Belief, another version
Genre: Romance/Angst
Pairing: Harry/Hermione
Rating: R (or M), for mature themes
Summary: He was already grieving when she began to feel some of his loss. Some spoilers for DH.
A/N: I wrote this after reading "Belief" from meeker004. I had an idea like this after reading "Deathly Hallows," but couldn't quite write it down. With permission, I basically rewrote the entire story.
Dedication: to meeker004, for allowing me to mess around with an already great plot.
Harry Potter has visited the entire United Kingdom in a few short months than he ever imagined he would. At least three out of four isn't too bad, or so he figures. It's relatively monotonous as they move along every so often and he sees the toll it has taken on them. Ronald Weasley stormed out in another abrupt burst of anger, leaving Hermione Granger to nurse their wounds with her tears at night.
The mornings have never been colder, even as he huddles in his meager blanket to keep warm. It makes it harder to get out of bed, more so with a heavy heart that's apparently sunk to his feet.
It doesn't help to hear snippets of news everywhere they go about the dwindling numbers in the resistance. The last they heard, two dozen Muggle-born wizards and witches were taken from the nearby village they had been camping. He tends to wonder how Dumbledore's Army is holding up and then scowls, thinking it a stupid thing to hope at a time like this.
The world is coming to an end and all he can think of is how long the journey's been so far. They have been tired for a long time and he knows it. The road is endless the more they move along – England, Scotland, Wales – and they don't know where it'll end. It's a recurring theme in his life, he thinks – an unknown mission to complete without directions, a lost friend and now a pair of heavy hearts to contend with a newly formed absence.
He can't even remember why they fought, but was left with the residue of misunderstanding and inevitable loss that comes standard with everyone he's ever given a damn.
He wakes up with cold sweats in the aftermath of a nightmare that won't leave him alone. The sound of a lonesome bird singing in the gray dawn doesn't help his spirits as he listens quietly to the melody of sorrow. It's one he knows too well.
Hermione hums that same tune when there's hardly any reason to speak.
And lately, he has a tendency to stare at her.
She has a way of understand him too well, to know exactly how he's feeling at times that he wonders how she can absorb so much. But maybe, she just might be a little masochistic.
He thinks it might be a waiting game, how she long she's stayed beside him. One day, inevitability will strike and she'll be gone like the rest of them. He sees the silhouettes of Cedric, Sirius and Dumbledore haunting him in between dreams.
For the meantime, he's grateful. Even if she stares at books blankly as of late, he doesn't question her devotion. It's obvious from the way she looks lately: the dark circles, the sunken cheeks. The gloomy anticipation weighs down on them both. And perhaps, he thinks, that it's this sick waiting game that's got her down. He's known for a long time that this something had to do with him. He's the one who's got to fix whatever's wrong and save the day or whatever, but she. . .
She's not supposed to be dragged into this mess. If she's anxious, she hides it well, but he can see that something else is going on beneath her melancholy expression. She pouts every so often and he can't help but notice.
She's there to keep him on track by helping him make sense of old books and charts. He's ever so grateful for the assistance, but can't help the guilt that comes when he thinks that she should be home or in Australia with her parents and not forgotten the way she is now.
Lately though, she has a tendency of not being able to look him in the eye. It's gone on for a few weeks and he can't really blame her, although it hurts all the same.
He tries to soothe her by running his fingers through her hair when she's curled up in bed pretending to sleep. And as he walks away, his head hurts, though it has nothing do to with his scar. She hides further into the sheets and buries her face into the pillow, hoping to bury her tears.
- - -
Out of nowhere, it rains like hell one afternoon. He imagines heaven decided to let out its anguish all at once, darkening the promising day, when he saw sunlight that morning.
It feels like it's been years since he's seen light.
He can barely see the forest when a gust of wind opens the tent flap momentarily. Perhaps the inflatable raft Ron packed might finally be put to use. He means to laugh at the idea, but it's been a long time since he's last done that and he can't seem to recall how to conjure up a smile.
He looks over at her (like he's done constantly for weeks) and sees that she isn't trying to read anymore. He doesn't blame her because there's little to be found in the same words, all senseless after they've exhausted their potential meanings.
"It's hard to concentrate," he hears her say over the deafening deluge, or something like that. That may be a lie, because he distinctly recalls her reading on the windowsill of the common room in the middle of a thunderstorm, though he's not sure why such a random thought occurs to him.
Harry watches her pull the bottom of her sweater until it's over her head and thrown on a chair. With her arms raised he can see her bare stomach below an old worn out gray shirt, the same one she's worn to go to sleep. It's hardly practical for the current cold weather, much less for a raging storm.
Before he can ask her what she's doing, she walks out of the tent without bothering to take her wand, even though she's well aware of the danger. Hermione was never a stupid girl.
In her carelessness, the flap of the tent was left open, wide enough for him to see her march a short distance. She sits on a fallen branch and looks upward, wishing for something she couldn't even describe. The taste of copper lingers in her mouth when she swallows a mouthful of water.
He continues to stare.
He's been aware that she's important, that she'll always be important. Best friends are always supposed to occupy a piece of one's heart, but she's taken up a larger share than he intended her to have. It's not fair to Ginny, who promised to wait for him and Ron, who's been obvious about his affection toward her.
His heart sinks as he watches her so completely lost.
For the first time since he can remember, the guilt weighs him down enough that a tear slides down his face. He knows what it is to lose family and now, a friend. She's given far too much to continue to be around him.
He reaches for his wand, mumbling the words to a memory charm. He doesn't have the heart to direct them toward her. She's lost too much to have her memory leave her too.
The floor is suddenly unstable as he chokes on remorse that makes his head spin. Stumbling a bit, he makes it to his bed and hopes she doesn't notice.
- - -
Hermione doesn't pretend to know how long she sat in the downpour, but when she finally enters the tent, she can't bring herself to get too close to him. She has the patience of a saint, but she's reached that limit. She stands at the foot of his bed, unsure of what to do, looking more disoriented than he's ever seen her.
The first thing he notices right away is her trembling and he guesses (correctly) that it isn't completely due to the cold.
Her eyes finally meet his and they burn with an intensity he's never seen.
Her shirt clings to her like second skin and he sees that it's almost see through. She's dripping water all over the place and he finds it hard to care. He murmurs a spell to close the flap. She'll definitely catch cold otherwise.
Quietly, he kneels on the edge of the bed and reaches for her shirt, pulling it off her. Cold drops fall from the ends of her hair, soaking into his clothes. He unbuttons her jeans and slides them down her legs. She doesn't move, but only stares at him. He is surprised when tears track down her cheeks and onto her chest.
"Why?" she means to ask, but her voice fails her.
The part of his heart that's hers is broken.
His hand cupped the side of her face as he traced her lips with his thumb. It would have been a better idea to wrap her in a towel, but before he knows what he is doing, she's in his arms. She's slender and shivering and he suddenly realizes how fragile she really is.
His lips meet her cold skin and she tastes like water all over. His control slowly dies as he finds more places to kiss her – shoulders, collar, neck. He swears that he feels her blood pulsing, feels her heart on overdrive.
When he gives her a longing glare, she doesn't try to hide from his questing hands and lips as he sits her on his lap. She smells like pine and fresh grass the more he breathes her in.
She thinks he may have mumbled something, but she might have mistaken it for his shallow breathing. His hands move along her bare back as he kisses her lips. He demands with a terrible need and she responds with denying him nothing.
He groans a bit when her fingers tangle in his hair and she begins to reach under his clothes. Her cold hands startle him a bit, but he doesn't mind.
The bed is warm when she finally lies down with him.
There's that look in her dark eyes that he can't identify as she unbuttons his jeans. She's either damning or saving him, but he can't tell. For a second, he wonders if maybe he's been in love with her all along. That it isn't the isolation and the loneliness that's driven them to this. That somewhere, the redhead was a substitute for what he really wanted, for what's he's looking at right now.
Hermione looks at him and he wonders why he's never considered the possibility of her wanting him in return. He's in love, but he's not sure that love is all it seems. It blurs the lines of friendship and clouds his judgment, but it doesn't matter, because he's with her.
I love you, he means to say.
The guilt will come later, but for now, he can't think when he's drowning inside her. The previous images, however faded and redrawn, are pushed aside as she invites him in. He dimly wonders what she's feeling, but can't find the words to ask. His hands slide under her shoulder blades as he covers her body and his mind effectively shuts down. She responds willingly by fisting her hands in his hair again and runs her cold feet along his calves.
She's softer than he ever imagined and he can't stop kissing her.
- - -
He finds it hard to let her go as she sleeps over his chest. Grief, he contends, was the motivating factor behind their actions even as his hands slide over her bare skin.
They've lost a lot of things along the way or so he tells himself. He could tally the number of people that are gone, but that would take up all ten of his fingers and them some for an accurate count.
She doesn't love me, he thinks and he's delusional to believe otherwise. Then she tightens her grip around his waist and exhales lightly.
There's guilt involved as he starts to think about the ramifications of tonight. Ron, who's wanted her since forever, though he can't quite recall his face as he looks at her. Ginny lingers farther back in his mind.
Hermione is his best friend, but he can't recall a time when he's only seen her as that. It's stupid to even harbor ideas like that. But he can't stop thinking along those lines as he stares. He wants more. He wants her. They're both helpless and he doesn't really care how low they're sinking. They're been stuck in the mire so long that it's hard to know anymore.
She's beautiful, but he already knew that. She's generous to the point where she's already given her all, her best and it's still not enough for him. He's stupid for allowing her to follow and is an utter ingrate for asking more that his fair share. He can't help himself though.
In the dim light of the lamp, he shifts slightly in bed until he's close enough to kiss her. After a few tries, she wakes up, digging her nails into his shoulder. His arms pull her closer until she's gotten the message.
"Harry," she whispers thickly in his ear.
It's all it takes for him to get her to wrap her legs around his hips. She complies easily. He pins both of her hands above her head and is lost in the feeling of her skin as they start once again. One hand roams along the curves of her body and he hears her say his name again and again. The only other thing he can heart is the pounding of his heart.
It's hard to stop touching her, so he doesn't.
He's consoled by the fact that she doesn't cry. Her hips are meeting his and it's hard to understand anything else.
The world is coming to an end and he finds that he doesn't care about anything except the way he's making her feel now.
- - -
He hears thunder when he wakes up in the morning.
An odd calm falls over him that he hasn't felt in a very long time. He pulls on whatever clothes are closest and feels suddenly abandoned when he realizes he's alone.
He sees her heating up water for breakfast tea.
She gives him the usual look of sadness and smiles a little, as if nothing happened. Right as rain, as she would say. It makes him think that he has an overactive imagination until he sees the slight bruises on her wrists. She takes a stack of parchments from across the room and beings to study them.
The self-loathing hits him suddenly, as he wonders what the hell he's done. He's fantasized before, but this was taking it too far. She was probably meant for someone else, someone other than him.
He's on his knees before her and he can almost smell his sweat on her skin. She puts down her papers and gazes softly at him, without any of the intensity that he remembered. It burns his skin lightly and he imagines that he is blushing.
Before he can apologize, she silences him with a soft kiss.
It's back to business as usual after that, much to his dismay, though he can't figure out why.
- - -
He's never noticed before how she clings to her pillow when she sleeps. She's got a tight grip and mumbles a few things.
"I love you."
His heart stops momentarily and he can't tell if she's awake or not because her back is facing him. It's not a trick of the light or his exhaustion or imagination. Three small words, spoken sincerely.
Perhaps, it's just her conscience bothering her (as it's the most logical answer), but he isn't sure. And maybe, just maybe, it's meant for him.
"Always have," he hears clearly.
He likes to think that it's directed at him, this private little moment. He just takes what he can get and won't ask about it when they both wake up in the morning.