Lying Eyes
"Get away from me!" She shrieked as she fixed her skirt.
"Please." He drawled. "As if I need your skin tainting mine." He redid his tie lazily.
She shot him a filthy look as she tumbled inelegantly out of the broom closet they were in. "And wipe the gloss off of your neck." She spat.
He laughed as he watched her walk away.
"Harry, wait! Give me a second!" She hobbled up to him.
"Why are you limping, Hermione?" He asked. Why couldn't he be oblivious when she needed it?
"Just a little sore. I fell." She choked out, catching her breath. She knew nobody would notice how her hair was messed up; even her now-sleek hair had a mind of its own. Everyone has bad hair days, right?
They walked in silence to the Great Hall. Of the twelve people that had stayed back for the break, five had apparently, already eaten. Harry, the perfect gentleman he was, pulled out a chair for her, watching curiously how uncomfortably she sat.
They ate quietly until Harry felt the need to break the awkward silence. "No word from Ron?" He asked quietly.
"Please, Harry. It's Christmas Eve. Let's not do this today. I'll tell you what happened when I'm ready. Just not now, okay?"
"If that's what you want." He muttered. Hermione felt bad that she couldn't tell him, but she knew he would judge her. He would try not to, but he would definitely judge her. Ron was his best friend, after all. Her dirty little secret would definitely put a strain on their friendship, and she didn't want to lose Harry, too.
She didn't ask about Ginny, he didn't ask about Ron. They talked about happier things, things that didn't bother them quite so much. They talked about homework and music. They gossiped like old ladies (though Harry would never admit it). She taught him things about art and art appreciation. He taught her the basics of Quidditch. He brought firewhiskey, she brought vodka. They drank all night long, taking comfort in each other's warmth.
She woke at dawn, realizing they'd fallen asleep by the glowing embers of the fireplace. Harry slept soundly. She watched him for a minute, taking in a mini-epiphany: Friends like him were as essential to life as love was.
She loved him; there was no other way to put it. He would be the right guy for her, she knew that very well. She only wished she loved him the right way. It was the healthy choice, the right choice. Of course they'd have issues – what with Ron and Ginny – but they'd deal. They'd be perfect together. But life never works out that way, does it?
It was only seven in the morning when Hermione was wandering the cold corridors of the castle. She didn't have a destination in mind, but her feet took her to their place. Their little niche where nothing existed but them. She took solace in the cold stone, in their green and gold comforter. She slid to the ground, wondering how it ever got so crazy.
She knew it was time to go when the sun filtered into the usually dark corner. She allowed herself one last glance, a deep breath. She folded the comforter neatly and put it in a corner. Fighting tears, she ran away from the place that was her heaven and her hell.
At breakfast, Harry asked her again where she'd been. She told him that she was in the library. He knew she was lying, but he also knew to refrain from pushing her. She was grateful. Her mind flashed back to the epiphany she'd had that morning. She glanced at him remorsefully, wishing again that she was in love with him.
Back in the common room, she once again forgot her woes as they exchanged presents. Christmas was the one muggle thing she loved more than anything else. Nothing could change Christmas, not the country she was in, not whether she was among muggles or wizards, not even what state of mind she was in. Christmas was the one permanence in her life.
"I've got so many bottles stashed away under my bed, it's enough to turn us both alcoholic." Harry told her happily.
"Turn? Harry, what world are you living in? We're dipsomaniacs already." She laughed.
"More alcoholic, then." He nodded, grinning.
"It's a date. I'll probably be in the library all day, though. I have to write a letter to my parents…" She trailed off.
He nodded understandingly. "I have Quidditch practice anyway."
"With whom?" She raised an eyebrow.
"Well, not practice exactly. More like a training session. You know the pair of third years that's stayed behind?"
"Lucy Simone and Will Preston." She nodded.
"Yeah, them. They asked if I could do a little work out with them today. I told them yes. So I'll see you tonight? Our little drinking spree."
"Cheers to that." She grinned.
She hated lying to him. She knew that it was necessary, but she hated it anyway. She wouldn't be in the library. She'd be ecstatic and broken all at once, with the one she loved and hated.
She did make her way to the library. She found solace in the quiet. She found peace and calm in the smell of parchment. The towering shelves cast dark shadows in the room, and she found herself falling in love with the darkness.
She studied a shelf carefully, trying to find a book she hadn't already read. Not long into the exercise, her reverie was broken.
"All I want for Christmas…is your body." A silken voice whispered in her ear. That voice. It made her weak. It made her melt. But it also broke her heart.
"Meet me in the room at the end of this corridor in ten minutes. The abandoned one. You know the password."
She sucked in a breath. Why did she love him? Why not someone else, anyone else? He didn't touch her as he passed her by. As if she wasn't worth the gesture. She bit her lip, hard. Her eyes moistened as her cheeks heated up.
"Bastard." She whispered.
"Stercoreos." She said, her voice stronger than before. She would have given anything for that door to have remained shut, for that password to not have worked. She flinched as the door creaked open.
"Etiam, vos sunt." His voice replied.
"You dirty bastard." Her voice broke. "Why are you so damn cruel?" She asked, fighting tears.
"You, my love. You made me this way." He said, his voice hard.
She knew couldn't do it anymore. She knew she shouldn't. Hot tears spilled onto her cheeks as she ran forward to hug him anyway.
"I hate you!" She cried, throwing her arms around his neck. .
"And I, you." He replied quietly, stroking her hair. The man's face was hard, as well. The pain in his eyes would not – could not – spill out.
They both knew each other inside out. The emotions in the room might as well have been written on the stone walls. There were no words, only raging passion. He was incredibly gentle as he brushed his lips against hers. Once, twice. She reached up, on the tiptoes, to kiss him better. They both had their eyes wide open. Cautious. They both knew very well exactly how much danger they posed to their hearts.
That night, she became a whiskey person.
Something about its warmth contrasted sharply with the sense of nothingness that it gave her. Yes, she was definitely a whiskey woman, she decided.
Harry raised a beautiful toast that she couldn't remember the next morning – their conversation became one long poem of toasts and cheers. She never told him her secret, but somehow he knew. And she'd been wrong – he didn't judge. The impending war had him so tired that anybody who didn't want to kill him, he didn't mind.
She didn't mind his selfishness, he didn't mind her sins.