I would like to thank darklyromantic once again for helping me.
Hasty Indecisions
I was the first to notice when Harry had begun dabbling in makeup.
I saw him leave the common room with those long lashes globed in mascara and liner, and I knew then that something dour had fumed inside him. He sat silent in the Great Hall, inattentive to his dinner, his eyes circled in black, sharing a few awkward glances with Ron.
The Hall was filled with students, all talking and laughing; the teachers doing much the same. I wondered if Ron could sense my unease as I watched him shovel food into his mouth. I squirmed a bit in my seat; his appetite used to be sort of endearing, but, as of late, had become rather barbaric. Everything I used to like about Ron was starting to annoy me, as if I never really saw him; yet I knew the change wasn't in Ron, but in myself.
I was anxious for dinner to end, for I had a date to make that evening, and wanted plenty of time to get there. I glanced up at the teachers' table, but quickly looked away, afraid of seeming too obvious.
I had fixed my hair, at least as much as I could, pulling the growing bangs to the side with clips and carefully brushing through the mess that made up my lion's mane. There wasn't much I could do about the school uniform, but I made sure everything was ironed and in place. I had even taken a bath between classes to make sure I was clean shaven; I wanted to be as cute as possible, even down to the finely prickled hair of my legs.
There was a jump of anticipation in my chest as Ron finally finished his gorging and started for the door. We gathered in the hallway just outside the Great Hall: Ron looked from Harry to me, quietly asking me how he should react to Harry's new look. I became preoccupied with the molding of the hallway, unwilling to add my input, and I could see out of the corner of my eye that Ron had followed my lead.
The awkwardness continued; no one able to put into words their concern. Harry was obviously troubled by our reaction, for his shoulders lowered and his head hung low. I decided to break the silence by leaning in and giving him a hug.
"Whatever makes you happy, Harry," I said before winking at Ron and bounding for the dungeons.
I almost ran I was so excited, and when I arrived at the office door, I hit my back against the wall and slid down to a sitting position, my arms wrapped around my legs. I tapped my foot for awhile before resting my head against my knees and closing my eyes.
"Early, aren't we?" said a silky smooth voice.
My eyes flung open.
"I couldn't wait any longer," I said.
"What of your dearest Ron? Won't he miss you?"
I ignored the irascibleness as he unlocked his office door and let me in. We moved quickly through the room to the fireplace, where we threw our floo powder down, engulfing us in green flames, the smell of ash blazing in our nostrils, and came out through the niche of his personal chambers.
--
I became aware of soft sheets beneath me and the feel of skin, rough and solid, very unlike my own. My eyes awoke then, aware of my surroundings, and horrified. Severus lay beside me, still sleeping. I inched out of bed, picked up my clothes from the floor, and dressed as fast as possible; I had stayed the night and was fearful that I might not make it back to the Gryffindor lounge before it was clear that I was missing.
I snuck out of the Slytherin common room after kissing Severus goodbye, trying not to wake him in my hurry. There were no Slytherins around to bother me, and I sincerely hoped that meant it was still early enough to get back in time. My wishes were thwarted, however, when I literally ran into Ron in the hallways, knocking us both to the floor in surprise.
"Hermione!" he yelped.
"Ron, really, be careful where you walk," I said, collecting myself. Ron rubbed his head where I must have hit him.
"Why were you running?"
"Um, just, uh, excited to get to the library, is all," I lied.
"Uh huh," he said, uninterested. "I'll catch you later, okay honey? Some of the guys are gonna play Quidditch and I don't wanna miss it."
I nodded, sighing, and picked up running again until I reached the common room safely. I went straight to the bathroom where I took a shower to remove the scent of last night. I dressed in something simple and braided my wet hair before taking in a breath of relief. I grabbed a book and made my way to the couches beside the fireplace where I could relax and thoroughly enjoy my Saturday.
It wasn't long before Harry appeared from the boys' chambers to join me. Harry wore thicker eye shadow than yesterday, and his hair was sufficiently disheveled. Feeling bolder than I had before, I inquired as to the new look.
"Honestly, Hermione," he said, wasting no time in getting down to the dirt, "I'm just tired. I've been so…angry all the time. Nothing I do makes a difference anyway. I'm just tired of fighting."
"You're scared, so you put on mascara?" I asked.
He chuckled.
"Well, no, but it's just a way to show that I'm changing. Can't you feel it, 'Mione? Can't you feel the change all around us?"
My eyebrows went up in speculation: something I had learned from Severus.
"A little pessimistic, I think," I said, "but like I said, if it makes you happy, then…you know. What have I to say?"
Harry smiled.
"That's what I like about you, 'Mione. You're so accepting of everyone. I'll remember that when…"
"When?"
"Nothing."
The door to the common room opened and Ron came in, sweaty and out of breath, along with a few other Gryffindors who had clearly also been out playing games. In one swift glance, Ron saw Harry and me on the couch and plopped down between us, one clammy hand reaching out to hold mine.
"Sweetie?" he asked me, oblivious to Harry and his dark tinted clothing. "Will you finish my potions essay for me? I don't want to miss the big Quidditch game tomorrow."
"Oh, Ron," I whined, "how are you going to pass your exams if you don't put some effort into it?"
"Please," he said, batting his eyes in a manner that I suppose he thought was cute.
"No," I said sternly, "not this time."
"But Quidditch!"
"You better get it done tonight, then."
"Come on," he begged, "what else do you have to do, huh?"
"Ron!"
"Well," he moaned, slouching deeper into the couch, defeated, "why else would I marry you 'Mione, except that you'd do my homework?"
I wasn't really offended by the comment. I knew it had to be a joke, albeit a lame one; I just couldn't stand the thought of wasting another weekend on him like all the weekends before. I stood up with a huff and stormed off, out through the door to the hallways where I walked aimlessly, laughing to myself.
--
He looked over at Hermione, who was busy reading a book from his personal library. He looked forward to spending another night with his little mistress, though nothing in his posture announced his longings, except for the slight motion he made to lick his lower lip, which, thankfully, she had missed.
"Must you read all night?" he asked.
She put the book down, reluctantly, and glared into his eyes. She was feisty all right, just like he liked them, and she did an especially good job at keeping him on his toes.
"Have you finished your essay, Miss Granger?"
"Oh, bug off, Severus," she said with a roll of her eyes.
"I don't want to encourage anything extracurricular if you haven't."
"Ron tried baiting me into doing his."
"Typical."
Her expression became solemn and she shifted ever so lightly.
"I've been thinking about breaking up the engagement."
He knew what he wanted to say. He knew he had fallen in love with her, though he'd never admit to it, and the thought of her marrying another, particularly a Weasley, sent chills up his spine like nothing could. He also knew, however, that he couldn't give her what she wanted, what she ultimately needed: permanence.
"It's just…" she continued, "He doesn't love me like you do. I don't love him like I…need you."
"We've been over this before," he said, stroking the bridge of his nose. "It isn't about the person, but rather what you want from the relationship. If you want marriage for the sake of marriage, then you are in the right course."
"But I want you!" she said.
"I know," he sighed, "but I'm not the marrying type."
Hermione stared down at the floor, hurt, and whispered ever so softly, "How much do you love me?"
With great force, he pulled her from her seat and pushed her against the bed.
"This much," he said as he prepared to kiss every inch of her, but was interrupted by a knock at the door.
--
Harry laid back into the couch, amused by Ron's gawking. Hermione had obviously been annoyed by Ron's comment and had hightailed out of the common room, leaving Ron and himself to make sense of it all. They were so nervous about getting married that the closer the date came, the more distant they grew. He didn't know why they were even doing it, maybe to prove to themselves that they cared.
He stared into the flames of the fireplace, trying to ignore the looks Ron threw his way. He had thought the whole eyeliner thing would have blown over during the night, but was sorely mistaken; it seemed that Ron would never understand who he had become.
Harry aimed a few unwanted glares back, causing Ron to fidget uncomfortably. He smiled to himself. It was the first time in what felt like ages that he had found humor in his misfortunes. He had known the wrath of the Dark Lord under his skin, and no amount of scrubbing ever cleansed it from him. He was cursed. The anger in his bones was fused to his soul, he just knew it, and it was finally time to accept it.
He had wondered lately whether his true calling wasn't to defeat the Dark Lord, but to join him.
Harry watched Ron pick at something on his arm when an idea struck him. He left Ron alone on the couch and made his way to the dungeons; if anyone knew about joining Voldemort, it was Snape.
The door to the dungeon bat's chambers was very large and wooden, with detailed etchings carved into its build. It was intimidating to stand alongside, perhaps because of its massiveness, or, more likely, because it was Snape's. Harry knocked, timidly at first, but when no one answered, he threw all his weight into it.
Snape answered, angrily, and Harry gulped.
"Sir, I was wondering if you could help me."
Snape was not a pleasant man, but was in nowise thick, either; he saw the change in Harry, not just for its physical manifestations, but for what it was within. He looked inside his chambers, beyond the door where Harry could not see, nodded, then pushed Harry aside as he closed the door and led him to a nearby room.
"What is it, Potter?" Snape spat, once the door to the room had been properly shut.
"How did you know you were going to be a Death Eater?" Harry asked.
Snape did not react, as though silent suspicions had been answered.
"Potter, I'm not sure where this is leading, but…"
"Please, Professor," he begged. "I have this feeling that its all for nothing. That I was never meant to do what everyone wants of me. There's just so much anger."
Harry felt then that it was futile to ask Snape for his opinion. Snape was in a very sticky situation, for to instruct Harry to run, Snape would be punished if Harry ultimately joined forces with Voldemort, but to tell him to join would be against Snape's personal convictions.
"Mr Potter," Snape said, "your problem isn't ethics, its adolescence. Stop being so juvenile and follow your brain for once. And stop wearing makeup."
Snape flew through the door then, unwilling to continue the conversation further, leaving Harry alone and more frustrated than ever. He walked back up through the castle to the courtyard, where he sat on the grass and watched students practice spells. He wished he could return to such carefree living, worrying only over tests and essays, and little more.
He was soon joined by a familiar face. Ron may not have fully come to terms with Harry's style, but still found a measurable amount of friendship left between them.
"Have you noticed Hermione's been acting weird lately?" Ron asked.
"Has she?"
"I'm worried about her."
Harry turned to look at his friend of almost eight years, and saw in Ron a yearning for answers much like that which burned within himself.
"Maybe you just need to learn to trust her."
--
He pet her hair as she lay quiet, her body limp against the bed. He touched the supple skin of her stomach as it rose and fell to her breathing; it wasn't his, nor was the hair, or the eyes, or mind, or tongue, not any part of her could he claim. He inhaled; it burned down his throat and through his lungs. He wished it had never come to this, but wishing was useless in a world of disappointment.
Hermione wasn't staying long; she had to return home to her beloved husband. She had decided to marry Weasley after all, her wedding not one month previous; she let him know the summer after NEWTs' that she couldn't break her promise, but that she still needed to see him from time to time. He had been invited. It was an insult for her to have even asked, but he couldn't keep himself from attending.
He distinctly remembered the way she looked in her wedding dress; not the actual dress so much as the sadness that she exuded while wearing it. She had been told that she looked nervous, but he knew it wasn't nervousness so much as regret. He had made little of his appearance at the wedding, for he didn't want her to know he had come, but he figured she knew he was there, figured she could feel him.
He drew circles on her naked flesh, her delicate features putty beneath his hands, soft and regal: eyes that pierce through ice and body of radiance. She turned to curl herself against him, taking more of him in before dressing, taking far too much time on each article of clothing. She deserved far better than the imbecile she called a husband, he knew that for certain. What he didn't know, however, was how much longer he could bear to share her. It was different when she was single, when it was fair game, but to hide their relationship for the comfort of another was unspeakable.
It became apparent to him, as Hermione kissed him goodbye, that the famous trio was a pack of incompetents. Hermione was the least absurd of the three, but certainly not excluded as she had to have an affair to feel love; Weasley married someone who didn't love him, and Potter delved too far into his own emotional state of upheaval and joined the Dark Lord in response. He knew the Dark Lord wouldn't keep Potter alive much longer, partly for His fear of being destroyed, but mostly because of His anger toward the Boy-Who-Lived for being so indestructible.
He searched for his clothing, strewn about the room from a night of infidelity, and dressed in the same fashion that Hermione had, slow and methodical. He was positive she intended on seeing him the following night as well, though he wondered if it was wise.
He could see an image in his mind of his love wrapped in the arms of another, and something inside of him started to hurt. He held onto his ribcage and leaned back onto the bed. He wasn't ready to let her go, but found their future to be distorted.
--
I waited until Ron left for the Ministry of Magick before apparating to Hogsmeade. Severus was in our regular meeting place: he wore his signature glare, the light wind scraping at his hair, but he lacked the eagerness to see me that I had come to expect. I reached out to touch him, but he stayed cold and disconnected.
"Hermione," he started, but said nothing more.
I knew what he was going to say. It was the end of us, I felt it.
"Don't," I said.
"You knew it would come to this."
"Not this soon."
"I could have made you happy."
"You can't now?"
"I'm afraid I don't love you anymore."
The tears came then. I could believe that he was hurt, that he felt second rate, but I couldn't come to terms with the idea that he had lost all feeling for me; our connection ran too deep, too close.
"Go home to your husband. Forget about me, Hermione, forget I ever existed."
"I can't," I said, wiping tears from off my cheeks. "I don't love him."
"Then why did you marry him," he said, more as a statement than a question. "You made your choice. Stick with it."
He pivoted then, knocking me from my balance, and rushed from me toward Hogwarts. I hit the ground with a force that made me cry harder; Severus looked back, but did not slow his pace. I didn't bother to stand, just wallowed in my broken heart in the streets of the dirty town. People stopped to watch me and some pointed, but I ignored them, thinking only of my wasted life.
The breeze brushed against my face, helping to make the moment feel more surreal. There was a discarded newspaper in the streets just outside my reach with large black lettering declaring the death of a legend. I put my weight on an elbow and stretched my body out to read it better. I bit back more tears, but they engulfed me, and I melted there in the middle of Hogsmeade, alone in sympathy and alone in love.
--
It didn't take him long to notice his wife at the kitchen table, red-eyed and shaking. He had been glad when five o'clock rolled around, for work was miserable and he so longed to be home with Hermione.
"I guess you know Harry's dead, then, huh?" he said.
She nodded, but didn't respond. He nodded back before heading to the bedroom to change into something fresher and less businesslike. He wanted to be comfortable if it was going to take all night to soothe Hermione from her pain.
He opened the closet door and was surprised by the spaciousness of which it presented, for all of Hermione's things were gone. He walked back to the kitchen to give her a questioning look.
Hermione kept focused on the floor, zoned out from the world.
"I want a divorce, Ron."
He felt a blow to his stomach and quickly reviewed the short month of their marriage in his mind, trying to find a reason for divorce, but found nothing.
"This doesn't have anything to do with Harry, does it?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, "it does, actually. Harry was just a friend, but he meant more to me than you do. I'll lose more than a friend if I stay with you."
"I don't think I understand."
She chuckled, taking her eyes off the floor at last to look him in the eye, "That's the problem."
--
He heard a knock at his chamber door. She stood on the other side, eyes swollen and bruised from crying so hard. The first thing she did was raise her left hand just enough to show him that the ring finger was distinctly free of a wedding band.
"My heart is yours. It always was," she said.
They stood still for a moment, silent, staring into each other's eyes.
He opened his door wider, letting her in.