way mirror, sinking into his own type of continuous sadness. He's also used to it. He doesn't feel bad today, but that doesn't mean he feels good either. He just is right now, and is in some ways still reeling from the incident at Godric's Hollow. He looks over at Hermione, holding her hands out to catch the heat emanating from the fire. She makes no attempt to acknowledge him for she seems to be bound by her own dismal thoughts, he figures. He says nothing, and looks at old eyes staring back at his green ones.
"Harry, do you believe in God?" His eyes immediately slide over to her and he doesn't realize that he's just sitting there with his mouth open in confusion.
"I've never really given, um… God a thought before. Why?"
"I prayed last night," she says, getting up then looks at him for the first time since she's sat down. "I didn't know what came over me. Through no doing of my own—I mean, at least any doing of which I'm aware—I was praying very hard for something… Then I laughed at myself." She stops, looking off into the distance. "That sounds awful, like praying is wrong or something." She picks up a stick of a considerable size before continuing. "I've given God a lot more thought now more than I ever have in years, really."
"Okay." Hermione knew for a fact that Harry really didn't understand the strange turns their conversation was taking, but she didn't care, for in a way, she was talking to herself.
"I'm a Anglican just not overly so. It's just now I pray about everything". Harry knew the steps she took to protect her parents' safety, and he has seen everyday how draining it is for her, but he can't help feeling more distanced from her for some reason. There's a valley between them in this, which is odd because they've actually never been more relatable to one another until now. "My parents and I went to services during holidays… I just miss them." The weight and depth with which she said that compelled something inside Harry to twinge. He watched the tears welling in the corners of her eyes. One escaped, rolling down her cheek, before it got caught by the angle of her jawline and dripped onto the ground by way of her chin. She roughly wipes away its path and ends up feeling more down—not better. Without her realizing it, the stick slips between her fingers of her other hand and falls on the ground. Consequentially, she was swept up in the emotion of everything and broke out into a harder, angrier sob because it felt like she had officially lost all control of every aspect of her life and there was no way of getting it back. Harry move to comfort her, but she pushed him away and went inside the tent.
"Hermione. Here, give me the locket." She doesn't hesitate to take it off and practically throws in the ground. "Where's the radio? We should find more music to dance to or listen to. Something."
"It died yesterday, and we haven't anymore batteries," she says harsher than she intended to. Harry watches Hermione cross over to the table and open her copy of The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore. He shuffles on his feet for a little bit, shifting his weight back and forth, deciding whether to put on the locket or not. He opted not, however, because he didn't want any of Hermione's residual depression. That was one thing he noticed as of late: Ron, having been the one out of all of them who was affected by the horcrux's power the most, must have left his own imprint on it as well. Some part of him theorized that the locket was on the prowl for another subconscious to permeate because it seems to be getting a deeper hold on both of them now more so than ever. After hanging it on the wall, he went to lie in bed.
"Uh, I think I'm gonna take a nap or something."
The smell of something vaguely familiar woke Harry: Macaroni and cheese. He sat up, put on his glasses, and walked over to the pitiful gas range where Hermione was. She gave him a small smile before grabbing the pill bottle on the table. Confused by the convergence of two worlds he stands there, watching the only constant: her. She looks back at him as she took two Aleve.
"I've started medicating myself with a daily regimen of aspirin to ward off the headaches. I get them if I don't take it." Harry picks up the bottle, peruses the label, then sets it back down.
"Like a placebo thing?"
"Yeah… I guess."
"Does it work?"
"I think it does. And in any case, it's not about avoidance of pain, really. I just miss feeling like I have some control of my life." Harry stopped short of agreeing with her because he didn't want to prolong the sense of foreboding fear they both have obviously been harboring. He turned over a new subject in his mind by awkwardly sitting down with a concentrated look down at the table.
"Are we almost ready to eat? I could set the table." Without waiting for affirmation or dissent, he waved his wand and everything was set.
"It's nothing special. Just macaroni."
"That's fine."
"I just wanted some. It reminds me of home." She saw Harry avert his eyes and clench his jaw. "I'm sorry, I'm being a drip. I can tell. I just don't know how else to deal with this." Without waiting for anything else, she served Harry a hearty portion and then herself and from there the tension seemed to lift a very small amount as they both sat there, looking at their plates. They were both transported to different times and allowed themselves be suspended for a moment before their knowledge of curses—good and bad—Hippogriffs and goblins, Bertie Bott's every flavor beans and candy wands. Their senses enabled them to shortly revert back to a time when their worlds were perversely small yet ironically safe and sheltered.
Being male and starved in almost every facet of living, Harry dives in without hesitation and decency. He expects to share in a communal, exaggerated nonsensical manifestation of satisfaction with Hermione, but he's left to it on his own and the sound of his guttural "mmm" reverberates slightly off the wavy walls of the tent. He looks over at Hermione who's daintily adding pepper to her macaroni before taking a bite.
"Is it good like that?"
"Yeah, my mum used add some whenever she made it for me. It's weird, I know." He shrugs, adding some to his, tries it, and adds more. This way of recreating the past was cathartic, but like the setting, this failed to warm Hermione's heart the way she hoped. The upswing was that this time wasn't as draining as before now that she'd gotten some of her optimistic demeanor back after having worn the horcrux. Harry told her not to feel bad about missing her life. He understands why she would, but it only goes to a certain point. Having never known his parents, he explains, the only things in life he's ever known intimately are feelings of a wistful nature, especially the yearning to experience what familial love means.
"It blows my mind, thinking that something as simple as a bowl or your mum putting pepper in your macaroni could remind somebody of home… I sometimes think I wouldn't know what to do with myself if I woke up tomorrow and had a family." Hermione leaned real close and listen to Harry go on. She gave him her undivided attention because she figured he probably never shared these things with anybody. "Like, how would I transition? I only know how to take care of myself and think about myself and ultimately be… by myself."
"You have really close friends, though, Harry. You're not entirely alone."
"That's just it, though. You're my friends." He cleared his throat, thinking it would be a good idea to soften his tone. "And we might be very very close by friendship standards, but you guys can't take the places set aside for my family," he said with a hint of callous. He watched Hermione despondently clear the table and felt guilty for making himself sound ungrateful for hers and Ron's companionship. On the inside, he knew that it was one of those types of conversations that welcomed honesty, even of a unintentional hurtful variety. He wanted to add that they were without a doubt in second place underneath an actual family, but he swallowed hard, believing that would make her feel worse. "I just don't know how to feel sometimes. Just try to imagine for a minute what it's like to not have anyone. I can't decide what's worse: Not knowing how to deal with my confusion over never knowing them or not being able to envision how things would be if they were here. I'm just so confused all the time."
"I can't begin to imagine how you feel. Things being the way they are is already too much for me." He throws her a weak smile before fingering the cover of Rita Skeeter's book. His ears seem to perk up when he hears Hermione sharply take in some air as if she's about to say something, but she just shakes her head. "What?"
"No, I'd feel bad for asking."
"No, I want to hear. I'm curious."
"Do you ever sometimes think that you might have been better off with the Dursley's… If there was a way to avoid all this?"
"…" Hermione's stomach dropped as she saw Harry's face contort a little bit. She couldn't quite read the expression, but she had an inkling it wasn't good.
"That was out of—"
"No, no, no… I'm just giving it thought." He bites his lip a little. "Honestly… Maybe – I don't know. Sometimes, yeah. It's like I've gained so much after having lost so much and some days it feels worth it, and others, not so much…" He felt sour now and almost depressed. Then Hermione started furtively rubbing her left eye. "I didn't mean to upset you, Hermione."
"No, it's my eye. I think there's something in it."
"Let me see." He gets up, going towards, her and gently pulls down her eyelid with his thumb. "Yeah, there's an eyelash in there. You'll be fine." Without thinking about it, he kissed her on the lips. She looks at him for a second, kind of shocked, really, and doesn't shy away from his touch. He pulls her back into him by the waist and kisses her a little more strongly and she kisses him back, but only once then pulls back.
"Uh."
"I'm sorry, I just…" He really had no excuse for doing that. He didn't even know he was going to do that. It was obvious that repressed desire had built up within him, but it didn't need to be said.
"It's okay," Hermione responds, clapping her hands. "It's okay… I'm sure it happens to a lot of people," she continues, walking over to the sink. With her back turned toward Harry, she rolls her eyes at herself and sighs. Then she quickly turns round again. "Harry, that was nice, but I have feelings for Ron." Harry nods a little bit, unsure of how to respond. "I've thought about it, I really have, it's just that things have always come back around to—"
"Ron, I know. You don't have to tell me twice." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." Life's way of teaching lessons seemed especially poignant to Hermione in this moment because she saw a side of Harry that even he seemed surprised to encounter. She understood their kiss was an impulsive gesture to test the possibility of his world which shows there are many things he's gone through life without and one of the biggest happens to be foundation. Why shouldn't one test the limits when one has nothing to lose? She saw him as a little boy for a minute. He seems so sure of good and evil, but when it comes to himself, he can't tell up from down. She thanked God for having met him even though their association demanded that she lose touch with familiarity. Suddenly, she felt warm and walked up to Harry, kissing him genially on the cheek.
"What was that for?"
"For being good, for working so hard, for wanting so much, and denying yourself." She spoke from her heart and managed to keep steady voice even though she was crying a lot. "I don't think I ever told you thank you before." He really didn't know how to respond now, so he stood there, partially dumbfounded. "I don't know what's going to happen, and I'm still really scared, but I feel connected to you. You are my family, Harry, and I think if you allow yourself to—No, listen to me—" His face started to sink into despair "— if you learn to rely on others for a change or every once in a while, you'll feel like you have a family that's more than blood that'll transcend convention." Harry breathed in slowly for he was almost close to tearing up and wondered where all this was coming from. "You've done so much and without your trying, you will forever be remembered in the Wizarding World. But for those of us who knew you for you, we will think of you as a brother. You're my brother." They embraced and cried into one another. They transcended through feeling the same way they did through dance and macaroni, and their united feelings of lonesomeness seemed to disappear with the rest of the world.
Hermione was sure for her that there was a God or someone watching over her welfare. She believed in hope and what it could bring. She believed in love because it kept people going. She believed in family—immediate and extended— because it has profound transformative powers in the heart and in the mind. But moreover, she believed in something bigger than herself—that she had right to be safe and alive with, at least, one person. She believed there was no going down without a fight, there was no giving up in blatant fear.
Winston Churchill once said, in reference to having enemies, "That means you've stood up for something in your life". Fate put Harry in his position and he rose to the challenge, ill-equipped and all. Somewhere out there, Hermione guessed that Ron was willing to be loyal the same way she was. She felt connected with him too. This life is more than anything any of them had ever realized, and even though she's slow to say it out loud, she bets they'll make it because she's praying on it.