a/n: This is the first fanfic I've ever written, so I hope you guys enjoy this! Updates should be at least weekly. Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, and credit is given where credit is due.
August 2, 2016
She couldn't breathe. She gasped and her chest was heaving, heaving, her throat constricted, the air too dry, too thick, too dense. Dark grey light oozed in from the crack underneath the heavy curtains covering the window, and she heard an uneven, agitated shuffling from outside of the bedroom. She turned, hesitated, stopped, head halfway tilted towards the wooden door, bitter, biting tears welling her eyes and a pained grimace twisting her features. She squeezed her eyes so tightly shut she saw white spots and felt the tears finally fall down, give in, surrender a stinging trail. The silence became excruciating and her mind was screaming- she tried to suck in another breath, gulping and grappling, but it was too heavy, too suffocating, and her chest hurt; she couldn't breathe.
Finally pushing back the heavy curtains, she glanced out the window, gauging the sun's slow, steady rise, dawn coming into view. She spied a small, crooked wooden stool out of the corner of her eye and quietly picked it up, placed it before the windowsill, climbed upon it, even as her limbs protested every movement.
Again, the agitated shuffling on the other side of the door.
This time, she didn't stop herself from turning fully towards the doorway, staring at the wooden structure as if she could see through it, as if she could see the man slumped heavily against the other side, one desperate hand reaching upwards, palm pressed forcefully flat against the surface as if he could will the energy to blast it away to reach her. An anguished groan escaped through the crack between the door and the floor, reaching Hermione's ears.
Frantically, she picked at the edges of her shirt, hoping to whatever deities were up there that she was making the right decision. To leave him. To leave the one man she suspected she would ever truly love. Her heart told her to stay, to comfort him, to reassure him with understanding words and everlasting promises. Her head told her to leave, to find herself, to be the independent woman she had always prided herself on being.
Torn, she glanced between the doorway and the window. Both openings, she noted. Just to very different places. One would lead her to the man she loved, a life she was familiar with, while the other would lead her to new people, and an unfamiliar journey.
"No," she decided, "I have to do this." Ever so quietly, as to not tip off the man on the other side of the door of her departure, she swung a leg over the windowsill, not daring to look down the fifteen feet or so below her. She clung to the ledge as she slowly lowered herself down, hanging off the edge, bracing herself for the sheer drop, then letting go. Quickly drawing a slender stick from her pocket, she pointed it at the ground and cast a cushioning charm. Landing softly, she spared a quick look back up at the room which she came from, and noting no sudden noises or yells, quickly ran into the garden, following the well worn paths and far beyond, running, and trying desperately not to think of the life she was leaving behind.
Hermione was far, far away from the place she had once called home by the time the man on the other side of the door ran out of patience and burst into her room. Upon discovering she was gone, and nowhere to be found, he yelled out his grief and heartache into the blank sky, frantically calling her name and mounting his broom, swiftly searching the skies for the woman he could not afford to lose, the woman he cherished more than anything, the woman he loved.
Hermione was certain that she was lost. She had been running blindly for the last few hours, stopping every once in awhile when she felt like her lungs were going to explode. She was sore, disgustingly sweaty, and absolutely miserable. And on top of that, her thoughts kept returning to the blasted man she had left behind.
She sniffed, and promptly burst into tears, sinking into the grass below her, uncaring that her clothes were getting dirty. It was hardly the most pressing of her concerns at the moment. Giving into her temptation to cry, she curls up and gasps for air, feeling like weights were pushing down on her lungs and that she couldn't breathe, couldn't function, couldn't do anything without collapsing in on herself. She admits that she had grown dependent on him, that the temptation of having someone take care of her and comfort her had been too irresistible after all the years she had spent alone, and that she really only had herself to blame. He loved her, she knew. She also knew that she loved him. But she had to do the best thing for herself, to put herself before others.
The rain came with the realization, and she tilted her head, let the cleansing water trickle down her eyes, her mouth, streaming into her hair and pulling the mass of curls taut, stretching slowly down the length of her back with the increased weight of the water. Conjuring a glass, Hermione guided the droplets into the container, before tipping it into her mouth and letting the drink refresh her. She sat there for awhile, listening to the pitter-patter of the raindrops before she shivered, drawing her sodden cloak about her small frame.
She casted a simple shield charm, then proceeded to dry her clothes and meticulously run through her soaked hair. Lying down, she stared up at the night sky, automatically seeking out his constellation, drawing comfort from it.
She saw him in the shadows, his pale hair glinting in the moonlight, watching her.
"Hermione," he whispered, drawing closer. "You left me." Something like grief and hurt flashed in his eyes, and then it was gone, masked in that cold face he mastered so well.
She nodded. "You know I had to."
He turned away for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Hermione studied him with careful eyes, as if he would disappear if she made any sudden movements. His profile was highlighted against the dark wall, aristocratic nose and chin tilted in that arrogant look she knew so well.
"Did you?" he finally says, leaning over her.
She doesn't answer, but reaches out for him, and he steps back, away from her. She feels the distance like a blow to her chest, and limply, her hand falls back to her side, and she looks down at her feet. "You left me," he says again, and this time it doesn't sound like a plea, but more like an accusation.
A fire, small, but bright, flares to life in her chest. "Yes, well, you weren't exactly honest with me either, were you?" she snarls back.
"I was going to tell you," he fires at her, tone angry but eyes wounded, cutting her with their anguish.
She reaches out for him again, trying desperately to cup his cheek, to slide her fingers through his silky hair, to touch touch touch and feel again, even it if is hurt, even if it is anger and pain. Anything would be better than this hollow numbness that has invaded her body, crept into her soul and made brittle her bones. She thinks that this one touch might break her.
It's worth it though, and she takes the risk, fingers seeking his warmth, the contradiction to his outwardly cold nature. But the second her hand touches his skin, he disappears, and she wakes up. Numb. Wet. And completely and utterly alone.
Weak with hunger and nausea, she collapsed at the top of the hill, struggling to breathe. It had been days since she had left, and she had not found any signs of life on her journey through the moors. She was ready to give up, to die. Brightest witch for nothing, she thought with rather a sardonic edge. Her magic had failed her, as she had no strength to cast even a simple lumos, much less a locating charm, or any type of spell to help her. And despite it all, she refused to go back, to admit defeat. She would rather die here, alone and cold, than to turn back and settle and concede. It reminds her of the days on the run with Harry, the dirt, the cold, and the fear, pressing in all around her and consuming her whole. I defeated one of the world's darkest wizards, and now I'm struggling to even get up, she thinks.
Pushing herself back up, nails biting into the dirt and windswept hair loose around her face, she stumbled to her feet, clutching her cloak tighter around her, as if it could stop the shivers from wracking her body. "God," she whispered to herself, maybe just to hear the sound of her voice again, after days of nothing but the crackle of thunder and lightning, and the howling of the wind.
She forced herself to keep walking, even though she wanted nothing more than to lie down and weep until she was exhausted and dead and free.
She shivered. And then spied something small and dark in the distance. Squinting, she tried to make out the shape against the grey light of morning. Her logical mind quickly deduced that it was a small cottage, but she was reluctant to accept her observation, to let hope flood her body, because she knew it would be all the more disappointing if it was a mirage and she was hallucinating.
But no, it was a small cottage, and judging by the thin stream of smoke rising up through the chimney, it was occupied. Maybe they would help her. Maybe she could be saved.