DISCLAIMER: Anything recognisable belongs to JK Rowling.
She'd slipped out of the Great Hall when she hadn't seen him appear at dinner, half anxious to know what had gone wrong, and the other half selfishly proclaiming not again.
She'd found him, his eyes deep and glassy, sitting crossed-legged in front of the fireplace, biceps straining as he lifted a heavy, ornate poker and stirred the orange flames into life. The stillness around him, about him, spilling out from him, was devastating.
Hermione sighed and played with words. Are you alright? She imagined herself asking; but why ask if one already knew? What's wrong? That wasn't very subtle. I'm here. Gods, that she was contemplating whether to apply that trodden down, and at best completely unhelpful phrase, was a testament to her desperation. Do you want me to stay? Hermione had to smile at that – as if she'd be competent enough with words, gestures or emotions in such times to warrant being 'stay-able'.
"Hermione?" His voice was rough, hoarse but he didn't turn to look at her. A log cackled and spat, as he manipulated the burning mass into a thicker, stronger heat.
She said nothing. Hermione felt inadequate, doubtful but more terrifyingly, she felt all too powerful. It was her innate sense of responsibility that had crippled her and stemmed her desire to speak. What if her words were wrong? What if they were right? It was a grave risk and one that she was not prepared to take. The realization had hurt her deeply.
He chose to look at her then, his penetrating emerald eyes bored into hers. Hermione gasped, her hollowed gut wrenching further, as she stared down chaos. A boy, she thought, whose name must support the lives of many and who must stomach the sound of applause when he strikes Him down, down, down – and then Hermione was lost in him, oh, those green fathomless eyes – downwards into the weeping heart of the world.
"I don't know, Harry," she whispered.
Harry smiled – his smile had been reduced to a mere quirk of the lips.
"I've waited for a long time to hear you say that." He said, "It's scary."
"What's scary?"
"You – not knowing." Harry yawned, set down the poker, and stretched languidly. "You're another one gone, then." His gaze was sorrowful as he rose and strode towards her, stopping in front of her to enclose her frost-bitten hand with his fire-warmed one. "I have nothing left to lose, after all."
"We've both got everything to lose," she snapped, more out grief than anger. "We'll be all right."
His lips twitched, again. "You promise?"
"I'm not feeling hungry tonight," he announced, pulling away from her and settling back down with the poker. "But you only have a few minutes left, if you wanted to grab a bite."
She nodded, and turned to leave.
"Hermione? Um… you… being here? It mattered," Harry stated casually to the fireplace.
Hermione sighed. "You're welcome, Harry."
"Ah, Miss. Granger." A dark, sneering voice washed over her, soothing her nerves.
This she could handle.
"I take it that you have a commendable reason for inflicting me with your presence at this hour?" Professor Snape enquired from his desk, not bothering to look up from his marking.
"I was hoping to add the liverwort in another few minutes, sir," she replied, gesturing to the far end of the laboratory, where the combination of multiple seventh-year independent projects conjured an assortment of hissing cauldrons and bottled brews, waiting for their respective creators to attend to them.
"How dedicated." It was as delightful a compliment as being called an asocial 'Know-It-All' by his younger, Slytherin counterparts. "Ten points from Gryffindor, for not organizing your experiment so that it stayed within school hours," Snape said smoothly, knowing fully well that the slow simmering required to make the burn healing paste spanned over two days, never mind a two hour double-potions period.
"Get on with it, girl. You have thirty minutes before Miss. Whitby's detention ends, by which time I will be leaving as well." Snape spared a moment to scowl at a fifth-year's back, who was scrubbing cauldrons, and who seemed to feel Snape's displeasure because Hermione turned to see the younger girl visibly cringe.
Soon, leeches and liverwort lay scattered around her, the former diced into as perfect cubes as flesh can be. The thick, viscous mixture swelled to small climatic bubbles, before they gurgled and finally exploded with a muffled 'umph', like hot geothermal mud. Steam spiralled gently upwards, and Hermione followed its wispy path with her eyes, before the heated, shimmering vapour merged with the cool dungeon air. She could hear the stifled play of water and metal; the scratching of Snape's impatient quill on parchment, the harmonious silence between working individuals.
The calm.
Hermione allowed the liverwort and leeches to slide effortlessly from her chopping board into her cauldron with one sweeping motion of her knife, and stirred the mixture. She watched the paste swirl from murky beige into a rich, dark blue. There was beauty, Hermione mused idly, in watching the subtle links between metal, movement and magical ingredients strengthen and fuse to form a delicate, extraordinary result. It was a strangely blissful process – recognizing disjointed sources of magic, moulding them along a singular path, feeling them sink into their rightful places, and after the initial conflict awakened a powerful harmony.
"Miss. Granger?"
Snape's baritone no longer sounded from his desk. Hermione was startled to find him towering behind her.
"Are you finished being more of an irritant than usual?" he asked curtly.
"Yes, sir. I apologize for the inconvenience, sir," Hermione replied politely, packing away the equipment, distracted by his close proximity.
"Indeed. Your Head Girl badge," he drawled, drawing out his wand to ward the door, tapping his foot while waiting for her to step beyond the threshold, "does not entitle you to freely impose on the precious time your professors have away from nuisances such as yourself."
As he followed her out, he fixed her with a fathomless stare, triggering raw memories. "We all have boundaries, Miss. Granger, and you'd do well to remember that."
Hermione nodded meekly, and manners compelled her to bid him a hurried thanks and a good night.
Later, while relishing the calm, she'd remember the paralysing wave of emotions she'd felt earlier, and the comparison would bring a lump to her throat.
She'd feel the piercing sense of loss, of unfairness, of waste and Hermione would think about chaos before boundaries.
Boundaries.
Then, she'd smile.
THE END
A/N: This is my first attempt at any sort of fiction, so well-meaning criticisms are welcome. The piece was inspired partly by the New Zealand author Keri Hulme, where the phrase "weeping heart of the world" is taken directly from her story "Hooks and Feelers".