Disclaimer: The series of Harry Potter was illustrated by Mary GrandPre. On a related note, it was also written by J. K. Rowling.
I closed my eyes tight and willed sleep to come to me. Come, you da*ned sheep! Unfortunately, it did not hasten to obey my demands, and I was left to lie in my bed alone, perhaps for the last time. Left to lie and to ponder lies...
Harry's sleeping place was four floors above me, on a camp bed beside the groom. He was probably sleeping. What might he be dreaming? I wondered drowsily. Did he dream of Quidditch, or were they instead 'fantasies' that the twins would tease Ronald about? (Who would star in them?) We had never discussed dreams. Not unless they were his nightmarish visions of Voldemort's actions. The snake, the door… It was ironic, really. The closest I ever got to knowing what was inside his mind was when he was inside Voldemort's.
Voldemort. What a strange thrill on my tongue. The soft caress of my front teeth on the inside of my bottom lip (oh, remember that amateur duel between Harry and Malfoy, when the latter's spell missed and hit me in the face? That was certainly a subject of some of my nightmares) as it stroked upward, and then my entire mouth was caught suspended for a moment before pulled down onto my tongue to end the first syllable. My tongue then seemed to change its mind from gentility to violence and it broke away from the roof of my mouth and then it closed and opened, it's last gentle movement like blowing a kiss.
The t, never pronounced, left me with the last syllable, "more…" fading away into the darkness from which it came. That small circular motion, a revolution beginning with barely opened lips and concluding with an open mouth, my entire face transfixed in a state of calm that transcended thought… Harry taught me that. It was fifth year, and he, who had more reason to fear Voldemort but had been saying the name from the moment he discovered it, inspired me to join him. It was like taking a step nearer to him, when I first pathetically stuttered out the name of the man to whose defeat I would later devote a year of my life to. It was like learning to kiss.
Harry first inspired me to say it, but it was Ron who then banned the sound from our mouths. "Just show You-Know-Who some respect, will you?" I still remember those words and that night. Somehow, his injured form lying there left me winded, and so I busied myself tending to him, serving him some tea… and there was something about him as he mumbled on about Reg and Mary Cattermole and I felt a strange rushing inside that Harry soon interrupted.
Had I taken that moment too far? Was it foolish to assume a relationship on a few moments? There were other times, too, of course. Ron being jealous of Viktor after the Yule Ball –ha! We hadn't even kissed! And just a year ago… His red face when I mentioned his underpants being washed was priceless! Dirty thoughts, Mr. Weasley? He complimented me, too, when I was decorating for the wedding.
Is that really a reason for love? A compliment? McGonagall complimented your spellwork; do you want to marry her? hissed a nasty voice from the back of my head, breaking me out of my reverie.
Oh, the thought struck me with unparalleled force. My wedding is tomorrow! All notion of sleep was behind me now. My wedding…! Harry as best man, and Ron the groom… The nasty voice sneered, and insisted the roles be switched…
Finally forced to face the internal conflict that had haunted me since that happy day of Voldemort's downfall, of my engagement, I was overwhelmed. Memory after memory accosted me…
It was Harry's second game of the year, and I was so excited for him, prancing on the seats and screaming at him with Parvati as Harry's lean form sped towards a fleck of gold. Unnoticed by me, Ron rolled around underneath, valiantly defending his honor with the aid of Neville against the three Slytherin brutes. Well, now I've more than noticed him…
We backed away slowly. I was frightened beyond my wits, of that gigantic form that loomed ever closer. I only spoke in terrified squeaks to Hagrid and dazedly wondered how he could have such little sense. Grawp lunged for me, I was paralyzed still, but then Harry's strong arms firmly grasped me around my waist and took me behind the tree, where I lay in his arms like a doll until Hagrid began to lead us back to the game… The game that Ron won…
This time I walked before him with a purpose, inspired by the memory of our last venture into the forest. The idiotic Umbridge let her own arrogance lead herself into my trap, and once again Harry grabbed me and yanked me away from danger –this time, safety was facedown on the ground…
In this memory Ron was once again absent, but this time at the selfish expense of his "best friend." Depression met me face to face, quite apart from any dementor, when I glanced into his green, almond shaped eyes across the library table. Then I lowered my head again to the heaps of volumes. The best prevention against dragon flame, the book ran, is bathing in that selfsame dragon's spittle for approximately seventeen hours straight. If we only knew which dragon he was facing…
Harry was calling my name, and his eyes were feverish. Despite his words, there was no hint of pleading there. "Hermione! I need you to help me!" Whether the night before facing a Hungarian Horntail or anything else, he already knew I'd be there…
The small, wet sponge in my hand did nothing to wipe up the worry. Harry's body racked like his soul was breaking apart, and he moaned and mumbled and wailed and scowled, but never did he wake. His wand had shattered –had he shattered with it? Worry, wipe, wake…
The sleeping bag gave a great shudder as I bolted upright. After a quick glance at Ginny to ensure myself of her slumber, I brought my tired hand to my forehead and began to weep.
A/N: More to come, I promise! Review!